Viii                      CONTENTS.
ESSON. P.AG.
168. Both Sides of the Question (Elliptical.)... Beaumont. 356
169. A Leaf from the Life of a Looking-Glass... Jane Taylor..58
174. On Apparitions................ Addison. 368
175. Anecdotes of Children........... John Neal. 370
176. The Uncalled Avenger.. Anonymous. 372
181. Qualities of a Well-Regulated Mind...... Abercrombie. 384
183. On Decision of Character.......... John Foster. 389
184. Character of Washington........... J. Sparks. 391
189. The Umbrella............. Anonymous. 399
190. Efiects of Universal Falsehood........... Dick. 402.194. Sabbath Morning.............. Jane Taylor. 408
198. The Little Brook and the Star........ Anonymous.  16
199. The same, concluded........... Anonymous. 420
206. A Winter Scene................    P. Willis. 434
209. The Widow and Her Son........... W. Irving. 439
210. The same, concluded..........      W. Irving. 442
214. Spirit of the Rose-Bush........ F. A. Krummacher. 450
215. The Penitent Son............... J. Wilson. 452
219. The Garden of Hope..........   Dr. Johnson. 458
222. The New-Year's Night............. Richter. 465
223. Westminster Abbey.W.......    W. Irving. 467
229. The Resurrection...........    Corinthians. 477
230. Heaven............    Revelation. 479
LESSONS IN POETRY.
LEssoN.                                                   PAGE.
4. Better Moments........                N. P. Willis. 47
6. Fidelity unto Death............ Mrs. Hemans. 54
7. Footsteps of Angels...........         H. W. Longfellow. 56
8. The Parting of Friends........... J.  ontgomery. 57
9. Romance of the Swan's Nest....... Miss E. B. Barrett. 57
12. Adam's Morning Hymn.....ilton. 66
13. Spring...................Mary Howitt. 68
14. Breathings of Spring............. Mrs. Hemans. 69
16. The Reaper and the Flowers....... H. W Longfellow. 72
17. The Child of Earth................ rs. Norton. 73
20. Death of Mrs. Hemans.......... iss L. E. Landon. 81
21. The Two Voices........             M.....  lJIrs. Hemans. 83
22. The Angel's Greeting.....        n.     Mrs. Hemans. 84
23. Evening Prayer at a Girl's School..... Mrs. Hemans. 85
25. Reflections of a Belle............. Anonymous. 90
26. The Stolen Blush...s....  Ir.. 1. S. Osgood. 90
27. The Two Maidens............ Mr. S. J. Hale. 91
2,. The Pebble and the Acorn....,. Miss H. F. Gould. 92cheese, bread, and milk-and hoped they would not be too
hard upon old people, who were desirous of dying, as they
had lived, in peace. Thankful were they both, in their parental hearts, that their IIttle Lilias was among the hills; and the
old man trusted that if she returned before the soldiers were
gone, she would see, from some distance, their muskets on the
green before the door, and hide- herself among the brakens.
The soldiers devoured their repast with many oaths, and
much hideous and obscene language, which it was sore against
the old man's soul to hear in his own hut; but he said nothing,
for that would have been willfully to sacrifice his life. At last,
one of the party ordered him to return thanks, in words impious and full of blasphemy; which Samuel calmly refused to
do, beseeching them at the same time, for the sake of their
own souls, not so to offend their great and bountiful Preserver.
6" Confound the old canting Covenanter; I will prick him
with my bayonet, if he won't say grace!" and the blood
trickled down the old man's cheek, from a slight wound on his
forehead.
The sight of it seemed to awaken the dormant blood-thirsti.
ness in the tiger heart of the soldier, who now swore, if the
old man did not instantly repeat the words after him, he would
shoot him dead. And, as if cruelty'were contagious, 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 vengeance.  Here, old
Mr. Peden the 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 out of the Bible, and
advanced toward the old man, from whose face his terrified
wife was now wiping off the blood.
Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore; but his sinews were
not yet relaxed, and, in his younger days, he had been a man
of great strength. When, therefore, the soldier grasped him
by the neck, the sense of receiving an indignity from such a
slave, made his blood boil, and, as if his youth had been renewed, the gray-headed man, with one blow, felled the ruffian
to the floor.
98That 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 didst reprove
Simon Peter ih 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?' so now, 0 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 solenin look to heaven, closed his eyes, and
folded his hands across his breast.
His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside the old
man. "Let us die together, Samuel; but, oh! what will
become of our dear Lilias?" " God tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb," said her husband, opening not his eyes, but taking
her hand into his: "4 Sarah, be not afraid."  "0, 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, as 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 folks. With hair floating in sunny light, and seemingly wreathed with flowers of
heavenly azure; with eyes beaming luster, and yet streaming
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, 1" God sent me
hither to save their lives," she fell down beside them as thev
knelt together; and then, lifting up her head from the turf,
fixed her beautiful face, instinct with fear, love, hope, and the
spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to shed that
innocent blood.
They all stood heart-stricken; and the executioners flung
down their muskets upon the green sward. 6" God bless you,
kind, good soldiers, for this!" exclaimed the child, now weep99ing and sobbing with joy.   "Ay, ay, you will be happy
to-night, when you lie down to sleep.  If you have any little
daughters or sisters like me, God will love them for your
mercy to us, and nothing, till you return home, will hurt a
hair of their heads. Oh! I see now that soldiers are not so
cruel as we say!" "Lilias, your grandfather speaks unto you;
his last words are;' leave us, leave us; for they are going to
put us to death.' Soldiers, kill not this little child, or the
waters of the loch will rise up and drown the sons of perdition.
Lilias, give us each a kiss, and then go into the house."
The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, and
seemed now likqe men themselves  condemned to die.  Shame
and renmorse 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 them, and a withered hand of
each laid upon its beautiful and' its fearless head. J. WILSON.
LESSON  XXXI.
TRUE LOVE NO FLATTERER.
PRESENT. King Lear, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, Kent, Cornwall.
and Albany.
Lear. TELL me, my daughters,
Since now we will divest us, both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state,
Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most?
Uhat we our largest bounty may extend
Where merit doth most challenge it. Goneril,
)ur eldest-born, speak first.
Gon. Sir, I
0)o love you more than words can wield the matter,
Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;'eyond what can be valued, rich, or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor:
As much as child e'er loved, or father found.
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable:
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
100Cor. What shall Cordelia do?  Love and be silent. (.qside.)
Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,
With shadowy forests, and with champaigns riched,
With plenteous rivers, and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady: to thine and Albany's issue
Be this perpetual. What says our-second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall?  Speak.
Reg. I am made of that self metal as my sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find, she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short; that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,
Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
And find, I am alone felicitate
In your dear highness' love.
Cor. Then poor Cordelia! (aside.)
And yet not so: since, I am sure, my love's
More richer than my tongue.
Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever,
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferred on Goneril. Now our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy,
Strive to be interested: what can you say, to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
Cor. Nothing, my lord.
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing.
Lear. Nothing can come of nothing; speak again.
Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth; I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more, nor less.
Lear. How, how, Cordelia? mend your speech a little
Lest it may mar your fortunes.
Cor. Good my lord,
You are my father, have bred me, loved me;
I return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and nlost honor you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you, all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty;
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.
101Lear. But goes this with thy heart?  
Cor. Ay,'good my lord.
Lear. So young and so untender!
Cor. So young, my lord, and true.
Lear. Let it be so. Thy truth, then, be thy dower;
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun;
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;By all the operations of the orbs,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as -a stranger to my heart and me,
Hold thee, from this, forever. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved,
As thou, my sometime daughter.
Kent. Good, my liege,Lear. Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath;
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!(To Cordelia.)
So be my grave my peace, as here I give
Her father's heart from her!'
Cornwall, and Albany,
With my two daughters' dowers digest this third;
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her;
I do invest you jointly with my power,
Pre-eminence, and:all the largeeffects
That troop with majty;. - Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation dL  hundred knights,
By you to. be sustained, shall our abode
Make with y- by due turns. Only we still retain
The name, and all additions to a king-;
The sway,
Revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, beyours'; which to confirm,
This coronet parttbetween you. (Giving the crown.)
Kent. Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honored as my king,
Loved as my father, as my master followed,
As my great patron thought on in my prayers,Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade
102YOUNG LADIES' READER.                     103
The region of my heart; be Kent unmannerly
When Lear is mad. What would'st thou do, old man?
Think'st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak,
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honor's bound,
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom:
And, in thy best consideration, check
This hideous rashness; answer my life, my judgment,
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least,
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.
dLear. Kent, on thy life, no more.        SHAKSPEARIE
LESSON XXXII.
FILIAL INGRATITUDE.
SCENE..8 heath.--e storm with thunder and lightning.
PRESENT. Kent, a Gentleman, and King Lear.
Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting.
Kent. WHo's here, besides foul weather?
Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly.
IKent. I know you. Where's the king?
Gent. Contending with the fretful elements,
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled waters'bove the main,
That things might change,, or cease; tears his white hair;
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of:
Strives in his little world of man, to out-scorn
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion, and the hunger-pinched wolf,
Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he roves,
And bids what will, take all.
Enter King Lear.
Lear. Blow, winds! and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
Yotu cataracts and hurricanes! spout
Till you have drenched our steeples.
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's molds, all germins spill at once,That make ungrateful man! spit,fire! spout,rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, called you children:
You owe me no subscription: why, then let fall
Your horrible displeasure; here I stand, your slave;
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high engendered battles,'gainst a head
So old and white as this. 0! O!'tis foul!
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipped of justice: caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming,
Hast practiced on man's life. Close pent-up guilt,
Rive your concealing continents. and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinned against, than sinning.
Kent. Gracious, my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you'gainst the tempest;
Repose you here.
Lear. My wits begin to turn.
Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good, my lord, enter.
The tyranny of the open night's too much
For nature to endure.
Lear.                  Let me alone.
Kent. Good, my lord, enter here.
Lear.                  Wilt break my heart?
Kent. I'd rather break mine own: good, my lord, enter.
Lear. Thou think'st'tis much, that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin: so'tis to thee:
But where the greater malady is fixed,
The less is scarcely felt. Thou'dst shun a bear;
But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,
Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free,
The body's delicate; the tempest in my nind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand
For lifting food to't? But I will punish home.
No, I will weep no more. In such a night
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.
104105
In such a night as this! 0 Regan! Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all!
0, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.                               SHAKSPEARE.
LESSON  XXXIII
FILIAL AFFECTION.
PRESENT. King Lear, Cordelia, and Physician.
Cor. 0 mY dear father! Restoration hang
Her medicine on my lips, and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence 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?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick, cross-lightning?  My enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire: and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!'Tis wonder, that thy life and wits, at once,
Had not concluded all.--He wakes; speak to him.
Phys. Madam, do you;'tis fittest.
Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave;
Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit, I know; when did you die?
Cor. Still, still far widePhys. He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile.
Lear. Where have I been? where am I? fair day light?
I'm mightily abused; I should even die with pity
To see another thus. I know not what to say;
I will not swear, these are my hands: let's seeI feel this pin prick: would I were assured
Of my condition.
Cor. Oh! look upon me, sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o'er me;
Nav, you must not kneel.Lear, Pray, do not mock me;
I am a very foolish, fond, old man,
Fourscore and upward; and, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this 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.
Cor. And so I am; I am.
Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes. I pray you, weep not.
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong.
You have some cause; they have not.
Cor. No cause, no cause.
Lear. 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 further settling.
Cor. Will't please your highness walk?
Lear. You must bear with me;
Pray you now forget and forgive:
I am old and foolish.                         SHAIISPEARE.
LESSON XXXIV.
THE DEFORMIED CHILD.
IN my school-boy days, there lived an aged widow near the
church-yard.  She had an only child.  I have often observed, that the delicate and the weak receive more than a
common share of affection from a mother. Such a feeling was
shown by this widow toward her sickly and unshapely boy.
There are faces and forms which, once seen, are impressed
upon our brain; and they will come, again and again, upon the
tablet of our memory in the quiet of night, and even flit around
us in our daily walks. Many years have gone by since I first
106saw this boy; and his delicate form, and quiet manner, and his
gentle and virtuous conduct, are often before me.
I shall never forget,--in the sauciness of youth, and fancying it would give importance to my bluff outside,-swearing
in his presence. The boy was sitting in a high-backed easy
chair, reading his Bible. He turned round, as if a signal for
dying had sounded in his ear, and fixed upon me his clear
gray eye: that look! it made my-little heart almost choke me.
I gave some foolish excuse for getting out of the cottage; and,
as I met a playmate on the road, who jeered me for my blank
countenance, I rushed past him, hid myself in an adjoining
cornfield, and cried bitterly.  I tried tolconciliate the widow's
son, and show mny sorrow for having so far forgotten the innocence of boyhood, as to have my Maker's name sounded in
an unhallowed manner from my- lips. My spring flowers he
accepted; but, when my back was turned, he flung them
away. The toys and books I offered to him were put aside
for his Bible. His only occupations were, the feeding of a
favorite hen, which would come to his chair and look up for
the crums that he would let fall, with a noiseless action, from
his thin fingers, watching the pendulum and hands of the
wooden clock, and reading.
Although I could not, at that time, fully appreciate the
beauty of a mother's love, still I venerated the widow for the
unobtrusive, but intense attention she displayed to her son.
I never entered her dwelling without seeing her engaged in
some kind offices toward him. If the sunbeam came through
the leaves of the geraniums placed in the window, with too
strong a glare, she moved the high-backed chair with as much
care as if she had been putting aside a crystal temple. When
he slept, she festooned her silk handkerchief around his place
of rest. She placed the earliest violets upon her mantel-piece
for him to look at; and the roughness of her own meal, and
the delicacy of the child's, sufficiently displayed her sacrifices.
Easy and satisfied, the widow moved about. I never saw her
but once unhappy. She was then walking thoughtfully in her
garden. I beheld a tear. I did not dare to intrude upon her
grief, and ask her the cause of it; but I found the reason in
her cottage: her boy had been spitting blood.
I have often envied him these endearments; for I was away
107CONTENTS.                          ix
LESSON.                                                    PAGE.
31. True Love no Flatterer...........     Shakspeare. 100
32. Filial Ingratitude...............  Shak,speare. 103
33. Filial Affection.............Shakspeare. 105
35. The Vulture of the Alps..........   Anonymous. 109
36. God's Works and Providence..........  Psalms. 111
38. The Winter King............ Miss H. F. Gould. 115
39. The Wild Violet............  Miss H. F. Gould. 116
42. The Homes of England......... Mrs. Hemans. 124
43. Childhood's Spells............. Mrs. Hemans. 125
44. Come Home................ Mrs. Hemans. 126
45. The Stranger's Heart............ M.irs. Ilemans. 127
46. Departure of Adam and Eve............  llton. 127
49. Invitation to the Young...... Ecclesiastes.--W. G. Clark. 132
50. Prisoner's Evening Service.........   Mrs. Hemans. 133
53. Select Paragraphs... Akenside, Cowper, Campbell, Beattie. 142
54. The Quiet Mind..............  J. ohn Clare. 144
56. On Conversation................   Cowper. 147
57. Elegy on Madam Blaize............   Goldsmith. 149
60. Nature's Farewell.................         Hemans. 158
61. The Return.M...............irs. Hemans. 159
62. The Adieu............. Miss L. E. Landon. 160
63. The Bride................  rs. Sigourney. 161
64. The Bride's Farewell............   rs. Hemans. 163
65. The Family Meeting...........     C. Sprague. 164
68. Music.                                       Shakspeare. 170: /?c
69. The Freed Bird............      Mrs. Hemans. 172 /  "<
70. Beauty,-Health,-Happiness..... Thomson, Moore, Milton. 174
73. The Contrast..............Mrs. Sigourney. 179
74. Burial of the Young.....       Mrs. Sigourney. 182
76. Apostrophe to Niagara........... Mrs. Sigourney. 187
77. Story of the Ark and Dove........ Mrs. Sigourney. 188
80. To My Mother............  Fanny Forester. 194
81. Fairies of Caldon Low............ Mary Howitt. 195
82. Home (Elliptical.)..............      W. Scott. 198
84. The Beauty of Clouds.......  Miss M. A. Brown. 203
85. The Zephyr's Soliloquy.........        Miss H. F. Gould. 204
87. The Prairies..............   W. C. Bryant. 209
91. Song of Moses at the Red Sea........... Exodus. 217
92. Hymn of Nature............ 0. W. P. Peabody. 219
93. The Presence of God.........  Mrs. A. B. Welby. 220
96. The Suliote Mother.............  Mrs. Hemans. ~27
97. Hagar in the Wilderness.......... N. P. Willis. 229
98. Thy Will Be Done............Mrs. Norton. 232
99. A Psalm of Life..........    H. W. Lonfellow. 233
101. A Mother's Gift............. W. Ferguson. 236
102. Incentives to Devotion............H. K. White. 237
104. My Mother's Picture..........         Couwper. 241from a parent who humored me, even when I was stubborn
and unkind.  My poor mother is in her grave. I have often
regretted having been her pet, her favorite; for the coldness
of the world makes me wretched; and, perhaps, if I had not
drank at the very spring of a mother's affection, I might have
let scorrr and contumely pass by me as the idle wind. Yet 1
have afterward asked myself, what I, a thoughtless, though
not a heartless boy should have come to, if I had not had such a
comforter. I. have asked myself this, felt satisfied and grateful,
and wished that her spirit might watch around her child, who
often mnet her kindness with passion, and received her gifts
as if he expected homage from her.
Every body experiences how quickly school years pass
away.  My father's residence was not situated in the village
where I was educated; so that when I left school, I left its
scenes also. After several years had passed away, accident
took me again to the well-known place. The stable, into
which I led my horse, was dear to me; for I had often listened
to the echo that danced within it, when the bells were ringing.
The face of the landlord was strange; but I could niot forget
the in-kneed, red-whiskered hostler: he had given me a hearty'
thrashing as a return for a hearty jest.
I had reserved a broad piece of silver for the old widow.
But I first ran toward the river, and walked upon the millbank. I was surprised at the apparent narrowness of the
stream; and, although the willows still fringed the margin, and
appeared to stoop in homage to the water lilies, yet they were
diminutive. Every thing was but a miniature of the picture
in my mind. It proved to me that my faculties had grown
with my growth, and strengthened with my strength,  With
something like disappointment, I left the river side and strolled
toward the church. My hand was in my pocket, grasping
the broad piece of silver. I imagined to myself the kind look
of recognition I should receive. I determined on the way
in which I should press the money into the widow's hand.
But I felt my nerves slightly tremble, as I thought on the look
her son had given, and again might give me.
Ah, there is the cottage! but the honey-suckle is older, and
it has lost many of its branches! The door was closed. A
pet lamb was fastened to a loose cord under the window, and
108its melancholy bleating was the only sound that disturbed the
silence. In former years I used, at once, to pull the string
that lifted the wooden latch; but now I deliberately knocked. A strange female form, with a child in her arms, opened
the door. I asked for my old acquaintance. "Alas! poor
Alice is in her coffin: look, sir, where the shadow of the spire
ends: that is her grave." I relaxed my grasp of my money.
"And her deformed boy?"  "He, too, is there!"  I drew my
hand from my pocket.
It was a hard task for me to thank the woman, but I did so.
I moved to the place where the mother and the child were
buried.  I stood for some minutes, in silence, beside the
mound of grass. I thought of the consumptive lad, and as I
did so, the lamb, at the cottage window, gave its anxious bleat.
And then all the affectionate attentions of my own mother
arose on my soul, while my lips trembled out:  "Mother!
dear mother! would that I were as is the widow's son! would
that I were sleeping in thy grave! I loved thee, mother I
but I would not have thee living now, to view the worldly sor
rows of thy ungrateful boy! My first step toward vice was
the oath which the deformed child heard me utter."
But you, who rest here as quietly as you lived, shall receive
the homage of the unworthy. I will protect this hillock from the
steps of the heedless wanderer, and from the trampling of the
village herd. I will raise up a tabernacle to purity and love.
I will do it in secret: and I look not to be rewarded openly.
C. EDWARDS.
LESSON XXXV
THE VULTURE  OF THE ALPS
I'VE been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,
As rouhnd 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:109" It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.
" One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, 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 sight
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 azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.
"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,
A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;'T was only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.
" All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'ei
forgot,
When once a daring hinter climbed unto a lofty spot,
From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois 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 tattered 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 travelers passing by,
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.
AoxYMxous.
110LESSON XXXVI.
GOD' S WORKS AND PROVIDENCE
O LORD, our Lord,
How excellent is thy name in all the earth!
Who hast set thy glory above the heavens!
Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings
Hast thou ordained strength,
Because of thine enemies,
That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.
When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
The moon and the stars which thou hast ordained;
What is man, that thou art mindful of him l
Or the son of man, that thou visitest him?
For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels,
And hast crowned him with glory and honor,
Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands
Thou hast put all things under his feet:
All sheep and oxen,
Yea, and the beasts of the field;
The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea,
And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.
O Lord, our Lord,
How excellent is thy name in all the earth!
The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,
He leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely mercy and goodness will follow me all the days of my life;
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness,
And for his wonderful works to the children of men!
They that go down to the sea in ships,
That do business in great waters;
1111These see the works of the Lord,
And his wonders in the deep.
For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind,
Which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven,
They go down again to the depths:
Their soul is -melted because of trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,
And are at their wit's end.
Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble,
And he bringeth them out of their distresses;
He maketh the storm a calm,
So that the waves thereof are still.
Then are they glad because they be quiet;
So he bringeth them unto their desired haven.
Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness,
And for his wonderful works to the children of men!
O come! let us sing unto the Lord;
Let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.
Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving,
And make a joyful noise unto him with psalms.
For the Lord is a great God,
And a great King above all gods.
In his hand are the deep places of the earth:
The strength of the hills is his also.
The sea is his, and he made it;
And his hands formed the dry land.
O come! let us worship and bow down;
Let us kneel before the Lord our Maker,
For he is our God;
And we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand.
To-day if ye will hear his voice,
Harden not your hearts, as in the provocation,
And as in the day of temptation in the wilderness,
When your fathers tempted me,
Proved me, and saw my work.
Forty years long was I grieved with this generation,
And said, it is a people that do err in their heart,
And they have not known my ways:
Unto whom I sware in my wrath,
That they should not enter my rest.               PSALMS.
112LESSON XXXVII.
DESC RIPTION  OF TIIE MIOCKING-BIRD.
THE plumage of the mocking-bird, though none cf the homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it, and had he nothing
else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice;
but his -figure is well proportioned, and even handsome. The
ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of
his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying
up lessons from almost every species of the feathered creation
within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius.  To these qualities we may add that of a
voice, full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every
modulation, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush,
to the savage screams of the bald-eagle.
In measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals.
In force and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon
them. In his native groves, mounted upon the top of a tall
bush or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while
the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his
admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The
ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others
seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain altogether
imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well acquainted with those of our various
birds of song, are bold and full, and varied, seemingly, beyond
all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or,
at the most, five or six syllables, generally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity,
and continued, with undiminished ardor, for half an hour or an
hour, at a time; his expanded wings and tail, glistening with
white, and the buoyant gayety of his action, arresting the eye,
as his song most irresistibly does the ear.
He sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstasy; he mounts and
descends, as his song swells or dies away, and, as my friend
Mr. Bartram has beautifully expressed it, " he bounds aloft with
the celerity of an arrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul,
which expired in the last elevated strain." While thus exerting himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that
10
113114                YOUNG LADIES' READER.
the whole feathered tribes had assembled together on a trial of
skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect; so perfect are
his imitations. He many times deceives the sportsman, and
sends him in search of birds that perhaps are not within miles
of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates. Even birds
themselves are frequently imposed on by this admirable mimic,
and are decoyed by the fancied calls of their mates, or dive,
with precipitation, into the depths of thickets, at the scream of
what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk.
The mocking-bird loses little of the power and energy of his
song by confinement.  In his domesticated state, when he commences his career of song, it is impossible to stand by uninterested. He whistles for the dog; Caesar starts up, wags his
tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt
chicken; and the hen hurries about, with hanging wings and
bristled feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The
barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a
passing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He
repeats the tune taught him by his master, though of considerable length, fully and faithfully. He runs over the quiverings
of the canary, and the clear whistlings of the Virginia nightingale or red-bird, with such superior execution and effect, that
the mortified songsters feel their own inferiority and become
altogether silent, while he seems to triumph in their defeat, by
redoubling his exertions.
This excessive fondness for variety, however, in the opinion
of some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown
thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks: and
the warblings of the blue-bird, which he exquisitely manages,
are mingled with the screaming of swallows, or the cackling of
hens; amid the simple melody of the robin, we are suddenly
surprised by the shrill reiterations of the whip-poor-will; while
the notes of the killdeer, blue jay, martin, baltimore, and twenty
others,, succeed, with such imposing reality, that we look round
for the originals, and discover, with astonishment, that the
sole performer in this singular concert, is the admirable bird
now before us.
During this exhibition of his powers, he spreads his wings,
expands his tail, and throws himself around the cage in all the
ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming not only to sing, but to dance,keeping time to the measure of his own music. Both in his
native and domesticated state, during the solemn stillness of the
night, as soon as the moon rises in silent majesty, he begins
his delightful solo, and serenades us, the livelong night, with a
full display of his vocal powers, making the whole neighborhood ring with his inimitable melody.  -. WILSON
LESSON XXXVIII.
THE WINTER KING.
OH! what will become of thee, poor little bird t
The muttering storm in the distance is heard;
The rough winds are waking, the clouds growing black,
They'll soon scatter snow-flakes all over thy back!
From what sunny clime hast thou wandered away?
And what art thou doing this cold winter day?
" I'm picking the gum from the old peach-tree;
The storm does n't trouble me. Pee, dee, dee."
But what makes thee seem so unconscious of care?
The brown earth is frozen, the branches are bare:
And how canst thou be so light-hearted and free,
As if danger and suffering thou never should'st see,
When no place is near for thy evening nest?
No leaf for thy screen, for thy bosom no rest?
" Because the same hand is a shelter for me,
That took off the summer leaves. Pee, dee, dee."
But man feels a burden of care and of grief,
While plucking the cluster and binding the sheaf,
In the summer we faint, in the winter we're chilled,
With ever a void that is yet to be filled.
lWe take from the ocean, the earth, and the air,
Yet all their rich gifts do not silence our care.
"A very small portion sufficient will be,
If sweetened with gratitude. Pee, dee, dee."
I thank thee, bright monitor; what thou hast taught,
Will oft be the theme of the happiest thought;
We look at the clouds,while the birds have an eye
To Him who reigns over them, changeless and high.
And now, little hero, just tell me thy name,
That I may be sure whence my oracle came.
115"Because, in all weather, I'm merry and free,
They call me the Winter King. Pee, dee, dee."
But soon there'll be ice weighing down the light bough,
On which thou art flitting so playfully now;
And though there's a vesture well fitted and warm,
Protecting the rest of thy delicate form,
What then wilt thou do with thy little,bare feet,
To save thenz from pain'mid the frost and the sleet.
"I can draw them'right up in my feathers, you see,
To warm them and fly away. Pee, dee, dee."
Miss H. F. GOULD.
LESSON XXXIX.
THE WILD VIOLET.
VIOLET, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow-land wild, where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender, young head,
When rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you, shed
Their waters so heavy and cold.
No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!
Speak, my sweet violet, answer, and tell,
How you have grown up, and flourished so well,
And look so contented where lonely you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet l
" The same careful hand," the violet said,
"That holds up the firmament, holds up my head;
And- He, who with azure the skies overspread,
Has painted the violet blue.
He sprinkles the stars out above me by night,
And sends down the sunbeams, at morning, with light
To make my new coronet sparlkling and bright,
When formed of a drop of his dew.
"I've naught to fear from the black, heavy cloud,
Or the breath of the tempest that comes strong and loud,
11UWhen, born in the lowland, and far from the crowd,
I know, and I live but for ONE.
He soon forms a mantle, about me to cast,
Of long, silken grass, till the rain and the blast,
_nd all that seemed threatening, have harmlessly passed,
As the clouds scud before the warm sun!"
Miss H. F. GOULD.
LESSON XL.
THE WIFE.
I HAVE often hadl- occasion to remark the fortitude, with
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters, which break down the spirit of a man,
and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies
of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to theii
character, that, at times, it approaches to sublimity. Nothing
can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female,
who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every
trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life,
suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blast of adversity.'
As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about
the oak, and been lifted byit into sunshine, will, when the hardy
plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing
tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully
ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his
stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity; winding
herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.
I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection.  "I
can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm,'" than to
have a wife and children. 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 situation
in the world than a single one; partly, because he is more
1117X                         CONTENTS,
LESSON.                                                    PAGE,
106. The Beauties of Nature (Elliptical.)...lilton, Beattie, 4c. 247
108. Hymn of the Mountaineers.......    Mrs. Itemans. 251
109. The Winds..............   iss H. F. Gould. 253
110. Musings.............. Mrs. A. B. Welby. 254
113. The Diver.Mrs. Henmans. 260
114. Excelsior.............. H. W. Longfellow. 262
115. A Name in the Sand.......... liss H. F. Gould. 263
116. Voice of the Waves...........  rs. Her ans. 264
119. The Chieftain's Daughter.......      Geo. P. Morris. 271
124. Friendship.............. Mrs. Norton. 281
125. The Neglected Child........... T. H. Bayly. 282
126. Poor Margaret............... Wordsworth. 283
127. The Three Painters..................    Mrs. Embury. 285
130. The Crow turned Critic............ Wilkie. 289
131. Goody Blake and Harry Gill.........  IVordsworth. 291
135. Alnwick Castle...............  F. G. Halleck. 298
138. The Hour of Death.........  Mrs. Hemans. 305
139. The Departed........... Park Benjamin. 306
140. Graves of a Household.........  Mrs. Hemans. 307
141. The Cheerful Giver.......... Mrs. Sigourney. 308
142. The Beleaguered City......      H. W. Longfellow. 309
146. A Song of Emigration........... Irs. Hemans. 316
147. The Backwoodsman............              E. Peabody. 317
148. The Settler................ A. B. Street. 319
153. Landing of the Pilgrims........  Mrs. Hemans. 330
154. The Vaudois Wife... M...  rs. Hemans. 331
155,. Message to the Dead..........  Mrs. Hemans. 333
156. Only One Night at Sea.......... R. M. Charlton. 334
158. The Dead of the Wreck.......... Mrs. Sigourney. 338
159. The Charnel Ship........... Mrs. A. P. Dinnies. 340
163. The First Wanderer..........  iss il. Jewsbury. 347
164. Prophetic Description of Christ.........  Isaiah. 348
165. Triumph of the Gospel........... Isaiah. 350
166. Triumph of Hope..........     Campbell. 351
170. The First Gray Hair.............          T. H. Bayly. 362
171. rThe Old Wedding Ring.........    G. W. Doane. 363
172. Home and Love.............Miss Mitford. 364
173. Claudia Pleading for her Husband....... Miss Mi/ford. 366
177. The Maniac................  M. G. Lewis. 376
178. Darkness......... Byron. 378
179. A World without Water....... Miss M. A. Browne. 380
180. Calm at Sea............... Coleridge. 383
182. Immortality.........                       R. H. Dana. 387
185. The Mother of Washington........ Mrs. Sigourney. 394
186. New England............ J. G. Whittier. 395
187. The Western Hunter........... W. C. Bryant. 397
188. The Savoyard's Return.H.........H. K. White. 39Rstimulated to exertion- by the necessities of the helpless and
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but
chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive 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 abandoned; and his heart to fall to
ruin, like some deserted mansion, 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 true, 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 he, " shall
be like a fairy tale."
The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious
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 still turn to him, as if there
alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his
arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly
person. The fond, confiding air, with which she looked up to
him, seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its
very helplessness.  Never did a couple set forward, on the
flowery path of early and well suited marriage, with a fairer
prospect of felicity.
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been
married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him,- and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a time, he kept his situation to himself,
and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking
heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered
it more insupportable was, the necessity of keeping up a smile
118YOUNG LADIES' READER.                 119
in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to
overwhelm her with the news.
She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all
was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and
stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and
vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly
powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happi.ness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The
more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the
thought that he was soon to make her wretched.  A little
while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek;
the song will die away from those lips; the luster of those
eyes will be quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart,
which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down,
like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world.
At length he came to me, one day, and related his whole
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard
him through, I inquired, s "Does your wife know all this?" At
the question, he burst into an agony of tears. "If you have
any pity on me," cried he," don't mention my wife; it is the
thought of her that drives me almost to madness!"
"And why not?" said I. " She must know it sooner or
later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the
harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the
comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also
endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together-an
unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon
perceive, that something is secretly preying upon your mind;
and true love will not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and
outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it."
" Oh! but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give to
all her future prospects 1 how I am to strike her very soul to
the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar! that she
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 continutd to move in constant brightness, the lightof every eye, the admiration of every heart! How can she bear
poverty? She has been brought up 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
subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation, at once,
to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.
"But how are you to keep it from her?  It is necessary she
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the
alteration of your circumstances.- You must change your style
of living--nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never
placed your happiness in outward show; you have yet friends,
warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being
less splendidly lodged: and surely it does not require a palace
to be happy with Mary--" "I could- be happy with her,"
cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel! I could go down with
her into poverty and the dust!-I could-I could--God bless
her!--God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of
grief and tenderness.
" And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can be the
same with you. Ay, more: it-will be a source of pride and
triumph to her; it will call forth all the latent energies and
fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove
that she loves you for yourself.  There is, in every 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 unburden his sad heart to his
wife.                                            W. IRVING.
120LESSON  XLI.
THE SAME,--C ONCL UDED.
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 pleasures?
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 reveled.
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 disclosure.
"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 me unhappy.  But, 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 accustomed conveniences
or elegances.  When we come practically to experience its
sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty 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
mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon over;
whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in
the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretense, that harasses
a ruined man; the struggle between a proud mind and an
empty purse; 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 his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered
fortunes.
Some days afterward, 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
11
121busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment 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 love; for some of the sweetest moments of their
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 doting husband.
He was now going  out to the cottage, where his wife had
been all day, superintending its arrangement. -My feelings
had become strongly interested in the progress of this family
story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany
him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary!"
at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.  "And what
of her?" asked I; "has anything happened to her?" " What?"
said he, darting an impatient glance; "is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation? to be caged in a miserable cottage? to be obliged to toil almost in the meniial concerns of her
wretched habitation?" "Has she, then, 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!" exclaimed I.  "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich; you never
knew the boundless treasure of excellence you possessed in
that woman."
"O! 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 fiatiges of domestic eniployment; she has, for the -first
time, look1i0Waround her on a home destitute of everything
elegant; almosteaf every thing convenient; and may now be
sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect
of future 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
122thickly 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 foot-path, that
wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music.;. Leslie grasped my
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 forward to hear more distinctly.  His step made a noise on the
gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished; a light footstep was heard, and Mary came
tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty, rural dress of
white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a
fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed
with smiles. I had never seen her look so lovely.
"My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come!
I have been watching and watching for you, and running down
the lane, and looking out for you.  I've set out a table under a
beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been gathering
some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are
fond of them; and we have such excellent cream, and every
thing is so sweet and still here. Oh!" 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 often 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 more exquisite
felicity.                                     W. IRvING
123LESSON XLII.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
THE: stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amid their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the'ruddy light!
There, woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
HQw softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage Homes of England!
By thousands o'er her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green forever be the groves,
And bright the fairy sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!           MRS. HEMANS.
124LESSON  XLIII.
CHILDHOOD'S SPELLS.
"There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief."
BY the soft, green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky,
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts' in the grass beneath,
Upon thine heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious,-oh! guard it well!
By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which-hath lulled thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy leaves
To the wind of morn, at thy casement eaves,
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer'the spell is made.
By the gathering round' the winter hearth
When twilight called unto household mirth,
By the fairy tale, or the legend old,
In that ring of happy faces told,
By the quiet hour when hearts unite
In the parting prayer, and the kind " good-night!"
By the smiling eye, and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.
And bless that gift! it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o'er. the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall
It hath led the weeping prodigal.
Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray
From the pure, first loves of its youth away;
125When the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home;
Think thou again of the woody glade,
And the sound by the rustling ivy made,
Think of the tree at thy father's door,
And the kindly spell shall have power once more.
MRS. RIEX]ANxS.
LESSON XLIV
COME 4HOM.
COME home! there is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went,
And the early flower-scents wander by,
With mournful memories blent,
The tones in every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep,
And the sweet word-brother-wakes-a wish
To turn aside and weep.
O ye beloved! come home! the hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song,
Returns, and ye are gone!
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness,
That deepens'mid the gloom.
Where finds it you, ye wandering ones?
With all your #lyhood's glee
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea     I
By the stormy hills of battles old,
Or where dark rivers foam?
Oh! life is dim where ye are not;
Back, ye beloved, come home!
Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds, o'er the main!
Our love is grown too sorrowful;
Bring us its youth again!
Bring the glad tones to music back!
Still, still our home is fair,
The spirit of your sunny life
Alone is wanting there  MRs. IIEMAKS.
C)~~~~~~Ms lr~~,s
126LESSON XLV.
THE STRANGER S HEART.
THE stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,'I'he stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone,
The stranger's heart is with his own.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed,
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim,
Far, far, are those who prayed with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land,
The voices of thy kindred band,
Oh!'mid them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart.
Mits. HEMANS.
LESSON  XLVI.
DEPARTURE OF ADAM AND EVE.
TEIE archangel
Ended, and they both descend the hill.
Adam to the bower, where Eve
Lay sleeping, ran before, but found her waked;
And thus, with words not sad, she him received.
"Now lead on;
In me is no delay: with thee to go,
Is to stay here; without thee, here to stay,
Is to go hence unwilling. Thou to me
Art all things under Heaven, all places thou,
Who, for my willful crime, art banished hence.
127CONTENTS.                         xi
LESSON.                                                   PAGE.
191. The Warrior................Anonymous. 404
192. The Duel.................. Edwards. 405
193. The Festal Board..............          Anonymous. 406
195. The Sabbatll................ J. Graham. 410
196. Consolation of Religion.......... J. G. Percival. 412
197. Time's Last Visit............  Mrs. S. J. Hale. 413
200. The Seasons (Elliptical.)........ Mrs. Barbauld. 425
201. Morning in Spring............  G. 1D. Prentice. 427
202. August............... W. D. Gallagher. 428
203. Summer Evening.............   W. C. Bryant. 430
204. Rain in Summer...........    H. W. Longfellow. 431
205. Autumn Noon...............  George Hill. 433
207. Winter.............   Mrs. Sigourney. 436
208. It Snows................  Mrs. S. J. Hale. 437
211. Dance of the Consumptives....,.     H. K.;hite. 445
212.'I'he Death of the Flowers......... W. C. Bryant. 448
213. Autumn Flowers.M............            iss C. Bowles. 449
216.'l'he Admonition............ Anonymous. 454
217. The Thrice Closed Eye....... Miss H. F. Gould. 456
218. Look Aloft................ J. Lawrence. 457
220. The Glove and the Lion...........  Leigh Hunt. 461
221. John Gilpin.................. Cowper. 461
224. To the Rosemary.............  H. K. White. 471
225. Spirits of the Dead..........  J. H. Perkins. 472
226. Lament for Mary.............  Charles WTolfe. 473
227. Night.................    J. Montgomery. 474
228. Sleepi--Death -     nernity......  Shakspeare, Byron, 4-c. 475This further consolation yet secure
I carry hence; though all by me is lost,
Such favor, I unworthy am vouchsafed,
By me the promised seed shall all restore."
So spake our mother Eve; and Adam heard
Well pleased, but answered not; for now too nigh
The archangel stood; and-from the other hill
To their fixed station, all in bright array,
The Cherubim descended; on the ground
Gliding meteorous, as evening mist,
Risen from a river, o'er the marsh doth glide,
And gather ground fast at the laborer's heel
Homeward returning. High in front advanced,
The brandished sword of God before them blazed,
Fierce as a comet; which, with torrid heat,
And vapor as the Libyan air adust,
Began to parch that temperate clime: whereat,
In either hand the hastening angel caught
Our lingering parents, and, to the eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain; then disappeared.
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate
With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon.
The world was all before them where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.   MILTON.
LESSON XLVII.
VALUE OF TIlE SOUL.
WHAT a tumult of exultation would the promised sovereignty
of a world excite in the human breast! How would the purpled
robe, the jeweled diadem, the exalted throne, crowd in thick array
upon the fancy, as.it gazed upon the glittering phantom! How
would the heart expand to meet the love and reverence of subject millions! With what intense energy would every passion
128YOUNG LADIES' READER.                   129
spring to the enjoyment of its object!  With what exulting
transports to accommodate itself to its exalted destiny!
Yet this world, with all its pomp and power attendant on
its possession; this world, whose sovereignty in prospect
would absorb every faculty of our nature, is declared by our
Savior to be far inferior in value to a single soul. To one
accustomed to estimate every thing by a worldly standard,
this may appear, at first, a startling proposition. Yet even
such a man cannot withhold his assent, when he considers
the excellent nature of the soul itself. the eternity of existence
to which it is destined, and the surprising proofs of the estimate at which it is held by higher intellects than ours.
As God pervades the universe, directing and controlling its
complicated operations; so the human soul, in a far lower
sphere, it is true, and with far inferior, yet similar powers,
rules with absolute dominion that tabernacle of clay in which
it dwells.  Is God infinitely superior to the universe of matter
which he governs? In like manner, though not in equal degree,
is the soul of man superior to the frame which it inhabits, and
to the kindred earth from which that frame was formed.
The soul also contains within itself a principle of immortality, which adds immeasurably to its excellence. Every thing
else in our world is subject to decay. The fairest flower
must wither; the tallest oak of the forest must waste away
and fall; man's own body must sink into the grave, and return
to its kindred dust; the proudest palace that his hands have
built, must crumble into ruins; the fame which we vainly call
immortal, must fade and be forgotten; the earth itself must
cease its revolutions, and perish in the final conflagration. But
the- soul, more noble, more excellent than all, shall never die;
ignorant of decay, it shall live on throughout the boundless
ages of eternity!
Why is it that the hosts of heaven continue still to bend an
attentive eye on this far distant planet?  Is it to mark with
what precise exactness it accomplishes its days and months and
years,? Is it to observe the dreary stillness that pervades its
depopulated regions, or contemplate the hue of universal death
that has gathered on its aspect, and deformed its beauties?
No; it is an object of still greater interest that attracts their
eager gaze; it is that single soul, more valuable in itself thanall that earth possesses of beauty and of grandeur, which
causes them to stoop from their exalted thrones in fixed attention. That soul repents; it casts its load of unshared misery,
the intolerable burden of unpardoned sin, at the foot of the
cross; it receives the promised rest; immediately there is joy
in the celestial courts; a new emotion of delight pervades the
bosoms of the heavenly host, from the lowest scale of angelic
being to Gabriel who standeth in the presence of God.  What,
then, must be the value of that soul whose progress can attract
the scrutiny of ahgels; whose safety can create a jubilee in
heaven!                                           GRIrrFN.
LESSON XLVIII.
PROMISES OF RELIGION  TO THE YOUNG.
IN every part of Scripture, it is, remarkable with what singular tenderness the season of youth is always mentioned, and
what hopes are afforded to the devotion of the young. It is
to that age, that some of the most direct promises are addressed,
and of individuals of that age, much interesting incident is recorded. It was at that age, that God visited the infant Samuel,
while he ministered in the temple of the Lord, " in days when
the word- of the Lord was precious, and when there was no
open vision."  It was at that age, that his spirit fell upon
David, while he was yet the youngest of his father's sons,
and when among the mountains of Bethlehem, he fed his
father's sheep.
It was at that age, also, "that they brought young children
unto Christ, that he, should touch them: and his disciples
rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he
was much displeased and said to them, Suffer little children
to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the
kingdom  of Heaven."  If these, then, are the efects and
promises of youthful piety, rejoice, 0 young man, in thy youth!
Rejoice in those days which are never to return, when religion
comes to thee in all its charms, and when the God of nature
reveals himself to thy soul, like the mild radiance of the morning sun, when he rises amid the blessings of a grateful world.
If already devotion hath taught thee her secret pleasures; if
130when nature meets thee in all its magnificence or beauty, thy
heart humbleth itself in adoration before the hand which made
it, and rejoiceth in the contemplation of the wisdom by which it
is maintained; if, when revelation unvails her mercies, and the
Son of God comes forth to give peace and hope to fallen man,
thine eye follows with astonishment the glories of his path, and
pours at last over his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed; if thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over
the grave, and entereth on the wings of faith into that heaven
"where he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on High,"
and seeth the "society of angels and of the spirits of just men
made perfect," and listeneth to the " everlasting song which is
sung before the throne;" if such are the meditations in which
thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, for all that life
can offer thee in exchange, these solitary joys.
The world which is before thee, the world which thine imagination paints in such brightness, has no pleasures to bestow
that can compare with these. And all that its boasted wisdom
can produce, has nothing so acceptable in the sight of Heaven,
as this pure offering of thy soul.  In these days, "the Lord
himself is thy shepherd, and thou dost not want. Amid the
green pastures, and by the still waters" of youth, he now
makes " thy soul to repose."
But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its trials;
the evil days are on the wing, when 1" thou shalt say thou hast no
pleasure in them;" and, as thy steps advance, " the valley of
the shadow of death opens," through which thou must pass at
last.  It is then thou shalt know what it- is to " remember thy
Creator in the days of thy youth." In these days of trial or
of awe, " his Spirit shall be with you," and thou shalt fear no
ill; and, amid every evil which surrounds you, "he shall restore thy soul. His goodness and mercy shall follow thee all
the days of thylife;" and when at last the "' silver cord is loosed,
thy spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."        ALISON.
131LESSON XLIX.
INVITATION TO THE YOUNG.
REMEMBER now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,
While'the evil days come not,
Nor the years draw nigh,
When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.
While the sun, or the light,
Or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened,
Nor the clouds return after a rain:
In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble,
And the strotg men shall bow themselves,
And the grinders shall cease because they are few,
And those that look out of the windows be darkened;
And the doors shall be shut in the streets,
When the sound of the grindihg is low,
And he shall rise up at the voice of the bird,
And all the daughters of music shall be brought low:
Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high,
And fears shall be in the way,
And the almond tree shall flourish,
And the grasshopper shall be a burden,
And desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home
And the mourners go about the streets.
Or ever the silver cord be loosed,
Or the golden bowl be broken,
Or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
Or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was,
And the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
ECCLESIASTES.
"They that seek me early shall find me."
COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest,
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze,
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest.
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways;
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer-buds unfolding,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast,
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,
Come, and secure interminable rest.
132Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;
Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover
Will to the embraces of the worm have gone;
Those who now love thee, will have passed forever;
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee;
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be.
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing, die;
Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing,
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky:
Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
Oh, touch the scepter! win a hope in heaven;
Come, turn thy spirit from the world away!
Then will the crosses of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul,
And shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal:
Home of the weary! where in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing;
Who would not, early, choose a lot like this?
W. G. CLARK.
LESSON L.
PRISONER' S EVENING SERVICE..7 Scene of the French Revolution.
SCENE. Prison of the Ltuxembourg.
D'AUBIGNE, an aged royalist, and BLANCHE, his daughter.
Blanche. WHATWaS our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence. Could our judges look
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair l
Was there not mercy, father. Will they not
Restore us to our home?
D'%zubigne. Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.
B.           Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire. Will the old hamlet spire,
133And the gray turret of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last 1 But how is this.
Father! thy glance is clouded; on thy brow
There sits no joy!
D'J. Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian, who receives
And recognizes, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.
B.   Thou dost not meanNo, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say,
They sent us home.?
D'.. Where is the spirit's home?
Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days,
Where should it be, but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power?
Where, but in heaven?
B.    My Father!
D'3S.  We must die!
We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile,
Give nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart.
Do I not know thee?  Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?
B.   Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms!
Father!
D'./. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go;
Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, mnethinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
And they that love their God, have all been swept,
Like the sear leaves away. The soil is steeped
In noble blood, the temples are gone down;
The sound of prayer is hushed, or fearfully
Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit forever the dishonored soil,
The burdened air? Our God upon the cross,
Our king upon the scaffold; let us think
Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts,
And hravplv die!
134B.   A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear honored head!
Oh! thou, the kind, and gracious! whom all eyes
Blessed, as they looked upon! Speak yet again!
Say, will they part us?
D'./. No, my Blanche; in death
We shall not be divided.
B.   Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me. I shall see
His light before me to the last. And whenOh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!
When shall the hour befall?
D'Y. Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour
As yet I know not. Each low,throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity.
B.   My father! lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul
Ere we are called.
D'.B. If I may speak through tears,
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!-thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widowed house,
There springing up, with soft light round thee shed,
For immortality! Meek child of God!
I bless thee! He-will bless thee! In his love
He calls thee now from this rude, stormy world,
To thy Redeemer's breast. And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived, my duteous, holy Blanche,
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of heaven.
B.   Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise
And say, "Thy will be done!"
D'S.  Seest thou, my child,
Yon faint light in the west. The signal star
Of our due evening service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating? Mournfully
135It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear, or wavering faith,
Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to Heaven
The prayer, the hope of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more! And we will sleepYes-calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
Evening Hymn.
We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God 3 the sunset dies:
How every colored hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the preciousmremories won
From bright hours now forever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee:
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man has barred it from our sight.
We know thou reign'st, the unchanging One, th' All Just!
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!
We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild, evil days;
The red sword in th' oppressor's hand
Is ruler o'er the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure;
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last;
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark;
We trust thee.! As the sailor knows,
That, in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May vail it with a midnight shroud.
We know thou reign'st! All Holy One, All Just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.
VVe feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer; and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
136Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on;
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment;
And by his parting word, which rose,
Through faith, victorious o'er all woes;
We linow that thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake.
Sad suppliants, whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to thee we turn!
To whom but thee. All Merciful, All Just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust.
MRS. tIEMANS.
LESSON LI.
GOOD SENSE AND BEAUTY.
NOTWITHSTANDING the lessons of moralists, and the declamations of philosophers, it cannot be denied that all mankind have
a natural love, and even respect, for external beauty. In vain
do they represent it as a thing of no value in itself, as a frail
and perishable flower; in vain do they exhaust all the depths
of argument, all the stories of fancy, to prove the worthlessness
of this amiable gift of nature. However persuasive their reasonings may appear, and however we may, for a time, fancy
ourselves convinced by theln, we have in our breasts a certain
instinct, which never fails to tell us, that all is not satisfactory;
and though we may not be able to prove that they are wrong,
we feel a convictionthat it is impossible they should be right.
They are certainly right in blaming those, who are rendered
vain by the possession of beauty, since vanity is, at all times, a
fault. But there is a great difference between being vain of
a thing, and being happy that we have it; and that beauty,
however little merit a woman can claim to herself for it, is
really a quality which she may reasonably rejoice to possess,
demands, I think, no very labored proof. Every one naturally
wishes to please.  To this end we know how important it is,
that the first impression we produce should be favorable.
Now, this first impression is commonly produced through the
medium of the eye; and this is frequently so powerful as to
12
137resist, for- a long time, the opposing evidence of subsequen
observation. Let a man of even the soundest judgment be presented to two women, equally strangers to him, but the one extremely handsome, the other without any remarkable advantages of person, and he will, without deliberation, attach himself
first to the former. All men seem in this to be actuated by the
same principle as Socrates, who used to say when he saw a
beautiful person, he always expected to see it animated by a
beautiful soul.
The ladies, however, often fall into the fatal error of imagining that a fine person is, in our eyes, superior to every other
accomplishment; and those, who are so happy as to be endowed with it, rely with vain 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 accomplishments, and the scanty
catalogue of truly valuable acquirements, which compose for the
most part, the modern 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 reality,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 ourselves to be caught like children, by mere
outside, and perhaps even fall into the contrary extreme.
Could " the statue that 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 wonlan, whose only
accomplishment is external excellence. She may dazzle for a
time; but when a man has once thought, 1 "What a pity that
such a masterpiece should be but a walking statue!" 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,
upon 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:
138and 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
loveliest creature that ever came from the hand of her Creator
can hope only for a transitory empire, unless she unite with
her beauty the more durable charm of intellectual excellence.
The favored child of nature, who combines in herself these
united perfections, may be justly considered as the masterpiece
of creation; as the most perfect image of the Divinity here
below.  Man, the proud lord of creation, bows willingly
his haughty neck beneath her gentle rule. Exalted, 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 affection over the blanched
rose, shall view through the vale of lapsed years, the tender bud,
the dawning promise, whose beauties once blushed before the
beams of the morning sun.                      ANoNYMovs.
LESSON LII.
ON CONTENTMENT.
CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all those effects
which are usually ascribed to what is called the philosopher's
stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing,
by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes
him easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the
soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related.
It extinguishes all murmuring, repining, and ingratitude towards
that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world.
It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is placed.
139It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity
to all his thoughts. Among the many methods which might
be made use of for acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only
the two following. First of all, a man should always- consider
how much he has, more than he wants; and secondly, how
much more unhappy he -might be than he really is.
First, a man should always consider how much he has, more
than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which
Aristippus made to one, who condoled with him upon the loss
of a farm: " Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and
you have but one; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you,
than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are more apt
to consider what they have lost, than what they possess; and
to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves,
rather than on those who are under greater difficulties. All the
real pleasures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass;
but it is the humor of mankind to be always looking forward,
and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth
and honor.
For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who
have not more than they want, there are few rich men in any
of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people,
who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more
wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher
rank, live in a kind of splendid poverty; and are perpetually
wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures
of life, they endeavor to outvie one another in shadows and
appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a
great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over their
heads; and, by contracting their desires, they enjoy all that
secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The
truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures cannot
be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils
which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it
may, he is a poor man if he does not live within it; and
naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his
price.
When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who left him
a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king
of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness; but told him, he
140had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In
short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty;
or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, "Content is
natural wealth," says Socrates; to which I shall add, luxury
is artificial poverty. I shall therefore recommend to the consideration of those who are always aiming at superfluous and
imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble of
contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion, the philosopher, namely, "That no man has so much care, as he
who endeavors after the most happiness."
In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much
more unhappy he might be than he really is. The former
consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided
with the means to make themselves easy; this regards such as
actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may
receive great alleviation, from such a comparison as the unhappy person may make between himself and others; or
between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. I like the story of the
honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the
main-mast, told the standers by, it was a great mercy that it
was not his neck. To which, give me leave to add the saying
of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his
friends to dine with him, was ruffled by a person-that came into
the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood before him: 1"Every one," says he, "has his calamity; and he
is a happy man that has no greater than this."
I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there
never was any system, besides that of Christianity, which
could effectually produce in the mind of man, the virtue I have
been hitherto speaking of. In order to make us contented
with our condition, many of the present philosophers tell us,
that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being able to
make any alteration in our circumstances; others, that whatever
evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which
superior beings themselves are subject; while others, very
gravely, tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary
he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the universe; and
that the scheme of Providence would be troubled and perverted, were he otherwise.
141These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy
a man. They may show him, that his discontent is unreasonable, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it.  They
rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might
reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend
who advised him not to grieve for the death of a person whom
he loved, because his grief could not fetch him back again: "It
is for that very reason," said- the emperor, " that I grieve." On
the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to human
nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of
bettering his condition: nay, it shows him, that bearing his
afflictions as he ought-to do, will naturally end in the removal
of them.  It makes him easy here, because it can make him
happy hereafter.                                   AnDDsoN.
LESSON  LIII.
SELECT PARAGRAPHS.
Cheerfulness.
FAIR guardian of domestic life!
Kind banisher of home-bred strife!
Nor sullen lip, nor trembling eye,.
Deforms the scene when thou art by:
No sickening husband mourns the hour
Which bound his joys to female. power;
No pining mother weeps the cares
Which parents waste on thankless heirs;
The ready daughters, pleased attend;
The brother adds the name of friend;
By thee with flowers their board is crowned;
With songs from thee their walks resound;
The morn with welcome luster shines;
And evening unperceived declines.    AIENSIDE.
Content.
Content! the good, the golden mean,
The safe estate that sits between
The sordid poor and miserable great,
The humble tenant of a rural seat!
142YOUNG LADIES' READER.                    143
In vain we wealth and treasure heap;
He'mid his thousand kingdoms still is poor,
That for another crown does weep;'Tis only he is rich, that wishes for no more.
ArNONYMxOUs.
Gayety.
Whom call we gay. that honor has been long
The boast of mere pretenders to the name.
The innocent are gay. The lark is gay,
That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,
Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams
Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest.
The peasant, too, a witness of his song,
Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
But save me from the gayety of those,
Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed;
And save me, too, from theirs, whose haggard eyes
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs
For property stripped off by cruel chance:
From gayety, that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.
CowPEa.
Hope.
Primeval HOPE! the Aonian Muses say,
When man and nature mourned their first decay;
When every form of death, and every woe,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below;
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant war
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car;
When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain,
Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again;
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind,
But HOPE, the charmer, lingered still behind.
CAMPBELD
Fortitude.
Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom con4;mns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;'
Be strong as the rock of the ocean, "that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore.
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl adisdain,
May thy front be unaltered, thy couraai!e,
Yea, even the name I have worshiped in vain
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:
To bear is to conquer our fate.     CAMPBELLPerseverance.
Vigor from toil, from trouble patience grows.
The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower,
Some tints of transient beauty may disclose,
But, ah! it withers in the chilling hour.
Mark yonder oaks! Superior to the power
Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise,
And from the stormy promontory tower,
And toss their giant arms amid the skies,
While' ea4h assailing blast increase of strength supplies.
BEATTIE.
LESSON LIV.
THE QUIET MIND.
THOUGH lo0w my lot, my wish is-won,
My hopes are few and staid,
All I thought life would do, is done,
The last request is made.
If I have foes, no foes I fear,
To God I live resigned;
I have a friend, I value here,
And that's a quiet mind.
I wish not it were mine to wear
Flushed honor's sunny crown;
I wish not I were Fortune's heir,
She frowns, and let her frown.
I have no taste for pomp and strife,
Which others love to find:
I only wish the bliss of life,
A meek and quiet mind.
rhe trumpet's taunt in battle-field,
The grearma-n's pedigree,
What peace ca  all their honors yield'.
And what are they to me.
Though praise wand pomp, to eke the strife,
Rave like a *ighty wind;
What are thW  to the calm of life,
still and quiet mind 1
I see the world pass heedless by,
And pride above me tower;
144It costs me not a single sigh
For either wealth or power;
They are but men, and I'm a man
Of quite as great a kind,
Proud, too, that life gives all she can,
A calm and quiet mind.
And come what will of care or woe,
As some must come to all,
I'll wish not that they were not so,
Nor mourn that they befall:
If tears for sorrow start at will,
They're comforts in their kind;
And I am blest, if with me still
Remains a quiet mind.
When friends depart, as part we must,
And love's true joys decay,
That leave us like the summer dust,
Which whirlwinds puff away,
While life's allotted time I brave,
Though left the last behind;
A prop and friend I still shall have,
If I've a quiet mind.               JoHN CLARE.
LESSON LV.
ON  POLITE N ESS.
POLITENESS is the just medium between form and rudeness.
It is the consequence of a benevolent nature, which shows
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 be4.rected by a justness
of sense, and a quickness of discernment,0 that knows how to
use every opportunity of exercising it, andto poportion the
instances of it to every character and situation. It is a restraint
laid by reason and benevolence upon everyirregularity of the
temper, which, in obedience to them, is forced to accommodate
itself even to the fantastic cares, which custom and fashion
llave established, if, by these means, it can procure, in any
degree, the satisfaction or good opinion of any part of man13
145kind; 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 least 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 it imposes
silence on the loquacious, and inclines the most reserved to
furnish their share of the conversation. It represses the desire
of shining alone, and increases the desire of being mutually
agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy
to wit.
To superiors, it appears in a respectful freedom. No greatness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink it into
a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself in an
unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, not
to let you down to them.  It at once maintains the dignity of
your station, and expresses the goodness of your heart. To
equals, it is every thing that is charming; it studies their inclinations, prevents their desires, attends to every 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 narrow
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         ility   of a bow, or fail in the least circumstance of 40oruni.  But then these people do this merely
for their owni sake::whether you are pleased or embarrassed
with it, is littltd  heir care.  They have performed their
own parts, and are satisfied.                  MIss TALBo-rT.?-.
146LESSON  LVI.
ON  CONV ERSATION.
THOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of 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,
The constant creaking of a country sign.
Ye powers, who rule the tongue,--if such there are,And make colloquial happiness your care,
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,
A duel in the form of a debate.
Vociferated logic kills me quite;
A noisy man is always in the right;
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly; " To be sure, no doubt!"
Dubius is such a scrupulous, good man;
Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon hlis face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,
He humbly hopes, presumes, it may be so.
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 offense.
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centering, 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;
147
/  SECTION I.
PRELIMINARY REMARKS.
IN reading before a circle of auditors, the object to be accomplished is, to convey to the hearer, fully and clearly, the
ideas and feelings of the writer. In order to do this,it is necessary that these should be thoroughly understood by the
reader. This is an essential point. It is true, the words may
be pronounced, as traced upon the page, and, if they are audibly
and distinctly uttered, they will be heard, and in some degree
understood, and, in this way, a general and feeble idea of the
author's meaning may be obtained.
Ideas received in this manner, however, bear the same resemblance to the reality, that the dead body does to the living
spirit. There is no soul in them. The author is stripped of
all the grace and beauty of life, of all that expression and feeling, which constitute the soul of his subject.
Such readers, with every conceivable grace of manner, with
the most perfect melody of voice, and with all other advantages
combined, can never attain the true standard of excellence in this
accomplishment.  The golden rule here is, that the reader
must be in earnest. The ideas and feelings of the author
whose language is read, must be fully understood and realized,
and then only, can they be properly expressed.
In accordance with this view, a preliminary rule of great importance is the following.
R u L E.-Before attempting to read a lesson, the learner
should become well acquainted with the subject, as treated of in
that lesson, and endeavor to imbibe fully, for the time being, the
feelings and sentiments of the writer.
For this purpose, every lesson should be well studied beforehand, and no scholar should be permitted to altempt to read any
These " Directions for Reading" are taken, with some modification, from McGuffey's Eclectic Reader, for which they werc preparedby the compiler of this work.
13But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo conversations, dull and dry,
Embellished with, " He said," and "I So said I."
At every interview 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 men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks, upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute.
True modesty is a discerning grace,
And only blushes in the proper place;
But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear,
Where'tis a shame to be ashamed t' appear;
Humility the parent of the first,
The last by vanity produced and nursed;
The circle formed, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;
1" Yes, ma'am," and " No, ma'am," uttered softly, show,
Ev'ry five minutes, how the minutes go;
Each individual, suffering 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 conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are,
And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide gap ensues,
Filled up, at last, with interesting news.
And now, let no man charge me that I mean
To clothe in sable every social scene;
To find a medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore'tis a mark fools never hit.     COWPER.
148149
LESSON LVII.
ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize;
Who never wanted a good wordFrom those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poorWho left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manner wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked waysUnless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pewBut when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux, and more;
The king himself has followed herWhen she has walked before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all,
Her doctors found, when she was dead--
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore;
For Kent-Street well may say,
That, had she lived a twelvemonth moreShe had not died to-day.          GoLDnswrTrJ.
LE-SSON LVIII.
THE COTTAGE OF MOSS-SIDE.
GILBERT AINSLIE was a poor man; and he had been a poor
man all the days of his life, which were not few, for his thinhair was now waxing gray. He had been born and bred on
the small moorland farm which he now occupied; and he
hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather had done
before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants
of this world. Labor, hard and unremitting, had been his lot
in life; but although sometimes severely tried, he had never
repined; and through all the mist, and gloom, and even the
storms, that had assailed him, he had lived on, from year to
year, in that calm and resigned, contentment, which unconsciously cheers the hearth-stone of the blameless poor.
With his own hand he had plowed, sowed, and reaped
his often scanty harvest; assisted, as -they grew up, by three
sons, who, even in boyhood, were happy to work along with
their father in the fields. Out of doors, or in, Gilbert Ainslie
was never idle.  The spade, the shears, the plow-shaft, the
sickle, and the flail, all came readily to hands that grasped them
well; and not a morsel of food was eaten under his roof, or a
garment worn there, that was not honestly, severely, and nobly
earned. Gilbert Ainslie was a slave, but it was for them he
loved wit/ha sober and deep affection. The thralldom under
which he lived, God had imposed, and it only served to give
his character a shade of silent gravity, but not austerity; to make
his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm his soul at grace,
before and after meals; and to kindle it in morning and
evening prayer.
There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a
man. Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal, her
heaven was in her house; and her gentler and weaker hands
helped to bar the door against want.  Of ten children that
had been born to them, they had lost three; and, as. they had
fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they give
those who died a respectable funeral.  The living did not
grudge to give up, for a while, some of their daily comforts, for
the sake of the dead; and bought with the little sums, which
their industry had saved, decent mournings, worn on Sabbath,
and then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two
sons were farm-servants in the neighborhood, while three
daughters and two sons remained at home, growing, or grown
up, a small, happy, hard-working household.
Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, and
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
150many such humble and virtuous cottagers as were now beneath
its roof of straw.  The eye of the passing traveler may mark
them, or mark them not, but they stand peacefully, in thousands,
over all the land; and most beautiful do they make it, through
all its wide valleys and narrow glens; its low holms, encircled
by the rocky walls of some bonny burn; its green mounts,
elated with their little crowning groves of plane trees; its yellow corn-fields; its bare pastoral hill-sides; and all its heathy
moors, on whose black bosom lie, shining or concealed, glades
of excessive verdure, inhabited by'flowers, and visited only by
the far-flying bees.
Moss-side was not beautiful to a careless or hasty eye; but
when looked on aild surveyed, it seemed a pleasant dwelling.
Its roof, overgrown with grass and moss, was almost as green
as the ground out of which its weather-stained walls appeared
to grow. The moss behind it was separated from a little garden by a narrow slip of arable land, the dark color of which
showed that it had been won from the wild by patient industry,
and by patient industry retained. It required a bright, sunny
day to make Moss-side fair; but then it was fair indeed; and
when the little brown moor-land birds were singing their short
songs among the rushes and the heather, or a lark, lured thither,
perhaps, by some green barley-field, for its undisturbed nest, rose
ringing all over the enlivened solitude, the little bleak farm
smiled like the paradise of poverty, sad and affecting in its
lone and extreme simplicity.
The boys and girls had made some plots of flowers among.
the vegetables that the little garden supplied for their homely
meals; pinks and carnations, brought from walled gardens of
rich men further down in the cultivated strath, grew here with
somewhat diminished luster; a bright show of tulips had a
strange beauty in the midst of that moor-land; and the smell
of roses mixed well with that of the clover, the beautiful, fair
clover, that loves the soil and the air, of Scotland, and gives
the rich and balmy milk to the poor man's lips.
In this cottage, Gilbert's youngest child, a girl about nine
years of age, had been lying, for a week, in a fever. It was
now Saturday evening, and the ninth day of tlle disease. Was
she to live or die?  It seemed as if a very few hours were
between the innocent creature and Heaven. All the symptoms
151were those of approaching death. The parents knew well the
change that comes over the human face, whether it be in infancy,
youth, or prime, just before the departure of the spirit; and
as they stood together by Margaret's bed, it seemed to them
that the fatal shadow had fallen upon her features.
The surgeon of the parish lived some miles distant, but they
expected him now every moment, and many a wistful look wis
directed by tearful eyes along the moor. The daughter, who
was out at service, came anxiously home on this night, the
only one that could be allowed her, for the poor must work in
their grief, and hired servants must do their duty to those
whose bread they eat, even when nature is sick, sick at heart.
Another of the daughters came ii from the potato-field beyond
the brae, with what was to be their frugal supper. The calm,
noiseless spirit of life was in and around the house, while death
seemed dealing with one who, a few days ago, was like light
upon the floor, and like the sound of music, that always breathed
up when most wanted; glad and joyous in common talk; sweet,
silvery, and mournful, when it joined in hymn or psalm.
One after the other, they all continued going up to the bedside, and then coming away sobbing or silent, to see their
merry little sister, who used to keep dancing all day like a
butterfly in a meadow field, or like a butterfly with shut wings
on a flower, trifling for a while in the silence of her joy, now
tossing restlessly on her bed, and scarcely sensible to the words
of endearment whispered around her, or the kisses dropt with
tears, in spite of themselves, on her burning forehead.
Utter poverty often kills the affections; but a deep, constant,
and common feeling of this world's hardships, and an equal
participation in all those struggles by which they may be softened, unite husband and wife, parents and children, brothers
and sisters, in thoughtful and subdued tenderness, making them
happy indeed while the circle round the fire is unbroken, and
yet preparing them every day to bear the separation, when
some one or other is taken slowly or suddenly away. Their
souls are not moved by fits and starts, although, indeed, nature
sometimes will wrestle with necessity; and there is a wise
moderation both in the joy and the grief of the intelligent poor,
which keeps lasting trouble away from their earthly lot, and
prepares them silently and unconsciously for Heaven.
152
YOUNG LADIES' READER.YOUNG LADIES' READER.                    153
" Do you think the child is dying?" said Gilbert, with a
calm voice, to the surgeon, who, on his wearied horse, had
just arrived from another sick-bed, over the misty range of
hills, and had been looking steadfastly for some minutes on
the little patient.  The humane man knew the family well, in
the midst of whom  he was standing, and replied, " While
there is life there is hope; but my pretty little Margaret is, I
fear, in the last extremity."  There was no loud lamentation
at these words; all had before known, though they would not
confess it to themselves, what they now were told; and
though the certainty that was in the words of the skillful man,
made their hearts beat, for a little, with sicker throbbings, made
their pale faces paler, and brought out from some eyes a greater
gush of tears; yet death had been before in this house, and in
this case he came, as he always does, in awe, but not in terror.
There were wandering, and wavering, and dreamy, delirious
fantasies in the brain of the innocent child; but the few words
she indistinctly uttered were affecting, not rending to the heart,
for it was plain that she thought herself herding her sheep in
the green, silent pastures, and sitting wrapped in her plaid upon
the sunny side of the Birk-knowe. She was too much exhausted, there was too little life, too little breath in her heart,
to frame a tune;-- but some of her words seemed to be from
favorite old songs; and at last her mother wept, and turned
aside her face, when the child, whose blue eyes were shut, and
her lips almost still, breathed out these lines of the beautiful
twenty-third psalm:
The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want:
IIe makes me down to lie
In pastures green: he leadeth Ine
The quiet waters by.
The child was now left with none but her mother by the
bed-side, for it was said to be best so; and Gilbert and his
family sat down round the kitchen fire, for a while, in silence.
In about a quarter of an hour, they began to rise calmly, and to
go each to his allotted work. One of the daughters went forth
with the pail to milk the cow, and another began to set out the
table in the middle of the floor for supper, covering it with a
white cloth. Gilbert viewed the usual household arrangementswith a solemn and untroubled eye; and there was almost the
faint light of a grateful smile on his cheek, as he said to the
worthy surgeon, "You will partake of our fare after your
day's travel and toil of humanity."
In a short, silent half hour, the potatoes and oat-cakes,
butter and milk, were on the board; and Gilbert, lifting up
his toil-hardened, but manly hand, with a slow  motion, at
which the room was as hushed as if it had been empty, closed
his eyes in reverence, and asked a blessing. I'here was a
little stool, on which no one sat, by the old man's side. It had
been put there unwittingly, when the other seats were all
placed in their usual order; but the golden head, that was wont
to rise at that part of the table, was now wanting. There was
silence; not a word was said; their meal was before them;
God had been thanked, and they began eat.     J. WILSON.
LESSON LIX.
THE SAME,-CONCLUDED.
WHILE they were at their silent meal, a horseman came galloping to the door, and, with a loud voice, called out that he
had been sent express with a letter to Gilbert Ainslie; at the
same time rudely, and with an oath, demanding a dram for his
trouble. The eldest son, a lad of eighteen, fiercely seized the
bridle of his horse, and turned his head away from the door.
The rider, somewhat alarmed at the flushed face of the powerful stripling, threw down the letter, and rode off.
Gilbert took the letter fiom his son's hand, casting, at the same
time, a half upbraiding look on his face, that was returning to
its former color. " I feared," said the youth, with a tear in
his eye, "I feared that the brute's voice and the trampling of
the horse's feet would have disturbed her." Gilbert held the
letter hesitatingly in his hand, as if afraid, at that moment, to
read it; at length, he said aloud to the surgeon: " You know
that I am a poor man, and debt, if justly incurred, and punctually paid when due, is no dishonor." Both his hand and his
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
154voice shook slightly as he spoke; but he opened the letter from
the lawyer, and read it in silence.
At this moment his wife came from her child's bed-side, and
looking anxiously at her husband, told him " not to mind about
the money, that no man, who knew him, would arrest his
goods, or put him into prison.  Though, dear me, it is cruel to
be put to it thus, when our bairn* is dying, when, if so it be
the Lord's will, she should have a decent burial, poor innocent,
like them that went before her." Gilbert continued reading
the letter with a face on which no emotion could be discovered;
and then, folding it up, he gave it to his wife, told her she
might read it if she chose, and then put it into his desk in the
room, beside the poor dear bairn. She took it from him, without reading it, and crushed it into her bosom; for she turned
her ear toward her child, and, thinking she heard it stir, ran
out hastily to its bed-side.
Another hour of trial passed, and the child was still swimming for its life. The very dogs knew there was grief in the
house, and lay without stirring, as if hiding themselves, below
the long table at the window.  One sister sat with an unfinished gown on her knees, that she had been sewingt for the dear
child, and still continued at the hopeless work, she scarcely
knew why; and often, often, putting up her hand to wipe away
a tear.  "W Vhat is that?" said the old man to his eldest daughter: "What is that you are laying on the shelf?"  She could
scarcely reply that it was a ribbon and an ivory comb that she
had brought for little Margaret, against the night of the dancingschool ball.
And, at these words, the father could not restrain a long,
deep, and bitter groan; at which the boy, nearest in age to his
dying sister, looked up, weeping in his face, and letting the
tattered book of old ballads, which he had been poring on,
but not reading, fall out of his hand, he rose from his seat, and,
going into his father's bosom, kissed him, and asked God to
bless him; for the holy heart of the boy was moved within
him; and the old man, as he embraced him, felt that, in his
innocence and simplicity, he was indeed a comforter.  " The
Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," said the old man;
"blessed be the name of the Lord."
*Child.               f Pron. sowing.
155The oiuter door gently opened, and he, whose presence had,
in former years, brought peace and resignation hither, when
their hearts had been tried, even as they now  were tried,
stood before them.  On the night before the Sabbath, the minister of Auchindown never left his Manse,* except as now, to
visit the sick-- or dying bed. Scarcely could Gilbert reply to
his first question about hi's child, when the surgeon came from
the bed-room, and said, "Margaret seems lifted up by God's
hand above death and the grave: I think she will recover.
She has fallen asleep; and when she wakes, I hope, I believe,
that the danger will be past, and that your child will live."
They were all prepared for death; but now  they were
found unprepared for life. One wept that had till then locked
up all her tears within her heart; another gave a short palpitating shriek; and the tender-hearted Isabel, who had nursed
the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The youngest
brother gave way to gladsome smiles; and calling out his dog
H-Iector, who used to sport with him and his little sister on the
moor, he told the tidings to the dumb, irrational creature,
whose eyes, it is certain, sparkled with a sort of joy.
The clock, for some days, had been prevented from striking
the hours; but the silent fingers pointed to the hour of nine;
and that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour
of family worship. His own honored minister took the book:
He waled a portion with judicious care:
And let us worship God, he said, with solemn air.
A chapter was read; a prayer said; and so, too, was sung a
psalm; but it was sung low, and with suppressed voices, lest
the child's saving sleep might be broken; and now and then,
the female voices trembled, or some one of them ceased altogether: for there had been tribulation and anguish, and now
hope and faith were tried in the joy of thanksgiving.
The child still slept; and its sleep seemed more sound and
deep. It appeared almost certain that the crisis was over, and
that the flower was not to fade.  "Children,_taid Gilbert,
"our happiness is in the love we bear to one aniothelr; and our
duty is in submitting to, and serving God. Gracious, indeed,
has he been unto us. Is not the recovery of our little, darling,
dancing, singing Margaret, worth all the gold that ever was
*SManse, the parsonage, or minister's house.
156mined?  If we had had thousands of thousands, would we not
have filled up her grave with the worthless dross of gold, rather
than that she should have gone down there, with her sweet
face, and all her rosy smiles?"  There was no reply, but a
joyful sobbing all over the room.
"Never mind the letter, nor the debt, father," said the eldest
daughter. " We have all some little things of our own--a few
pounds--and we shall be able to raise as much as will keep
arrest and prison at a distance. Or if they do take our furniture
out of the house, all except Margaret's bed, who cares?  VWe
will sleep on the floor; and there are potatoes in the field, and
clear water in the spring. We need fear nothing, want nothing;
blessed be God for all his mercies."
Gilbert went into the sick room, and got the letter from his wife,
who was sitting at the head of the bed, watching, with a heart
blessed beyond all bliss, the calm and regular breathings of her
child. "This letter," said he mildly, "is not from a hard creditor.
Come with me while I read it aloud to our children." The
letter was read aloud, and it was well fitted to diffuse pleasure
and satisfaction through the dwelling of poverty. It was from
an executor to the will of a distant relative,' who had left Gilbert
Ainslie fifteen hundred pounds. " The sum," said Gilbert,, is
a large one to folks like us, but not, I hope, large enough to
turn our heads, or make us think ourselves all lords and ladies.
It will do more, far more, than put me fairly above the world
at last. I believe that, with it, I may buy this very farm, on
which my forefathers have toiled.  But may God, whose
Providence has sent this temporal blessing, send wisdom and prudence how to use it, and humble and grateful hearts to us all."
"You will be able to send me to school all the year round
now, father," said the youngest boy. "And you nrfay leave the
flail to your sons now, father," said the eldest.  "You may
hold the plow still, for you draw a straighter furrow than any
of us; but hard work for young sinews; and you may sit now
oftener in your arm-chair by the ingle. You will not need to
rise now in the dark, cold, and snowy winter mornings, and
keep thrashing corn in the barn for hours, by candle-light,
before the late dawning."
There was silence, gladness, and sorrow, and but little sleep
in Moss-side, between the rising and setting of the stars, that
157thing, until it is thoroughly unlderstood. The best speakers and
readers are those who follow  the impulse of nature as felt in
their own hearts, or most closely imitate it as observed in
others.  Let the reader, then, enter fully into the feelings and
sentiments, which he is about to express in the language of another, and not only will that listlessness and heaviness which
constitute a prominent fault in reading, disappear, but he will be
prepared also to give the inflection, emphasis, and modulation
most appropriate to the subject.
Questions.-What is the chief design of reading? In order to do this, what is
first necessary? Suppose a person reads without understanding the subject, what
is the consequence? When is a person qualified to read well? Repeat the Rule.
For the purpose of being able to observe this rule, what must be done?
SECTION II.
ART IC ULATION.
THE subject, first in order and in importance, requiring attention, is ARTICULATION. The object to be accomplished, may be
expressed by the following general direction.
Give to each letter (except silent letters), to each syllable, and
to each word its full, distinct, and appropriate utterance.
For the purpose of avoiding the more common errors under
this head, it is necessary to observe the following rules.
R    L E I. --Avoid the omission or improper sound of unaccented vowels, whether they form a syllable, or part of a syllable; as,
Sep'-rate for sep-a-rate;* met-ri-c'l for met-ri-cal;'pear for ap-pear; comp'tent for com-pe-tent; p'r-cede for pre-cede;'spe-cial for es-pe-cial; ev'dent
for ev-i-dent; moun-t'n fbr mount-ain (pro. mount-in); mem'ry for mem-ory;'pin-ion for o-pin-ion; pr'pose for pro-pose; gran'lar for gran-u-lar;
par-tic'lar for par-tic-u-lar.
In the above instances the unaccented vowel is omitted: it
may also be improperly sounded, as in the following examples;
viz.
Sep-er-ate for sep-a-rate; met-ri-cul for met-ri-cal; up-pear for ap-pear;
com-per-tunt for com-pe-tent; dum-mand for de-mand; ob-stur-nate for ohsti-nate; mem-er-y for mem-o-ry; up-pin-ion for o-pin-ion; prup-pose for
pro-pose; gran-ny-lar for gran-u-lar; par-tic-er-lar for par-tic-u-lar.
*In these examples the italicized letters are those which are liable to be omitted,
or sounded improperly:14
ARTICULATIONwere now out in thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling
over the unclouded sky. -Those who had lain down, for an
hour or two, in bed, could scarcely be said to have slept; and
when, about morning, little Margaret awoke, an altered creature, pale, languid, and unable to turn herself on her lowly
bed, but with meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affection in her heart, and coolness in all her veins, a happy group
were watching the first faint smile that broke over her features;
and never did one who stood there forget thatSabbath morning,
on which she seemed to look round upon them all with a gaze
of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one half conscious of
having been rescued from the power of the grave.
J. WILSON.
LESSON LX.
NATURE' S FAREWELL.
A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home,
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam;
And the green leaves whispered as he passed,
"Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast 3
"Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here,
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear;
Thy heart's lightlaht laughter, thy sunny hours,
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wild flowers.
"Under the arch, by our mingling made,
Thou and thy brother have gayly played;
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore,
But, as ye have met there,--oh! never more "
On rode the youth, and the boughs among
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung:
" Wherefore so fast unto life away I
Thou art leaving forever thy joy in our lay!
" Thou mayst come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain.
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell;
A change must pass o'er thee,-farewell! farewell!"
On rode the youth, and the founts and streams
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams:
158"We have been thy playmates through many a day,
Wherefore thus leave us? oh! yet delay!
"Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee'tis a melody passing from earth,
Never again wilt thou find in its flow,
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.'Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.
c" Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part;
What should it do for a burning heart?
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill,
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.
"Farewell! when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from o lr music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tell;
Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell! farewell!"
And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed,
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke.
MRS. HEMANS.
LESSON LX I.
THE RETURN.
" HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back:
The free, the pure, the kind?"
So murmured the trees in my homeward track
As they played to the mountain-wind.
" Hath thy soul been true to its early love."
Whispered my native streams;
"Hath thy spirit, nursed amid hill and grove,
Still revered its first high dreams?"
"Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer
Of the child in his parent halls?"
Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air,
From the old ancestral walls.
159" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead
Whose place of rest is nigh?
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed,
With the mother's trusting eye?"
Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain,
As I answered, " Oh ye shades!
I bring not my childhood's heart again
To the freedom of your glades.
"I have turned from my first,pure love aside,
0 bright and happy streams!
Light after light, in my soul have died
The day-spring's glorious dreams.
"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath passed,
The prayer at my mother's knee;.Darkened and troubled, I come at last,
Home of my boyish glee!
"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears,
To soften and atone;
And oh, ye scenes of those blessed years!
They shall make me again your own."
MRS. HEMrANS
LESSON  LXII.
THE ADIEU.
WE'LL miss her at the morning hour,
When leaves and eyes unclose;
When sunshine calls the dewy flower
rTo waken from repose;
For, like the singing of a bird,
When first the sunbeams fall,
The gladness of her voice was heard
The earliest of us all.
We'll miss her at the evening time,
For then her voice and lute
Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme,
When other sounds were mute.
Twined round the ancient window-seat,
Whiile she was singing there,
160The jasmin from outside would meet,
And wreathe her fragrant hair.
We'll miss her when we gather round
Our blazing hearth at night,
When ancient memories abound,
Or hopes where all unite,
And pleasant talk of years to come,
Those years our fancies frame.
Ah! she has now another home,
And bears another name.
Her heart is not with our old hall,
Nor with the things of yore;
And yet, methinks she must recall
What was so dear before.
She wept to leave the fond roof where
She had been loved so long,
Though glad the peal upon the air,
And gay the bridal throng.
Yes, memory has honey cells,
And some of them are ours;
For in the sweetest of them dwells
The dream of early hours.
The hearth, the hall,' the window-seat,
Will bring us to her mind;
In yon wide world she cannot meet
All that she left behind.
Loving, and loved, her own sweet will
It was, that made her fate;
She has a fairy home; but still
Our own seems desolate.
We may not wish her back again,
Not for her own dear sake:
Oh, love! to form one happy chain,
How many thou must break!   L. E. LANDON.
LESSON  -LXIII.
THE BRIDE.
I CAME,-but she was gone.
In her fair home,
There lay her lute, just as she touched it last,
14
161At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat
Lay the still open work-box, and that book
Which last she read, its penciled margin marked
By an ill-quoted passage, traced, perchance,
With hand unconscious, while her lover spake
That dialect, which brings forgetfulness
Of all beside. It was the cherished home,
Where from her childhood she had been the star
Of hope and joy.
I came,--and she was gone.
Yet I had seen her from the altar led,
With silvery vail but slightly swept aside,
The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek,
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought
Of one who gives a priceless gift away.
And there was silence'mid the gathered throng.
The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw
Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire
Shrink as with srlothered sorrow, when he gave
His darling to an untried guardianship,
And to a far off clime.
Haply his thought
Traversed the grass-grown prairies, and the shore
Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs
And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar
Her log-reared mansion from the anxious eye
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt
How strong and beautiful is woman's love,
That, taking in its hand its thornless joys,
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years,
Yea! and its own life also, lays them all,
Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast,
Reserving naught, save that unspoken hope
Which hath its root in God.
Mock not with mirth
A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones!
The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel,
What do they here?
Joy, serious and sublime,
Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer,
Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand,
162Filled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on
That harness, which the ministry of Death
Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power
May stamp the sentence of Eternity.  MRS. SIGOURrNEY.
LESSON LXIV.
THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.
WHY do I weep?-To leave the vine
Whose clusters o'er me bend;
The myrtle, yet, oh! call it mine!
The flowers I loved to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,
Like shadows o'er me sweep;
I leave my sunny childhood here;
Oh, therefore let me weep!
I leave thee, sister! We have played
Through many a joyous hour,
Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower.
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been, as we may be no more;
Kind sister, let me weep!
I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,
Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child
Lay tones of love so deep,
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled;
I leave thee! let me weep!
Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast,
Pouring out joy and woe,
I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless-yet I go!
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain,
Eyes, that have watched my sleep!
Will earth give love like yours again?  
Sweet mother! let me weep!    MRS. HEMANS.
163LESSON LXV.
THE FAMILY MEETING.
WE are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is filled; vwe're all at home:
To-night, let no cold stranger come:
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless then the meeting and the spot;
For once, be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;
We're all-all here.
We're not all here!
Some are away, the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern relentless hand,
Looked in and thinned our little band:
Some, like a night-flash, passed away,
And some sank lingering day by day;
The quiet grave-yard-some lie thereAnd cruel Ocean has his share;
We're not all here.
We are all here!
Even they, the dead-though dead, so dear,
Fond Memory, to her duty true,
Brings hack their faded forms to view.
How life-like through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them as in times long past,
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold,
They're round us, as they were of oldWe are all here.
We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
You that I love with love so dear,
This may not long of us bh said;
164Soon must we join the gathered dead,
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
Oh! then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below;
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all-here!-     C. SPRAGUE.
LESSON LXVI.
UNWRITTEN MUSIC.
THERE is unwritten music.- The world is full of it. I hear
it every hour that I wake, and my waking sense is surpassed
by my sleeping, though that is a mystery. There is no sound
of simple nature that is not music. It is all God's work, and
therefore harmony.  You may mingle, and divide, and
strengthen the passages of its great anthem, and it is still
melody-melody.
The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the
brooks, and bring their voices to-your ear, as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a
fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and
hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the
long grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn
monotony over all,-and the dimple of that same brook, and
the waterfall's unaltered base shall still reach you in the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as much
a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. There is no accident
of nature's causing which- can bring in discord.  The loosened
rock may fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down
through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully
in the sky; and sudden and violent as these changes seem,
their tumult goes up with the sounid of winds and waters, and
the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar.
It is not mere poetry to talk of the "voices of summer."
It is the day time of the year, and its myriad influences are
audibly at work. Even by night, you may lay your ear to the
ground, and hear that faintest of murmurs, the sound of grow165166              YOUNG LADIES' READER.
ing things. I used to think, when I was a child, that it was
fairy music.  If you have been used to early rising, you have
not forgotten how the stillness of the night seems increased by
the timid note of the first bird. It is the only time when I
would lay a finger on the lip of nature, the deep hush is so
very solemn. By and by, however, the birds are all up, and
the peculiar holiness of the hour declines, but what a world of
music does the sun shine onn!--the deep lowing of the cattle
blending in with the capricious warble of a thousand of God's
happy creatures, and the stir of industry coming on the air
like the under tones of a choir, and the voice of man, heard in
the distance over all, like a singer among instruments, giving
them meaning and language'
But if you would hear one of nature's most various and
delicate harmonies, lie down in the edge of the wood when the
evening breeze begins to stir, and listen to its coming. It
touches, first, the silver foliage of the birch, and- the slightly
hung leaves, at its merest breath, will lift and rustle like a
thousand tiny wings; and then it creeps up to the tall fir, and
the fine tassels send out a sound like a low whisper; and as
the oak feels its influence, the thick leaves stir heavily, and a
deep tone comes sullenly out like the echo of a far off bassoon.
They are all wind harps of different power; ard,as the breeze
strengthens and sweeps equally over them all, their united
harmony has a wonderful grandeur and beauty.
There is a melancholy music in autumn. The leaves float
sadly about with a look of peculiar desolation, waving capriciously in the wind, and falling with a just audible sound, that
is a very sigh for its sadness.  And then, when the breeze is
fresher, though the early autumn months are mostly still, they
are swept on with a cheerful rustle over the naked harvest
fields, and about in the eddies of the blast; and though I have,
sometimes, in the glow of exercise, felt my life securer in the
triumph of the brave contest, yet, in the chill of evening,
or when any sickness of mind or body was on me, the
moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down my heart
like a sorrow, and the cheerful fire, and the voices of my many
sisters, might scarce remove it.
Then for the music of winter. I love to listen to the falling
of the snow. It is an unobtrusive and sweet music. You maytemper your heart to the serenest mood, by its low murmur.
It is that kind of music, that only obtrudes upon your ear when
your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it, if your
mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where
music is intuitive like a thought, and comes only when it is
remembered.
And the frost too has a melodious "ministry."  You will
hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the
moon-beams were splintering like arrows on the ground; and
you listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on
of one of the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep
mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a
crystal. God has hidden its principle as yet from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on
its exquisite beauty, and listen, in mute wonder, to the noise
of its invisible workmanship. It is too fine a knowledge for
us. We shall comprehend it, when we know how the morning
stars sang together.
You would hardly look for music in the dreariness of early
winter.  But, before the keener frosts set in, and while the
warm winds are yet stealing back occasionally, like regrets of
the departed summer, there will-come a soft rain or a heavy
mist, and when the north wind returns, there will be drops
suspended like ear-ring jewels between the filaments of the
cedar tassels, and in the feathery edges of the dark green hemlocks, and, if the clearing up is not followed by the heayy
wind, they will all be frozen in their places like well set gems.
The next morning, the warm sun comes out, and, by the middle
of the calm, dazzling forenoon, they are all loosened from the
close touch which sustained them, and they will drop at the
lightest motion. If you go along upon the south side of the
wood at that hour, you will hear music.  The dry foliage of
the summer's shedding-is scattered over the ground, and the
round, hard drops ring out clearly and distinctly, as they are
shaken down with the stirring of the breeze. It is something
like the running of deep and rapid water, only more fitful and
merrier; but to one who goes out in nature with his heart open,
it is a pleasant music, and, in contrast with the stern character
of the season, delightful.                     N. P. WILLIs.
167ARTICULATION.                         15
In correcting such errors in words of more than one syllable,
it is very important to avoid a fault which is the natural consequence of an effort to articulate correctly. Thus, in endeavoring to sound correctly the a in?net'-ri-cal, the pupil is very apt
to say met-ri-cal', accenting the last syllable instead of the first.
In correcting the sound of o, in pro-pose', it will perhaps be
pronounced pro'-pose. This change of the accent and all
undue stress upon the unaccented syllable, should be carefully
avoided.
R u L E  I I. -Guard particularly against the omission, or
fthe feeble sound of the terminating consonant.
Upon a full and correct sound of the consonants, depends
very much, distinctness of utterance. The following are examples of this fault; viz.
An' or un for and; ban' for band; moun' for mound; morn-in' for morning; dess for desk; moss for mosk; near-es' for near-est; wep' for wept;
ob-jec' for ob-ject; &c.
This omission is still more likely to take place, where several
consonants come together; as,
Thrus' for thrusts; beace for beasts; thinks' for thinkst; weps' for
wept'st; harms' for harmst; wrongs' for wrongd'st; twink-les' for
twink-l'ds't; black'ns' for black'n'dst, &c.
In all cases of this kind, these sounds are omitted, in the first
instance, merely because they are difficult, and require care and
attention for their utterance, although after a while, it becomes a
matter of habit. The only remedy is, to devote- that care and
attention, which may be necessary. There is no other difficulty,
unless there should be a defect in the organs of speech, which
does not often happen.
R u L E I I I. --- Avoid uniting into one word, syllables which
belong to different words.
This fault, when added to that last mentioned, forms perhaps
the most fruitfill source of error in articulation. The following
lines furnish an example.
Here --res-e-zed upon th'lapper verth,
A youth tofor turnan tofa munknown,
Fairsci ensfrow noton ezum blebirth,
Unmel anchol emark dimfor erown.LESSON LXVII.
THE S A ME,--C O N C L UD E D.
HITHERTO I have spoken only of the sounds of irrational and
inanimate nature.  A better than those, and the best music
under heaven, is the music of the human voice.  I doubt
whether all voices are not capable of it, though there must be
degrees in it, as in beauty. The tones of affection in all children are sweet, and we know not how much their unpleasantness
in after life may be the effect of sin and coarseness, and the
consequent habitual expression of discordant passions. But
we do know that the voice of any human being becomes
touching by distress, and that even on the coarse-minded and
the low, religion and the higher passions of the world have
sometimes so wrought, that their eloquence was like the
strong passages of an organ.
I have been much about in the world, and with a boy's
unrest, and a peculiar thirst for novel sensations, have mingled,
for a time, in every walk of life; yet never have I known man
or woman that was not utterly degraded, whose voice, under
the influence of any strong feeling, did not deepen to a chord
of grandeur, or soften to cadences to which a harp might have
swept pleasantly. It is a perfect instrument as it comes from
the hand of its Maker,, and though its strings may relax with
the atmosphere, or be injured by misuse and neglect, it is
always capable of being re-strung to its compass, till its frame
is shattered.
A sweet voice is indispensable to a woman. I do not think
I can describe it. It can be, and sometimes is, cultivated. It
is not inconsistent with great vivacity, but it is oftener the gift of
the quiet and unobtrusive. Loudness or rapidity of utterance
is incompatible with it. It is low, but not guttural; deliberate,
but not slow.  Every syllable is distinctly heard, but they
follow each other like drops of water from a fountain. It is a
glorious gift in woman. I should be won by it more than by
beauty; more, even, than by talent, were it possible to separate
them. But I never heard a deep, sweet voice from a weak
woman. It is the- organ of strong feeling, and of thoughts
which have lain in the bosom till their sacredness almost hushes
utterance..
168I remember listening in the midst of a crowd, many years
ago, to the voice of a girl, a mere child of sixteen summers, till
I was bewildered. She was a pure, high-hearted, impassioned
creature, without the least knowledge of the world, or of her
peculiar gift; but her own thoughts had wrought upon her-like
the hush of a sanctuary, and she spoke low, as if with an unconscious awe. I could never trifle in her presence. My
nonsense seemed out of place, and my practiced assurance forsook me utterly. She is changed now. She has been admired,
and has found out her beauty, and the music of her tone is gone.
She will recover it by and by, when the delirium of the world
is over, and she begins to rely, once more, upon her own
thoughts for company; but her extravagant spirits have broken
over the thrilling timidity of childhood, and the charm is
unwound.
The music of church bells has become a matter of poetry.
Thomas Moore has sung "Those evening bells," in some of
the most melodious of his elaborate stanzas. There is something exceedingly impressive in the breaking in of church bells
on the stillness of the Sabbath.  I doubt whether it is not
morn so in the heart of a populous city, than anywhere else.
The presence of any single, strong feeling, in the midst of a
great people, has something of awfulness in it which exceeds
even the impressiveness of nature's breathless Sabbath..
I know few things more imposing, than to walk the streets
of a city,when the peal of the early bells is just beginning. The
deserted pavements, the closed windows of places of business,
the decent gravity of the solitary passenger, and, over all, the
feeling in your own bosom, that the fear of God is brooding,
like a great shadow, over the thousand human beings who are
sitting still in their dwellings around you, were enough, if there
-were no other circumstances, to hush the heart into a religious
fear. But when the bells peal out suddenly, with a summons to
tile temple of God, and their echoes roll on through the desolate
streets, and are unanswered by the sound of any human voice,
or the din of any human occupation, the effect has sometimes
seertled to nme far more solemn than the near thunder.
Far more beautiful, and, perhaps, quite as salutary as a
religious influence, is the sound of a distant Sabbath bell in the
country. It comes floating over the hills like the going abroad
15;
169of a spirit; and, as the leaves stir with its vibrations, and drops
of dew tremble in the cups of the flowers, you could almost
believe there was a Sabbath in nature, and that the dumb
works of God rendered visible worship for his goodness.  The
effect of nature alone is purifying, and its thousand evidences
of wisdom are too eloquent of their Maker, not to act as a
continual lesson; but combined with the instilled piety of childhood, and the knowledge of the inviolable holiness of the time,
the mellow cadences of a church bell give to the hush of the
country Sabbath a holiness, to which only a desperate heart
could be insensible.                            N. P. WILLIS.
LES-SON LXVIII.
MIUS IC.
Lorenzo and Jessica.
Lor. THE moon shines bright. In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.
Jes.                     In such a night,
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew;
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismayed away.
Lor.                 In such a night,
Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea-bank, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage.
Jes.                     In such a night,
Medea gathered the enchanted herbs
That did renew old A3son.
Lor.                  In such a night,
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew;
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice,
As far as Belmont.
Jes.            In such a night,
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well;
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one.
170Lor.               In such a night,
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
Lor. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st.
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, while this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.
Enter Musicians.
Come. ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.                      Lfrusic.
Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive;
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and-neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;
If they but hear, perchance, a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch. their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music.  Therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floodsSince naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The iman that hath no music in himself,
And is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted.-Mark the music.
Enter Portia and Nerissa at a cistance.
Por. That light we see, is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle thro,vs his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
171Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.
Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less:
A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by; and then his state
Empties itself, as does an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music! hark!
Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect;
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
Netr. Silence bestows that virtLue on it, madam.
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise, and true perfection  
Peace, hoa! the moon sleeps with Endymion,
And would not be awaked!                      SHAKSPEARE.
LESSON  L XI X.
THE F REED BIRD.
RETURN, return, my bird!
I have dressed thy cage with flowers,'T islovely as a violet bank
In the heart of forest bowers.
"I am free, I am free; I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er!
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me, the blue, bright sky!
"The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer,
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore;
I am free, I am free; I return no more!"
Alas, alas, my bird!
Why seek'st thou to be free?
Wert thou not blest in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed naught but glee?
172
YOUNG LADIES' READER.YOUNG LADIES' READER.
"Did my song of summer breathe naught but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell.
"From a dream of the forest that music sprang,
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;
And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best,
Si,ghed for wild flowers and a leafy nest."
Was it with thee thus, my bird I
Yet thine eye flashed clear and bright;
I have seen the glance of the sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.
"It flashed with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place;
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar;
Woo me not back; I return no more!
" My home is high, amid rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and breeze,
And the fount unchecked in its lonely play,
And the odors that wander afar away!"
Farewell,-farewell, then, bird!
I have called on spirits gone,
And it may be they joyed like thee, to part,
Like thee, that wert all my own.
"If they were captives and pined like me,
Though love might guard them, they joyed to be free;
They sprung from the earth with a burst of power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour
" Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of th'e pinion is all through heaven.
Farewell! With my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies: I am earth's no more!"
M Rs. I1E IANS.
173LESSON LXX.
BEAUTY,.---HEALTH,-HAPPINESS.
Beauty.
A NATIVE grace
Sat fair-proportioned on her polished form,
Vailed in a simple robe, its best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorned, adorned the most.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods;
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises far from human eye,
And breathes its balmhny fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourished, blooming, and unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia.                          TuOMSON.
Never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay harems smiled,
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.
Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in-all woman's loveliness;
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark vice would turn abashed away,
Blinded like serpents when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze;
Yet filled with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds, with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this;
A soul, too, more than half divine,,
When, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's softened glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy, too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere.      MOORE.
Health.
Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss.
174How tasteless then whatever can be given?
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise, of health.
Oh who can speak the vigorous joys of health t
Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind;
The morning rises gay; with pleasing stealth
The temperate evening falls serene and kind.
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find;
See how the younglings frisk along the meads,
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind;
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds:
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasure breeds?
THOMsoN.
Happiness.
With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn; her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild, and silent night
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
MILTON.
LESSON LXXI.
THE WISE AND AMIABLE WOMAN.
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 resolutely 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 the
duty of every human being, consists in performing well the
175part 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
discreet.
She is exempt from affectation, thle folly of little minds.
Far from her heart is the desire of acquiring a reputation, or
of rendering herself interesting, by imbecilities and imperfections. 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, whp, from  the
want of a correct education, are ignorant of what is truly
becoming. She is still fu ther 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 really feels.
In so enlightened an understanding, humility appears with
peculiar grace. Every wise woman must be humble; because
every wise woman must know, that no human being has anything 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 still
more pleasingly adorned with the graces of mildness 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
effect, 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 born, not for herself only, but for others, she endeavors to communicate happiness to all who are around her.
Her children, those immortal beings, who are committed
to her care, that they may be formed to knowledge and virtue,
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 eradicates every
weed of evil, as soon as it appears. Thus does she benefit
the church, her country, and the world, by training up sincere
176Christians, 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 not 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. While, 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 sickness alnd distress at last come, she submits to
them with patience and resignation. A peevish complaint
does not escape from her lips; nor does she once murmur
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 deeply
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.     *                A 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 purposes.                             FREEMAN.
LESSON LXXII.
MRS. S I GO TJ R N E Y.
RESPECTINTG the talents and merits of Mrs. Sigourney, there
will be no doubt nor cavil. She has nobly won her high place
177With some difficulty these lines may be deciphered to mean
as follows;
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown,
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.
The learner will recollect, that in correcting a fault, there is
always danger of erring in the opposite extreme. Now, properly speaking, there is no danger of learning to articulate too
distinctly, but there is danger of contracting a habit of drawling, and of pronouncing unimportant words with too much prominence. This should be carefully guarded against. It is a
childish fault, but is not always confined to children.
Questions.--What subject is first in importance to the reader? Repeat the general direction. Repeat the first Rule. Give some examples in which the vowel is
left out. Give some in which it is improperly sounded. In correcting these errors,
what fault is it necessary to guard against? What is the second Rule?
SECTION III.
INFLECTIONS.
1. Definitions and Examples.
INFLECT10N is a bending or sliding of the voice either upward or downward.
The upward or rising inflection is marked by the acute ae.
cent, thus, ( ); and in this case the voice is to slide upward; as,
Did you call'?  Is he sick'?
The downward or falling inflection is marked by the grave
accent, thus, (a); and indicates that the voice is to slide downward; as, Where is London'?  Where have you been'?  Who
has come'?
Sometimes both the rising and falling inflection are given to
the same sound.  Such sounds are designted by the circumflex, thus, (-), or (-).  The former is called the rising circumflex, because it ends with the rising inflection; the latter the
falling circumflex, because it ends with the falling inflection.
When several successive syllables are uttered without either
the upward or downward slide, they are said to be uttered in a
monotone, which is marked thus, (-).
INFLECTIONS.
16in the literature of our country. In all her works, varied as
they are in style and subject, one purpose, the purpose of
doing good, is recognized as the governing motive.  In her
prose writings, this zeal of heart is the great charm.  She
always describes nature with a lover's feelings for its beauties,
and with much delicacy and taste; still we think her talent for
description is much more graceful and at home in the measured lines of her poetry, than in her best prose.   Her
genius brightens in the Muses' smile, and she can command by
that spell, as Prospero could with his staff, the attendance
of the " delicate spirit" of Fancy, which,like Ariel, brings
"Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not:"
and those 6" solemn breathing strains"' that move conscience to
its repentant work, or lift the trusting and contrite soul to
heaven.
"Who can describe Niagara?" exclaimed Mrs. Butler, in the
agony of her admiration.  Mrs. Sigourney has described it, and
worthily too; and this single poem  would be sufficient to
establish her fame. It does more and better, it stamps her as
the devoted Christian; for except faith in the " dread Invisible"
had sustained her genius, and trust in the Savior had kept
warm the:fount of sympathy in her heart, she could not have
surrounded a theme so awful, strange,-and lonely, with such
images of beauty and hope.
Female poetic writers owe their happiest efforts to religious
feeling. Devotion seems to endow them with the martyr's
glowing fervency of spirit. In the actual world the path of
woman is very circumscribed, but in that " better land," her imagination may range with the freedom of an angel's wing. And
there the genius of Mrs. Sigourney delights to expatiate. This
constant uplifting of her spirit has given a peculiar cast to her
language and style; rendering the stately blank verse measure
the readiest vehicle of her fancies. She has a wonderful command of words, and the fetters of rhyme check the free expression of her thoughts. She is also endowed with a fine perception of the harmonious and appropriate, and hence the
smooth flow of the lines, and the' perfect adaptation of the language to the subject. These qualities eminently fit her to be
the eulogist of departed worth, and incline her to elegiac
178poetry.  To her tender feeling and naturally contemplative
mind, every knell that summons the mourner to weep, awakens
her sympathy, and the dirge flows as would her tears, to comfort the bereaved were she beside them. Nor is the death song
of necessity melancholy.  Many of hers sound the notes of
holy triumph, and awaken the brightest anticipations of felicity;
-ay,
" Teach us of the melody of heaven."
She " leaves not the trophy of death at the tomb," but shows
us the "Resurrection and the Life."  Thus she elevates the
hopes of the Christian, and chastens the thoughts of the worldly
minded.  This is her mission, the true purpose of her heavenendowed mind; for the inspirations of genius are from heaven,
and, when not perverted by a corrupt will, rise as naturally
upward as the morning dew on the flower is exhaled to the
skies. The genius of Mrs. Sigourney, like the "imperial Passion Flower," has always been
"Consecrate to Salem's peaceful king;
Though fair as any gracing beauty's bower,
Yet linked to sorrow like a holy thing."
MRs. S. J. HALE.
LESSON L-XXIII.
TIIE CONTRAST.
THE mother sat beside her fire,
Well trimmed it was, and bright,
While loudly.moaned the forest-pines,
Amid that wintry night.
She heard them not, th'ose wind-swept pines,
For o'er a scroll she hung,
That bore her husband's voice of love,
As when that love was young.
And thrice her son, beside her knee,
Besought her favoring eye,
And thrice her lisping daughter spoke,
Before she made reply.
179180               YOUNG; LADIES' READER.
"O, little daughter, many a kiss
Lies in this treasured line,
And boy, a father's counsels fond,
And blessed prayers are thine.
"Thou hast his high and arching brow,
Thou hast his eye of flame,
And be the purpose of thy soul,
Thy sun-bright course the same."
Then as she drew them to her arms,
Down her fair cheek would glide
A tear, that shone like diamond spark,
A tear of love and pride.
She took the baby from its rest,
And laid it on her knee,
"Thou ne'er hast seen thy sire, she said,
But he'll be proud of thee;
"Yes, he'll be proud of thee, my dove,
The lily of our line,
I know what eye of blue he loves,
And such an eye is thine.",
" Where is my father gone, mamma?
Why does he stay so long?"
" He's far away in Congress-hall,
Amid the noble throng.
"He's in the lofty Congress-hall,
To swell the high debate,
And help to frame those righteous laws,
That make our land so great.
" But ere the earlitest violets bloom,
You in his arms shall be,
So, go to rest, my children dear,
And pray for him and me."
The snow-flakes reared their drifted mound,
To bury Nature deep,
But naught, amid that peaceful home,
Disturbed- the dews of sleep:
For lightly, as an angel's dream,
The trance of slumber fell,
Where innocence, and holy love,
Maintained their guardian spell.Another eve,-another scroll!
Wist ye, what words it said?
Two words,--two awful words it bore,
The duel! and the dead!
The duel? and the dead? How dark
Was that young mother's eye,
How fearful was her lengthened swoon,
How wild her frantic cry!
There's many a xvife, whose bosom's lord
Is in his prime laid low,
Engulfed beneath the watery main,
Where bitter tempests blow;
Or crushed amid the battle-field,
Where crimson rivers flow,
Yet knew they not that deadly pang,
Which drugged her cup of woe.
Who lies so powerless on her couch,
Transfixed by sorrow's sting?
Her infant in its nurse's arm~,,
Like a forgotten thing?
A dark-haired-boy is at her side,
He lifts his eagle eye,
"Mother! they say my father's dead,
How did nzy father die?"
Again the spear-point in her breast!
Again, that shriek of pain!' Boy, thou hast riven thy mother's heart,
Speak not those words again;
"Speak not those words again, my son!"
What boots that fruitless care?
They're written wheresoe'er she turns,
On ocean, earth, and air.
They're seared upon her shrinking heart,
That bursts beneath its doom,
"The duel! and the dead!" they mark,
The threshold of her tomb.
Through all her weary, widowed years,
That broken heart she bore,
And on her pale and drooping brow,
The smile sat never more.    MRS. SIGOURNEY.
181LESSON LXXIV.
BURIAL OF THE YOUNG-.
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 couch,
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 apprdach
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 came
With movements fashioned to the deep-toned bell:
She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend,
And tears of those, who at her side were nursed
By the same mother.
Ah! and one was there,
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 hang
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.
Oft, 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
182YOUNG LADIES' READER.                   183
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 1 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.
MRS. SIGOUaNEr
LESSON LXXV.
THE HERMIT OF NIAGARA.
ABOUT fifteen years since, in the glow of early summei,
a young stranger, of pleasing countenance and person, made his
appearance at Niagara.  It was at first conjectured that he
might be an artist, as a large portfolio, and books and musical
instruments, were observed among his baggage.  He was
deeply impressed by the majesty and sublimity of the cataract
and its surrounding scenery, and expressed an intention to
remain a week, that he might examine it accurately. But the
fascination which all minds of sensibility feel in the presence
of that glorious work of the Creator, grew strongly upon him,
and he was heard to say, that six weeks were inadequate to
become acquainted with its outlines.
At the end of that period, he was still unable to tear himself
away, and desired to "build there a tabernacle," that he might
indulge both in his love of solitary musings, and of nature's
sublimity.  He applied for a spot upon the island of the
"Three Sisters," where he might construct a cottage after his
own model, which comprised, among other peculiarities, isolation, by means of a drawbridge. Circumstances forbidding a
*Pronoulnced or'-i-zon.184              YOUNG LADIES' READER.
compliance with his request, he took up Ihis residence in an old
house upon Iris Island, which he rendered as comfortable as
the state of -the case would admit. Here he continued about
twenty months, until the intrusion of a family interrupted his
recluse habits. He then quietly withdrew, and reared for himself a less commodious shelter, near Prospect Point. His
simple and favorite fare of bread and milk, was readily purchased, and whenever he required other food, he preferred to
prepare it with his own hands.
When bleak winter came, a cheerful fire of wood blazed
upon his hearth, and by his evening lamp he beguiled the
hours with the perusal of books in various languages, and with
sweet music. It was almost surprising to hear, in such depth
of solitude, the long-drawn, thrilling tones of the viol, or the
softest melodies of the flute, gushing forth from  that lowbrowed hut, or the guitar, breathing out so lightly amid the
rush and thunder of the never-slumbering torrent.
Yet, though the world of letters was familiar to his mind,
and the living world to his observation,--for he, had traveled
widely, both in' his native Europe and the East,-he sought
not association with mankind, to unfold or to increase his stores
of knowledge.  Those who had heard him converse, spoke
with surprise and admiration of his colloquial powers, his
command of language, and the spirit of eloquence that flowed
from his lips. But he seldom, and sparingly, admitted this
intercourse, studiously avoiding society, though there seemed
in his nature nothing of moroseness or misanthropy. On the
contrary, he showed kindness to even the humblest animal.
Birds instinctively learned it, and freely entered his dwelling,
to receive from his hands crums or seeds.
But the absorbing delight of his existence was communion
with the mighty Niagara.  Here, at every hour of the day or
night, he might be seen, a fervent worshipeir. At gray dawn
he went to visit it in its fleecy vail: at high noon he banqueted
on the full splendor of its glory; beneath the soft tinting of the
lunar bow, he lingered, looking for the angel's wing whose
pencil had painted it; and at solemn midnight, he knelt, soulsubdued, as onl the footstool of Jehovah. Neither storms, nor
the piercing cold of winter, prevented his visits to this great
temple of his adoration.When the frozen mists, gathering upon the lofty trees,
seemed to have transmuted them  to columns of alabaster;
when every branch, and shrub, and spray, glittering with
transparent ice, waved in the sun-beam its coronet of diamonds,
he gazed, unconscioiis of the keen atmosphere, charmed and
chained by the rainbow-cinctured cataract. His feet had worn
a beaten path from his cottage thither.  There was, at that
time, an extension of the Terrapin Bridge, by a single shaft of
timber, carried out tell feet over the fathomless abyss, where
it hung tremulously, guarded only by a rude parapet. To this
point he often passed and repassed, amid the darkness of night.
He even took pleasure in grasping it with his hands, and thus
suspending himself over the awful gulf; so much had his morbid enthusiasm learned to feel, and even to revel amid the
terribly sublime.
Among his favorite daily gratifications was that of bathing.
The few who interested themselves in his welfare, supposed
that he pursued it to excess, and protracted it after the severity
of the weather rendered it hazardous to health. He scooped
out, and arranged for himself, a secluded and romantic bath,
between Moss and Iris Islands. Afterward, he formed the
habit of bathing below the principal fall.  One bright, but
rather chill day, in the month of June, 1831, a man employed
about the ferry saw him go into the water, and, a long time
after, observed his clothes to be still lying upon the bank.
Inquiry was made. The anxiety was but too well founded.
The poor hermit had indeed taken his last bath. It was supposed that cramp might have been induced by the unwonted chill
of the atmosphere or water. Still the body was not found; the
depth and force of the current just below being exceedingly
great. In the course of their search, they passed onward to the
whirlpool. There, amid those boiling eddies, was the pallid
corpse, making fearful and rapid gyrations upon the face of the
black waters. At some point of suction, it suddenly plunged
and disappeared.  Again emerging, it was fearful to see it
leap half its length above the flood, and with a face so deadly
pale, play among the tossing billows, then float motionless, as
if exhausted, and anon, returning to the encounter, spring,
struggle, and contend, like a maniac battling with mortal foes.
It was strangely painful to think that he was not permitted
16
185to find a grave, even beneath the waters he had loved; that
all the gentleness and charity of his nature should be changed
by death to the fury of a madman; and that the king of terrors,
who brings repose to the despot and the man of blood, should
teach warfare to him who had ever worn the meekness of the
lamb. For days and nights this terrible purgatory was prolonged. It was on the 21st of June that, after manyT efforts,
they were enabled to bear the weary dead back to his desolate
cottage.
There they found his faithful dog guarding the door.
Heavily must the long period have worn away, while he
watched for his only friend, and wondered why he delayed
his coming.  He scrutinized the approaching group suspiciously, and would not willingly have given them admittance,
save that a low, stifled wail at length announced his intuitive
knowledge of the master,whom the work of death had effectually disguised from the eyes of men.
In his chair lay the guitar, whose melody was probably the
last that his ear heard on earth. There were, also, his
flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scattered and open,
as if recently used.  On the spread table was the untasted
meal for noon, which he had prepared against his return from
that bath which had proved so fatal. It was a touching sight,
-the dead hermit mourned by his humble retainers, the poor
animals who loved him, and ready to be laid by stranger hands
in a foreign grave.
So fell this singular and accomplished being, at the early age
of twenty-eight.  Learned in the languages, in the arts and
sciences, improved by extensive travel, gifted with personal
beauty, and a feeling heart, the motives for this estrangement
from his kind are still enveloped in mystery.. It was, however,
known that he was a native of England, where his father was
a clergyman; that he received from thence ample remittances
for his comfort; and that-his name was Francis Abbot. These
facts had been previously ascertained; but no written papers
were found in his cell, to throw additional light upon the obscurity in which he had so effectually wrapped the history
of his pilgrimage.                         Mrs. SIGOURNEY.
186LESSON LXXVI.
APOSTROPHE TO NIAGARA.
FLOW on forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty! God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.- And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him
Eternally: bidding the lip of man
Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar, pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.
And who can dare
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow,'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild waves
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play;,
And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,
Dost rest not night or day.
The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem, and those wrecking fires
That wait the Archangel's signal to dissolve
The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
On thine unfathomed page. Each leafy bough
That lifts itself within thy proud domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
And tremble at the baptism.
Lo! yon birds
Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing
Amid thy foam and mist.'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, or lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,
Who sport unharmed upon the fleecy cloud,
And listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint
187EXAMPLES.
Does he read correctly', or incorrectly't
In reading this sentence, the voice should slide somewhat as
represented in the following diagram:
Does he read cor-         or c.r  ly  
If you said vinegar, I said sugar.
To be read thus:
If you said    i       I said
If you said yes, I said n6.
To be read thus:
If you said          I said'-.
What', did he say no'?
To be read thus:
did he say Vxct
He did'; he said no'.
rTo be read thus:
He'; he said -
Did he do it voluntarily', or involuntarily'?
To be read thus:
Did he do it 40       or
He did it voluntarily', not involuntarily'.'I'o be read thus:
He did it             not \
2Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee/to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation.
Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty;
And while it rushes with delirious joy
To tread the vestibule, dost chain its step,
Anld check its rapture with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.
MRS. SIGOURNEY.
LESSON LXXVII.
STORY OF THE ARK AND DOVE.
"TELL me a story, please," my little girl
Lisped from her cradle. So I bent me down,
And told her how it rained, and rained, and rained,
Till all the flowers were covered, and the trees
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood,
And people dwelt, a fearfill deluge rolled;
Because the world was wicked, and refused
To heed the words of God. But one good man,
Who long had warned the wicked to repent,
Obey, and live, taught by the voice of Heaven
Had built an Ark: and thither, with his wife,
And children, turned for safety. Two and two,
Of beasts and birds, and creeping things he took,
With food for all; and when the tempest roared,
And the great fountains of the sky poured out
A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drowned,
They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure.
And so the mighty waters bare them up,
And o'er the bosom of the deep they sailed
For many days. But then a gentle dove'Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread
Her lonely pinion o'er that boundless wave.
188All, all was desolation. Chirping nest,
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw,
For all the people of the earth were drowned,
Because of disobedience. Naught she spied
Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky,
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest.
So with a leaf of olive in her mouth,
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance,
Upon some wrecking billow floated by,
With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought.
The righteous man that wandering dove received
And to her mate restored.
Then I looked
Upon the child, to see if her young thought
Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye
Was a glad listener, and the eager breath
Of pleased attention curled her parted lip.
And so I told her how the waters dried,
And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove
Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds
Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired ark
Upon the breezy breast of Ararat
Reposed, and Noah, with glad spirit, reared
An altar to his God.
Since, many a time,
When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star,
That little one is laid, with earnest tone,
And pure cheek pressed to mine, she fondly asks
"The Ark and Dove."
Mothers can tell how oft,
In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up
From a sealed lip; and tenderly hath blent
With the warm teaching of the sacred tale
A voiceless wish, that when the timid soul,
Now in the rosy mesh of infancy
Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world,
Like that exploring dove, and find no rest,
A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming hand
May gently guide it to the ark of peace.
MRS. SIGOUINEy.
189LESSON   LXXVIII.
GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER.
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
of almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine
her character and her fate, here and hereafter.  Reflect, for a
moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children, and
servants, must depend on her temper, and you will see that the
greatest good or evil, which she ever may have in her power to
do, may arise from 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 propensity 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, disappointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and imbitter
the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason
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 character, 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 people
can command themselves, when they have a motive sufficiently
190strong, 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 to them in a passion,
is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which the meanest of your
fellow-creatures would have a right to resent.
When once you find yourself heated so far, as to desire to
say what you know would be provoking and wounding to
another, 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
unfit 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 insufficiences, 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 resentment, 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 incapable 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, while you show a sense of their
improper behavior,- you must preserve calmness, and even
good-breeding; and- thereby convince them of the impotence,
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
191it may not occasion the breach of some duty, or necessary
connection, to which you ought to sacrifice even your just
resentments.
Above all things, take care that a particular offense to you
does not make you unjust to the general character of the offending person.  Generous anger does not preclude esteem for
whatever is really estimable, nor does it destroy good-will to
the person of its object; it even inspires the desire of overcoming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment, than the regret of having injured one who deserved 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 naturally produces
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 contempt.
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 rage.
1n\s. CHAPONE.
LESSON LXXIX.
THE DAUGHTEr AT IIER MOTHER S GRAVE.
IT was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a
long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred
mound, beneath which I had seen her buried.  Since that
mournful period, a great change had come over me.  My
childish years had passed away, and with them my youthful
character.  The world was altered too; and, as I stood at my
mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same
thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed
in an excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen
years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile.
It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday; as if the blessed
sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay
192dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so
distinctly to-my mind, that, had it not been for one bitter
recollection, the tears I shed would have been gentle and
refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one; but
the thouglht of it now pains my heart, and I relate it, that those
children who have parents to love them, may learn to value
them as they ought.
My mother had been ill a long time, and I had become so
accustomed to her pale face and weak voice, that I was not
frightened at them as children usually are. At first, it is true,
I sobbed violently; but when, day after day, I returned from
school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would
always be spared to me; but they told me she would die.
One day when I had lost my place in the class, and done
my work wrong side outward, I came home discouraged and
fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was paler than
usual, but she met me with the same affectionate smile that
always welcomed my return.  Alas! when I look back,
through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my hleart must
have been stone, not to have been melted. She requested me
to go down stairs, and bring her a glass of water; I pettishly
asked why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a look
of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be a
hundred years old, she said, " and will not my daughter bring a
glass of water for her poor sick mother?"
I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly.
Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set
the glass down very quickly, and left the room. After playing
a short timre, I went to bed, without bidding my mother good
night; but when alone in my room, in darkness and silence,
I remembered how pale she looked, and how her voice trembled
when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of water
for her poor sick mother?" I could not sleep. I stole into
her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy
slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I did not
tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed,
resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry
I was for my conduct.
The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying
on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was
17
193dead! she never spoke more; never smiled upon me again;
and when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head
in blessing, it was so cold that it made me start. I bowed
down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart.
I thought then I wished I might die, and be buried with her;
and, old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to
give, could my mother but have lived to tell me that she
forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back;
and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her
manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she
gave me, will bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.
A-NONYMous.
LESSON LXXX.
TO MY MOTHER.
GIVE me my old seat, mother,
With my head upon thy knee:
I've passed through many a changing scene,
Since thus I sat by thee.
0! let me look into thine eyes;
Their meek, soft, loving light
Falls like a gleam of holiness,
Upon my heart, to-night.
I've not been long away, mother;
Few suns have risen and set,
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek
My lips in kisses met.'Tis but a little time, I know,
But very long it seems;
Though every night I came to thee,
Dear mother, in my dreams.
The,world has kindly dealt, mother,
By the child thou lov'st so well;
Thy prayers have circled round her pah;
And'twas their holy spell    4
Which made that path so dearly bright;
Which strewed the roses there;
Which gave the light, and cast the balm
On every breath of air.
194I bear a happy heart, mother;
A happier never beat;
And, even now, new buds of hope
Are bursting at my feet.
Oh! mother! life may be a dream;
But if such dreams are given,
While at the portals thus we stand,
What are the truths of Heaven!
I bear a happy heart, mother!
Yet, when fond eyes I see,
And hear soft tones and winning words,
I ever think of thee.
And then, the tears my spirit weeps
Unbidden fill my eye;
And, like a houseless dove, I long
Unto thy breast to fly.
Then I am very sad, mother,
I'm very sad and lone;
0! there's no heart wlhose inmost fold
Opes to me like thine own!
Though sunny smiles wreathe blooming lips,
While love-tones meet my ear;
My mother, one fond glance of thine
Were thousand times more dear.
Then with a closer clasp, mother,
Now hold me to thy heart;
I'll feel it beating'gainst my own,
Once more before we part.
And, mother, to this love-lit spot,
When I am far away,
Come oft-too oft thou canst not come!
And for thy darling pray.    FANNY FORESTFUn.
LESSON LXXXI.
FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW.
" AND where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?"
"I've been at the top of the Caldon-Low,
The Midsummer night to see."
195" And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low!"
"I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow."
"And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Hill?"
"I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill."
" Oh tell me all, my Mary,
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night, on Caldon-Low."
"Then take me on your knee, mother,
And listen, mother of mine:
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.
"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,
And their dancing feet so small;
But, oh, the sound of their talking
Was merrier far than all!"
" And what were the words, my Mary,
That you did hear them say?"' I'll tell you all, my mother,
But let me have my way.
"And some, they played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill;'And this,' they said,  shall speedily turn
The poor old miller's mill;' For there has been no water,
Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man shall the miller be
By the dawning of the day.'Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,
When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
Till the tears fill both his eyes!'
"And some, they seized the little winds,
That sounded over the hill,
t96YOUNG LADIES' READER.
And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew so sharp and shrill.
"'And there,' said they,'the merry winds go,
Away from every hornl;
And those shall clear the mildew danlk,
From the blind old widow's corn.
"' Oh, the poor, blind old widow,
Though she has been blind so long,
She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands stiff and strong.'
" And some, they brought the brown lint-seed,
And flung it down firom the Low;'And this,' said they,'by the sun-rise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow.
"' Oh, the poor, lame weaver,
How will he laugh outright,
When he sees his dwindling flax field
All full of flowers by night!'
" And then upspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin,' I have spun up all the tow,' said he,'And I want some more to spin.
"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another;
A little sheet for Mary's bed,
And an apron for her mother!'
"And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.
" And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.
" But as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard a jar below;
How busy the jolly miller was,
And how merry the wheel did go!
1974  
K
~)4,It is important that these inflections should be familiar to the
ear of the learner. In the following questions, the first member
has the rising, and the second member, the falling infzection.
Is he sick,' or is he well'?
Is he young', or is he old'?
Is he rich', or is he poor?
Did you say valor', or value'?
Did you say statute', or statue'  
Did he act properly', or improperly'?
In the following answers to these questions, the inflections
are used in a contrary order, the first member terminating with
thefalling, and the second, with the rising inflection.
He is well', not sick'.
He is young', not old'.
He is rich', not poor'.
I said value', not valor'.
I said statue', not statute'.
He acted properly', not improperly'.
These slides of the voice are sometimes very slight, so as to
be scarcely perceptible, but at other times, when the words are
pronounced in an animated tone, and strongly emphasized, the
voice passes upward or downward through several notes. This
will readily be perceived, by pronouncing the above questions or
answers with a strong emphasis.
Questions.--WVhat are inflections? How does the voice slide in the rising inflection? How in the falling? Explain their use in the questions given as examples. What is the circumflex? Explain the difference between the rising and the
falling circumflex. Explain the different inflections, in the questions commencing
with;' Is he sick, or is he well?" Explain them in the answers to these questions.
Are these inflections always very plainly perceived? When are they-most readily
perceived?
2. Falling Inflection.
R u L E I. --The falling inflection is generally proper,
wherever the sense is complete; as,
Truth is more wonderful than fiction'.
Men generally die as they live'.
By industry, we obtain wealth'.
The falling of the voice at the close of a sentence is sometimes called a cadence, and properly speaking, there is a slight
difference between it and the falling inflection, but for all practi18"And I peep'd into the widow's field,
And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stiff and green.
"And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were high;
But I saw the weaver at his gate,
With the good news in his eye.
"Now, this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So, prythee, make my bed, mother,
For I am tired as I can be."         MIARY HOWITT
LESSON LXXXII
(Elliptical.)
j [In the following lesson, and some others, ellipses are left to be filled up
by the pupil. Let the reader supply the words which are omitted. In this lesson the rhlyme will assist in suggesting the proper word. Such an exercise
will be found interesting and very useful. It will give to the learner a ready
command of language, and thus promote fluency in conversation, a very important and desirable accomplishment, and will contribute to the formation of a
habit of ease and readiness in composition. The memory, the imagination,
and the judgment are called into exercise, while at the same time all the
more immediate objects of a reading lesson- are equally well secured. The
proper word can be written with a pencil in the vacant place within the
brackets, or can be supplied by the pupil at the time of reading.]
HOME.
THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world (;S__j
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons mparadise the (... )
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted (. -..
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting (.        ),
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer (... );
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that (  );
198For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of Nature's noblest (.   ),
There is a spot of earth supremely blessed,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the (..   ),
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and scepter, pageantry and (....   ),
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, ( / -.   );
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of (..
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces (..    );
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her (..
" Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found!"
Art thou a man? a patriot t look (...
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy (..... )
J. MONTGOMERY
Breathes there the man, with soul. so dead,
Who never to himself hath (...),
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath (..  
From wandering on a foreign strand.
If such there breathe, go mark him well,
For him no minstrel raptures (4.t- e3);
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can  (..  );
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in (.      ),
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go (... )
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
IJnwept, unhonored, and  ( i. -..).    W. SCOTT.
199LESSON LXXXIII.
ON TIIE NATURE OF CLOUDS.
CLOUDS are collections of vapor in the air, rendered visible
by condensation.  They seldom rise very high.  Sometimes
they rest upon the earth's surface, constituting what is termed
fog. Sometimes they are a mile above the surface of the earth,
sometimes more; but they seldom rise higher than two or
three miles.  Very thin, fleecy clouds, however, sometimes
rise to the hight of four or five miles.  But why do they not
rise to the surface of the atmosphere? The density of the
atmosphere rapidly diminishes upward. One half of the whole
quantity of air is within about three miles of the earth. Above
this hight, the air is unable to support any considerable
quantities of vapor.  Hence we see the reason why clouds rise
no higher, and why the thinnest and lightest rise highest.
To an attentive observer, the clouds present many interesting
subjects of contemplation.  Their ever-varying forms, their
beautiful and richly variegated colors, and their silent motion,
varying often in velocity and direction, while they furnish the
poet with a field in which his fancy may rove delighted, also
afford to the student of nature many an interesting theme for
reflection. At one time, dark and portentous fancy might
easily imagine them the ruins of some ancient castle, or timeworn tower; at another, they gather in beautiful and glorious
forms around the path of the descending sun, and seem to vie
with that luminary itself in splendor.  Sometimes they move
swiftly over the face of the heaven, and soon recede from our
view; sometimes they seem to meet each other, and soon, like
hasty travelers, pass each other by, without a sign of recognition.  At one time, while-we gaze upon them, they vanish; at
another, they gather into darker and heavier masses of settled
gloom.
The principal circumstances which influence the form of
clouds are, the motion of the air, and the formation and condensation of vapor.  Substances so light as clouds, readily
change form, when subjected to greater atmospheric pressure
on one side than on the other.  Different portions of the air
move with different degrees of velocity.  Hence, clouds situ200ated in these portions of air, divide, collect, and change form,
according to the force acting upon them. Water-spouts are
usually attended by a thick, black cloud, formed, probably, by
the vapor condensed by opposite currents of air meeting. New
accessions of vapor often change the form of clouds; also, the
dissolving of vapor, or a diminution of their density. Sometimes, probably, a cloud meets with a stratum of air sufficiently
warm to dissolve it. In this case, it will vanish by degrees.
Different parts of a cloud may be in strata of air of different
warmth or density. The cloud will then partly dissolve, and
the part dissolved will, perhaps, rise, and become visible in a
higher portion of the air, where the heat is not sufficient to
render it visible.  In the spring, it is often cloudy in the morning, and clear toward noon. The heat of the sun dissolves
the moisture,which arose in great quantities from the damp
earth of the morning.
Clouds often move in opposite directions. Different portions
of air often move in different directions above one another, on
account of their being unequally rarefied by heat. They, of
course, carry the clouds with them.  This may be readily
illustrated. If, in cold weather, the door of a warm room be
opened a little, and a candle be held near the bottom of the
opening, and another near the top, the flame will often be blown
in opposite directions. The cold rushes in at the bottom, and
the warm air, being lighter, goes out at the top.
The color of clouds depends on the rays of light which they
reflect.  Dark clouds often precede wind.  But, although they
are seen before the wind is felt, they are not the cause, but the
effect, of the wind.  As the wind moves on, it presses upon
that portion of the air which has a velocity less than its own,
and by this pressure, and, perhaps, by its greater coldness,
condenses the vapor contained in it, and thus forms a cloud.
This cloud, being so dense that little or no light can pass
through it, appears black.  And the degree of darkness
depends on the density of the vapor, or, in other words, on the
velocity of the wind, and the quantity of water in the portion
of air compressed.
The beautiful colors that often adorn the sky at sunset,
are caused by the clouds reflecting the sun's light.  That redness of the sliy in the morning, wlich is often regarded as the
201precursor of a storm, probably results from the red rays of the
sun passing through the vapor collected in the air.  Light is
composed of seven different-colored rays, possessing different
degrees of force.  These may be seen, separate from  each
other, in the rainbow. Of these, the red rays have the greatest
force or momentum.  Hence, when the air is very full of
vapor, the red rays have sufficient power to penetrate it, while
the others have not.  Many of the red rays, however, do
not come directly from the sun, but are scattered in various
directions on striking the vapor, and thus the redness is diffused over a considerable space.
Thunder clouds exhibit an appearance peculiarly striking.
To many they are objects of terror. In a greater or less degree,
they arrest the attention of alnlost every one.  These clouds
are collections of vapor strongly electrified.  They are generally very dense, and very near the earth.  Frequently two
clouds rise in different parts of the horizon, and move toward
each other till they meet, at the same time rising up toward
the zenith.  When clouds in different electrical states approach
each other, or when a strongly electrified cloud approaches
near to the earth, the electricity is discharged in vast quantities,
and with tremendous violence, thus constituting what is called
lightning; while the concussion given to the surrounding air
by its force, and the rushing together of the portions of air
separated by its motion, causes thunder.  This sound, reflected
and reverberated among the clouds, produces the long-continued
and solemn roll, which forms one of the sublimest characteristics of a thunder-storm.
It is often imagined that lightning always moves toward the
earth. But there is reason to suppose that discharges are sometimes made from the earth to the clouds, as well as from the
clouds to the earth.  It is not difficult to measure the distance
of thunder-clouds from the earth.  Sound moves at the rate of
eleven hundred and forty-two feet in a second; light at the
rate of about two hundred thousand miles in a second.  The
time in which light traverses so small a space as that between
a thunder-cloud and any place from which the thunder can be
heard, is so short that it need not be estimated.  If, then, we
multiply the number of seconds between the flash and the
thunder by eleven hundred and forty-two, we have the distancllee
202of the cloud in feet. Hence, when a very short time elapses
between the flash and the thunder, the cloud is very near.
There is a peculiar sublimity attending thunder-storms in
mountainous regions.  The traveler among the Andes frequently hears the thunder roll, and sees the lightning flash
from the clouds that gather around the Ilills far beneath him,
while around Ihis path, and on the hights above him, the sun
is shining with unclouded splendor.           ANONYMOUs.
LESSON LXXXIV.
THE BEAUTY OF CLOUDS.
TIIE clouds! the clouds! they are beautiful,
When they sleep on the soft, blue sky,
As if the sun to rest could lull
Their snowy company;
And, as the wind springs up, they start,
And career o'er the azure plain;
And before the course of the breezes dart,
To scatter their balmy rain.
The clouds I! the clouds! how change their forms
With every passing breath;
And now a glancing sunbeam warms,
And now they look cold as death.
Oh,often and often have I escaped
From the stir of the noisy crowd,
And a thousand fanciful visions shaped
On the face of a passing cloud.
The clouds! the clouds! round the sun at night
They come like a band of slaves,
That are only bright in the master's light,
And each in his glory laves.
Oh, they are lovely, lovely then,
When the heaven around them glows;
Now touched with a purple and amber stain,
And now with the hue of the rose.
The clouds! the clouds! in the starlit sky,
How they float on the light wind's wings;
Now resting an instant, then glancing by,
In their fickle wanderings!
203Now they hide the deep blue firmament:
Now it shows their folds between,
As if a silver vein were rent
Fromn the jeweled brow of a queen.
The clouds! the clouds! they are the lid
To the lightning's flashing eye;
And in their fleecy fold is hid
The thunder's majesty.
Oh, how their warning is proclaimed
By the shrill blast's battle song;
And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed
From the midst of the dark clouds' throng.
The clouds! the clouds! my childish days
Are past; my heart is old;
But here and there a feeling stays,
That never can grow cold:
And the love of nature is one of these,''hat time's wave never shrouds;
And oft and oft doth my soul find peace
In watching the passing clouds.
DMIIss M. A. BRowrz.
LESSON LXXXV.
THE  ZEPHYR'S SOLILOQUY.
THOUGH from whence I came, or whither I go,
My end or my nature I ne'er may know,
I will number o'er to myself a few
Of the countless things I am born to do.
I flit in the days of the joyous Spring,
Through field and forest, and freight my wing
WVith the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear
Where I know that man will inhale the air.
And while I hover o'er beauty's lip,
I part her locks with my pinion's tip;
Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress,
And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress.
I love to sport with the silken curl
On the lily neck of the laughing girl;
To dry the tear of the weeping boy,
Who's breaking his heart for a broken toyv  
204To fan the heat of his brow away,
And over his mother's heart-strings play,
Till, his grief forgotten, he looks around,
For the secret hand that has waked the sound.
I love, when the,vwarrior mails his breast,
To toss the head of his snow-white crest;
To take the adieu that he turns to leave,
And the sigh that his lady retires to heave!
When the sultry sun, of a summer's day,
Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away,
And the flowers are left to thirst to death,
I love to come and afford them breath;
And, under each languid drooping thing,
To place my balmy and cooling wing.
When the bright fresh showers have just gone by,
And the rainbow stands in the evening sky,
Oh! then is the merriest time for me,
And I and my race have a jubilee!
We fly to the gardens, and shake the drops
From the bending boughs, and the floweret tops;
And revel unseen in the calm star-light,
Or dance on the moonbeams the live-long night.
These, ah, these are my hours of gladness!
But, I have my days and my nights of sadness!
When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose,
And't is turning as white as the mountain snows,
While the eye of beauty must soon be hid
Forever beneath its sinking lid,
Oh! I'd give my whole self but to spare that gasp,
And save her a moment from death's-cold grasp!
And when she is borne to repose alone'Neath the fresh cut sod, and the church-yard stone,
I keep close by her, and do my best
To lift the darlk pall from the sleeper's breast;
And linger behind with the beautiful clay,
When friends and kindred have gone their way!
When the babe whose dimples I used to fan,
1 see completing its earthly span,
I long, with a spirit so pure, to go
From the scene of sorrow and tears below,
Till I rise so high I can catch the song.Of welcome that bursts from the angel throng,
205As it enters its rest; but alas! alas!
I am only from death to death to pass.
I hasten away over mountain and, flood,
And find I'm alone on a field of biood.
The soldier is there, but he breathes no more;
And there is the plume, but't is stained with gore;
I flutter and strive in vain, to place
The end of his scarf on his marble face;
And find not even a sigh, to take
To her, whose heart is so soon to break!
I fly to the flowers I loved so much;
They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch.
The earth is in ruins! I turn to the sky;
It frowns!-and what can I do, but die?
Miss H. F. GOULD.
LESSON LXXXVI.
DESCRIPTION OF PRAIRIES.'I'HE attraction of the prairie consists in its extent, its carl)et
of verdure and flowers, its undulating surface, its groves, and
the fringe of timber by which it is surrounded. Of all these,
the latter is the most expressive feature. It is that which
gives character to the landscape, which imparts the shape, and
marks the boundary of the plain.  If the prairie be small, its
greatest beauty consists in tIhe vicinity of the surrounding
margin of woodland, which resembles the shore of a lake,
indented with deep vistas, like bays and inlets, and throwing
out long points, like capes and headlands; while occasionally
these points approach each other so close, that the traveler
passes through a narrow avenue or strait, where the shadows
of the woodland fall upon his path, and then again emerges
into another prairie.
Where the plain is large, the forest outline is seen in the far
perspective, like the dim shore when beheld at a distance from
the ocean. The eye sometimes roams over the green meadow,
without discovering a tree, a shrub, or any object in the immense expanse, but the wilderness of grass and flowers; while
at another time, the prospect is enlivened by the groves, wllich
206are seen interspersed like islands, or the solitary tree, which
stands alone in the blooming desert.
If it is in the spring of the year, and the young grass has
just covered the ground with a carpet of delicate green, and
especially if the sun is rising from behind a distant swell of
the plaih, and glittering upon the dew-drops, no scene can be
more lovely to the eye. The deer is seen grazing quietly
upon the plain; the bee is on the wing; the wolf, with his
tail drooped, is sneaking away to his covert with the felon tread
of one who is conscious that he has disturbed the peace of
nature; and the grouse feeding in flocks, or in pairs, like the
domestic fowl, cover the whole surface.
When the eye roves off from the green plain, to the groves,
or points of timber, these also are found to be at this season
robed in the most attractive hues.  The rich undergrowth is in
full bloom. The red-bud, the dog-wood, the crab-apple, the
wild plum, the cherry, the wild rose, are abundant in all the
rich lands; and the grape vine, though its blossom is unseen,
fills the air with fragrance.  The variety of the wild fruit, and
flowering shrubs, is so great, and such the profusion of the
blossoms with which they are bowed down, that the eye is
regaled almost to satiety.
The gayety of the prairie, its embellishments, and the
absence of the gloom and savage wildness of the forest, all
contribute to dispel the feeling of lonesomeness, which usually
creeps over the mind of the solitary traveler in the wilderness.
Though he may not see a house, nor a human being, and is
conscious that he is far from the habitations of men, he can
scarcely divest himself of the idea that he is traveling through
scenes embellished by the hand of art. The flowers, so fragile,
so delicate, and so ornamental, seem to have been tastefully
disposed to adorn the scene. I'he groves and clumps of trees
appear to have been scattered over the lawn to beautify the
landscape, and it is not easy to avoid that illusion of the fancy,
which persuades the beholder, that such scenery has been
created to gratify the refined taste of civilized man.
Europeans are often reminded of the resemblance of this
scenery to- that of the extensive parks which they have been
accustomed to ad-mire, in the old world. The lawn, the avenue,
the grove, the copse, which are there produced by art, are here
207cal purposes they may be considered as one and the same. It is
of some importance, and requires attention to be able to close a
sentence gracefully. The ear, however, is the best guide on
this point.
Parts of a sentence often make complete sense in themselves,
and in this case, unless qualified or restrained by the succeeding
clause, or unless the contrary is indicated by some other principle, the falling inflection takes place, according to the rule; as,
Truth is wonderful', even more so than fiction'.
Men generally die as they live', and by their lives we must judge of their
character'.
By industry we obtain wealth', and persevering exertion will seldom be
unrewarded'.
Exception 1. When a sentence concludes with a negative
clause, or with a contrast or comparison, (called also antithesis,)
the first member of which requires'the falling inflection, it must
close with tlhe rising inflection.  See Rule VIII.
Examples.   No one desires to be thought a fool,.
I come to bury' Caesar, not to praise' him.
If we care not for others', we ought at least to respect ourselves'.
He lives in England', not in France'.
In bearing testimony to the general character of a man, we
say,
He is too honorable, to be guilty of a vile act'.
But if he is accused of some act of baseness, a contrast is,
at once, instituted between his character and the specified act,
and we change the inflection, and say,
He is too honorable' to be guilty of such' an act.
A man may say in general terms,
I am too busy' for projects'.
But if he is urged to embark in some particular enterprise,
he will change the inflection, and say,
I am too busy' for projects'.
In such cases, as the falling inflection is required in the former
part, by the principle of emphasis, (as will'hereafter be more
fully explained,) contrast renders necessary the rising inflection
at the close.
Sometimes also, emphasis alone, seems to require the rising
inflection on the concluding word. See exception to Rule II.
19prepared by nature; a splendid specimen of massy architecture, and the distant view of villages, are alone wanting to
render the similitude complete.
In the summer, the prairie is covered with long, coarse grass,
which soon assumes a golden hue, and waves in the wind like
a ripe harvest. Those who have not a personal knowledge of
the subject, would be deceived by the accounts which are published of the hight of the grass. It is seldom so tall as
travelers have represented, nor does it attain its highest growth
in the richest soil.  In the low, wet prairies, where the substratum of clay lies near the surface, the center or main stemn
of this grass, which bears the seed, acquires great thickness,
and shoots up to the hight of eight or nine feet, throwing out
a few, long, coarse leaves or blades, and the traveler ofte'n finds
it higher than his head, as he rides through it on horseback.
The first coat of grass is mingled with small flowers, the
violet, the bloom of the strawberry, and others of the most
minute and delicate texture. As the grass increases in size,
these disappear, and others, taller and more gaudy, display
their brilliant colors upon the green surface, and still later,a
larger and coarser succession rises with the rising tide of
verdure.  The whole of the surface of these beautiful plains,
is clad throughout the season of verdure, with every imaginable
variety of color, "from grave to gay." It is impossible to
conceive a more infinite diversity, or a richer profusion of hues,
or to detect any predominating tint, except the green, which
forms the beautiful ground, and relieves the exquisite brilliancy
of all the others.
In the winter, the prairies present a gloomy and desolate
scene. The fire has passed over them, and consumed every
vegetable substance, leaving the soil bare, and the surface perfectly black. That gracefully waving outline, which was so
attractive to the eye when clad in green, is now disrobed of all
its ornaments; its fragrance, its notes of joy, and the graces of
its landscape, have all vanished, and the bosom  of the cold
earth, scorched and discolored, is alone visible. The wind
sighs mournfully over the black plain; but there is no object
to be moved by its influence; not a tree to wave its long arms
in the blast, nor a reed to bend its fragile stem; not a leaf, nor
even a blade of grass to trelmble in the breeze.
208There is nothing to be seen but the cold, dead earth and the
bare mound, which move not; and the traveler with a singular
sensation, almost of awe, feels the blast rushing over him,
while not an object visible to the eye, is seen to stir.  Accustomed as the mind is to associate with the action of the wind
its operation upon surrounding objects, and to see nature
bowing and trembling, and the fragments of matter mounting
upon the wind, as the storm passes, there is a novel effect produced on tlle mind of one who feels the current of air rolling
hecavily over him, while nothing moves around.  JA3ET:S IIALL.
LESSON LXXXVII.
THE PRAIRIES.
THEsE are the gardens of the desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name;
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless for ever. Motionless?
No, they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along, and chase
The sunny ridges.
Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk, that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not! ye have played
Among the palms of Alexico, and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific; have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovlier scene than this.
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
18
209With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky,
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love;
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,
Than that which bends above the eastern hills.
As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides,
The hollow beating of his -footsteps seenis
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here,
The dead of other days? And did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life,
And burn with passion? Let the Inighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
ln the dim forest, crowded with old oaks,
Answer.
A race that long has passed away
Built them; a disciplined and populous race
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,
Wvhen haply by their stalls the bison lowed,
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmured with their toils,
Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed
In a forgotten -language, and old tunes,
From instruments of unremembered form,
Give the soft winds a voice.
The red man came,
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone;
All,-save the piles of earth that hold their bones;
The platforms where they worshiped unknown gods;
210The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay, till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
With corpses.The brown vultures of the wood
Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchers,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.
Haply, some solitary fugitive,
Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense
Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and, at length,
Seemed to forget-yet ne'er forgot-the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.
Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wider hunting-ground.  The beaver builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face; among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the Oregon,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps; yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.
Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man.
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceftil deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,
211A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill the deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshipers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.       W. C. BRYANT.
LESSON LXXXVIII.
GOD SEEN  IN  NATURE'S WORKS.
WHATEVER leads our minds habitually to the Author of thle
universe; whatever mingles the voice of nature with the revelation of the Gospel; whatever teaches us to see, in all the
changes of the world, the varied goodness of Him, in whom
"we live, and move, and have our being," brings us nearer to
the spirit of the Savior of mankind.  But it is not only as encouraging a sincere devotion, that these reflections are favorable to Christianity; there is something moreover pectuliarly allied to its spirit in such observations of external nature.
When our Savior prepared himself for his temptation, his
agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judea, to inhale,
we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amid its solitary
scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion with his Father
amid the sublimest of his works. It is with similar feelings,
and to worship the same Father, that the Christian is permitted
to enter the temple of nature; and, by the spirit of his religion,
there is a language infused into the objects which she presents,
unknown to the worshiper of former times.'ro all, indeed, the same objects appear, the same sun shines,
the same heavens are open; but to the Christian alone' it is
permitted to know the Author of these things; to see his spirit
9.11  " move in the breeze,and blossom in the spring;" and to read, in
the changes which occur in the material world, the varied
expression of eternal love. It is from the influence of Christianity, accordingly, that the key has been given to the signs of
nature.  It was only when the spirit of God moved on the face
of the deep, that order and beauty were seen in the world.
It is, accordingly, peculiarly well worthy of observation, that
the beauty of nature, as felt in modern times, seems to have
been almrst unknown to the -writers of antiquity.  They described occasionally the scenes in which they dwelt; but,
if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems to have anticipated, in this instance, the influence of the Gospel, never with
any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, as now, the citadel of
Athens looked upon the evening sun, and her temples flamed in
his setting beam; but what Athenian writer ever described the
matchless glories of the scene? Then, as now, the silvery clouds
of the ZEgean Sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in
the azure vault of heaven; but what Grecian poet has been inspired by the sight?
The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless sky,
and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around them; yet
even Eustace tells us, that a few detached lines is all that is left
in regard to them by the Roman poets.  The Alps themselves,
" The palaces of nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche, the thunderbolt of snow;"
even these, the most glorious objects which the eye of man can
behold, were regarded by the ancients with sentiments only of
dismay or horror; as a barrier from hostile nations, or as the
dwelling of barbarous tribes. The torch of religion had not
then lighted the face of nature. They knew not the language
which she spoke, nor felt that holy spirit, which to tile Christian, gives the sublimity of these scenes.
There is something, therefore, in religious reflections on the
objects, or the changes of nature, which is peculiarly appropriate
in a Christian teacher. No man will impress them on his heart
without becoming happier and better; without feeling warmer
gratitude for the beneficence of nature, and deeper thankfulness
213for those means of knowing the Author of this beneficence which
revelation has afforded. "3 Behold the lilies of the field," says
our Savior; "they toil not, neither do they spin: yet, verily
I say unto you, that even Solomon, in all his glory, was not
arrayed like one of these." In these words we perceive the
deep sense which he entertained of the beauty even of the
minutest of the works of nature.  If the admiration of external
objects is not directly made the object of his precepts, it is not
on that account, the less allied to the spirit of religion. It
springs from the revelation which he has made, and grows with
the spirit which he inculcates.
The cultivation of this feeling, we may suppose, is purposely
left to the human mind, that man may be induced to follow it
from the charms which novelty confers; and the sentiments
which it awakens are not expressly enjoined as the spontaneous
growth of our own imagination. While they seem, however,
to spring up unbidden in the mind, they are, in fact, produced
by the spirit of religion; and those who imagine that they are
not the fit subject of Christian instruction, are ignorant of the
secret workings, and finer analogies, of the faith which they
profess.                                       ANoNYMovus.
LESSON LXXXIX.
THE MIRACLE.
ONE day in spring, Solomon, then a youth, sat under -the
palm-trees, in the garden of the king, his father, with his eyes
fixed on the ground, and absorbed in thought. Nathan, his
preceptor, went up to him and said, " Why sittest thou thus,
musing under the palm-trees?" The youth raised his head, and
answered, " Nathan, I am exceedingly desirous to behold a
miracle."  " A wish," said the prophet, with a smile, "which
I entertained myself in my juvenile years."  "And was it
granted?" hastily asked the prince.
"A man of God," answered Nathan, "came to me, bringing
in his hand a pomegranate seed.  Observe, said he, what this
seed will turn to. He thereupon made with his fingers a hole
in the earth, and put the seed into the hole, and covered it.
Scarcely had he drawn back his hand when the earth parted,
214and I saw two small leaves shoot forth, but no sooner did I perceive them, than the leaves separated, and from between them
arose a round stem, covered with bark, and the stem became
every moment higher and thicker.   The man of God thereupon said. to me,-' take notice!'  And while I observed, seven
shoots issued from the stem, like the seven branches on the
candlestick of the altar.  I was astonished, but the man of
God motioned to me, and commanded me to be silent, and to
attend.'Behold,' said he,'new creations will soon make their
appearance.'
" He thereupon brought water in the hollow of his hand
from the stream which flowed past; and lo! all the branches
were covered with green leaves, so that a cooling shade was
thrown around us, together with a delicious odor.'Whence,'
exclaimed I,'is this perfilme amid the refreshing shade?''Seest thou not,' said the man of God,' the scarlet blossom,
as, shooting forth from among the green leaves, it hangs down
in clusters?'  I was about to answer, when a gentle breeze
agitated the leaves, and strewed the blossoms around us, as the
autumnal blast scatters the withered foliage. No sooner had
the blossoms fallen, than the red pomegranates appeared suspended among the leaves, like the almonds on the rod of
Aaron. The man of God then left me in profound amazement."                        i
Nathan ceased speaking. " What is the name of the god-like
man?" asked Solomon, hastily. "Doth he yet live? Where
doth he dwell?"  1" Son of David," replied Nathan, "I have
related to thee a vision." When Solomon heard these words,
he was troubled in his heart, and said, " How canst thou deceive
me thus?"  "I have not deceived thee, son of David," rejoined
Nathan.  " Behold, in thy father's garden thou mayest see all
that I have related to thee. Doth not the same thing take
place with every pomegranate, and with the other trees?"
"Yes," said Solomon, " but imperceptibly, and in a long
time."  Then Nathan answered, "6Is it therefore the less a
divine work, because it takes place silently and insensibly?
Study nature and her operations; then wilt thou easily believe
those of a higher power, and not long for miracles wrought by
a human hand."                           F. A. AKRUMxACHER.
215LESSON XC.
DESCRIPTION OF SINAI.
OUR road now lay between wild and rugged mountains, and
the valley itself was stony, broken, and gullied by the washing
of the winter torrents; and a few straggling thorn-bushes
were all that grew in that region of desolation. I had remarked for some time, and every moment impressed it more and
more forcibly upon my mind, that every thing around me
seemed old and in decay. The valley was barren, and devastated by torrents; the rocks were rent; the mountains cracked,
broken, and crumbling into thousands of pieces; and we
encamped at night between rocks which seemed to have been
torn asunder by some violent convulsion, where the stones had
been washed down into the valley, and the drifted sand almost
choked up the passage.
At every step the scene became more solemn and impressive. The mountains became more and more striking, venerable, and interesting. Not a shrub, nor blade of grass grew on
their naked sides, deformed with gaps and fissures; and they
looked as if by a slight jar or shake they would crumble into
millions of pieces. It is impossible to describe correctly the
singularly interesting appearance of these mountains. Age,
hoary and venerable, is the predominant character.  They
looked as if their Creator had made them higher than they
are, and their summits, worn and weakened by the action of
the elements for thousands of years, had cracked and fallen.
The last was by far the most interesting day of my journey
to Mount Sinai.  We were moving along a broad valley,
bounded by ranges of lofty and crumbling mountains, forming
an immense rocky rampart on each side of us. We were
moving, the whole day, between parallel ranges of mountains,
receding in some places, and then again contracting, and about
mid-day, entered a narrow and rugged defile, bounded on each
side with precipitous granite rocks more than a thousand feet
high. We entered at the very bottom of this defile, moving
for a time along the dry bed of a torrent, now obstructed with
sand and stones, the rocks on every side shivered and torn,
and the whole scene wild to sublimity. Our camels stumbled
216YOUNG LADIES' READER.                   217
among the rocky fragments to such a degree, that we dismounted, and passed through the wild defile on foot. At the other
end, we came suddenly upon a plain table of ground, and
before us towered in awful grandeur, so huge and dark that it
seemed close to us, and barring all further progress, the end of
my pilgrimage-the holy mountain of Sinai.
Among all the stupendous works of nature, not a place can
be selected more fitted for the exhibition of Almighty power.
i have stood upon the summit of the giant Etna, and, over the
clouds floating beneath it, have surveyed the bold scenery of
Sicily, and the distant mountains of Calabria; I have stood
upon the top of Vesuvius, and looked down upon the waves
of lava, and the ruined and half-recovered cities at its feet;
but they are nothing, compared with the terrific solitude and
bleak majesty of Sinai.
An observing traveler has well called it a perfect sea of desolation. Not a tree, nor shrub, nor blade of grass is to be seen
upon the bare and rugged sides of innumerable mountains,
heaving their naked summits to the skies; while the crumbling
masses of granite all around, and the distant view of the Syrian
desert, with its boundless waste of sands, form the wildest and
most dreary, the most terrific and desolate picture that imagination can conceive.                            J. L. STEPiIENS
LE-SSON XCI.
SONG OF MOS:ES AT THE RED SEA.
THEN sang Moses and the children of Israel this, song unto the
Lord, and spake, saying,
I will sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously:
The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.
The Lord is my strength and my song,
And he has become my salvation;
He is my God, and I will prepare him an habitation;
My father's God, and I will exalt him.
The Lord is a man of xvar: Jehovah is his name.
Pharaoh's chariots and his host hath he cast into the sea;
His chosen captains also are drowned in the Red Sea.
19Exception 2. As a sentence generally ends with the falling
inflection, harmony seems to require, that the last but one
should be the rising inflection.   Such, in fact, is the very
common custom of speakers, even though this part of the sentence, where the rising inflection would fall, should form complete sense. This principle may, therefore, be considered as
sometimes giving authority for exception to the rule. This may
be illustrated by the following sentence. According to the
Rule, it would be read thus;
Hearken to thy father who hath cherished' thee, and despise not thy mother when she is old'.
But according to the principle stated in the exception, it
would be read thus;
Hearken to thy father who hath cherished' thee, and despise not thy mother when she is old'.
If the two words only, " cherished" and 6" old," receive an
inflection, the latter perhaps would be the correct reading, but
let the word " mother" receive the rising inflection, and the two
principles no longer conflict with each other.  It would then be
read as follows.
Hearken to thy father who hath cherished' thee, and despise not thy mother' when she is old\.
In many cases, however, it may be necessary that one or the
other of these principles should give way. Which of them
should yield, in any given case, must depend upon the construction of the sentence, the nature of the style and subject,
and often, upon the taste of the speaker.
R u L E I I. The language of emphasis inclines to thle use
of the falling inflection.
EXAMPLES.
1. Imperative Mood.
The combat deepens: On', ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave', Munich, all thy banners wvave'!
Did ye not hear it? - No;'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On' with the dance! let joy be unconfined'.
Charge', Chester, charge', On', Stanley, on'!
Were the last words of Marmion.
$f0The depths have covered them:
They sank into the bottom as a stone.
Thy right hand, 0 Lord, is become glorious in power;
Thy right hand, 0 Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy.
And in the greatness of thine excellency,
Thou hast overthrown them that rose up against thee:
Thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble.
And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters'were gathered together,
The floods stood upright as an heap,
And the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea.
The enemy said,
I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil;
My lust shall be satisfied upon them;
I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them.
Thou didst blow upon themewith thy wind,
The sea covered them:
They sank as lead in the mighty waters.
Who is like unto thee, 0 Lord, among the gods?
Who is like thee,
Glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?
Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, the earth swallowed them.
Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which thou hast redeemed;
Thou hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habitation.
The people shall hear, and be afraid:
Sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina.
Then the dukes of Edom shall be amazed;
The mighty men of Moab, trembling shall take hold upon them;
All the inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away.
Fear and dread shall fall upon them;
By the greatness of thine arm they shall be still as a stone,
Till thy people pass over, 0 Lord,
Till thy people pass over, which thou hast purchased.
Thou shalt bring them in,
And plant them in the mountain of thine inheritance,
In the place, 0 Lord, which thou hast made for them to dwell in,
In the sanctuary, 0 Lord, which thy hands have established.
Jehovah shall reign forever and ever.             Exonus.
218LESSON XCII.
HYMN OF NATURE.
GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark, green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where earth holds commune with the sky:
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling o'er the seas,
Till,calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, "Depart ir peace."
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And Nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
219But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.    W. 0. P. PEABODY.
LESSON   X C III.
THE PRESENCE OF GOD.
O, THOU who fling'st so fair a robe
Of clouds around the hills untrod;
Those mountain-pillars of the globe
Whose peaks sustain thy throne, 0 GOD!
All glittering round the sunset skies,
TIheir fleecy wings are lightly furled,
As if to shade from mortal eyes
The glories of yon upper world;
There, while the evening star upholds,'
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou, 0 GOD of love, art there.
The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet,
Up-springing freely from the sod,
In whose soft looks we seem to meet
At every step, thy smiles, 0 GOD!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot.
Give me, 0 Lord, a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot.
Within their pure, ambrosial bells,
In odors sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air;'Tis thine, 0 GOD! for thou art there.
The birds, among the summer blooms,
Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,
They leave the earth and soar above;
We hear their sweet familiar airs,
Where'er a sunny spot is found:
How lovely is a life like theirs,
Diffusing sweetness all around!
220From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll;
Till, melting on the realms of air,
They reach thy throne in grateful prayer.
The stars, those floating isles of light,
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white
That trembles round the form it vails,
They touch the heart as with a spell,
Yet set the soaring fancy free:
And, O! how sweet the tales they tell
Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee.
*Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair,
They speak of thee, for Thou art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,
Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
There is a land where thou hast said
The pure in heart shall enter in;
There, in those realms so calmly bright,
How many a loved and gentle one
Bathe their soft plumes in living light,
That sparkles from thy radiant throne!
There, souls once soft and sad as ours
Look up and sing'mid fadeless flowers;
They dream no more of grief and care,
For Thou, the GOD of peace, art there.
MRs. A. B. WELBY.
LESSON XCIV.
PLAN]TARY AND TERRESTRIAL WORLDS.
To us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most
extensive orb that our eyes can anywhere behold.  It is also
clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with
a variety of beautiful decorations; whereas, to a spectator
placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect, looks
all luminous, and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell
at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. The planets,
221that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves
dark bodies, and shine only by reflection; have fields, and
seas, and skies of their own, are furnished with all accommodations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes
of intellectual life; all which, together with our earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of divine munificence, the sun; receive their light from the distribution of his
rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency.
The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through
the sky, is in this respect fixed and immovable. It is the great
axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other
more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun,
though seemingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abundantly larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty
mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line, extending
from side to side through the center of that resplendent orb,
would measure more than eight hundred thousand miles; a
girdle formed to go round its circumference, would require a
length of millions.
This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little
part of the grand machine of the universe. Every star, though
in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a
lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in
glory; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiantsource of the day. Thus every star is not barely a world,
but the center of a magnificent system; has a retinue of worlds,
irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influence, all which are lost to our sight in unmeasurable wilds of
ether. That the stars appear like so many diminutive and
scarce distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and
inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it
is, since a ball, shot from a loaded cannon, and flying with
unabated rapidity, must travel at this impetuous rate almost
seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the nearest
of those twinkling luminaries.
While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme
meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all
terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostentatious
scenes, compared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the
skies? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map
222YOUNG LADIES' READER.                 223
of the universe?  It is observed by a very judicious writer,
that if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds,
which move about him, were annihilated, they would not be
missed by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature,
any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. If then,
not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a kingdom or a country?  What are the largest
possessions of those who are styled wealthy?  Compared
with the universe as a standard, how scanty is their size, how
contemptible their figure! They shrink into pompous nothings.
HE RVEY.
LESSON XCV
ESCAPE FROM A PANTHER.
ELIZABETH TEMPLE and Louisa Grant had gained the summit
of the mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued their
course, under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the
eminence.  The day was becoming warm; and the girls
plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they
had experienced in their ascent. The conversation, 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 admiration.
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 mingle the signs of
men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly
startled, and exclaimed, 4" Listen! 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 us follow the sounds,
it may be a wanderer, starving on the hill." Urged by this
consideration, tile females pursued the low, mournful sounds,
that proceeded from the forest, with quick and impatient steps.More than once the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when 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 the
scenery, or to add to their bouquets,* the mastiff would lay his
huge frame on the ground, and await their movements, with
his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded
with the character of a protector. But when, aroused by this
cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with
his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near
the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, either
through fright or anger. It was most probably the 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.
"Brave!" she said, "be quiet, Brave! what do you see,
fellow?" At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff,
instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly increased.
He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet
of his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally
giving vent to his ire by a short, surly barking. "What does
he see?" said Elizabeth; "there must be some animal in
sight." Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temple turned her head and beheld Louisa, standing with her
face whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing
upward, 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, grasping the arm of
Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow, and sunk lifeless to the earth. There was not a single feeling in the temperament of Elizabeth Temple, that could prompt her to
desert a companion in such an extremity; and she fell on her
knees, by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the
person of her friend, with an instinctive readiness, such parts
of her dress as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging
* Pronounced Boo-kays'.
224their only safe-guard, the dog, at the same time, by the sound
of her voice.  "Courage, Brave!" she cried, her own tones
beginning to tremble, " courage, courage, good Brave!"
A quarter-grown cub, that hat hitherto been unseen, now
appeared, dropping from, the branches of -a sapling, that grew
un-der the shade of the beech which held its dam.  This
ignorant but vicious creature approached near to the dog,
imitating the actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting
a strange mixture of the playfulness of.a kitten with the
ferocity 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 short 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 nigher to the dog,
the growling of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, until the younger beast, overleaping its intended bound,
fell directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful
cries and struggles; but they ended almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws
of Brave, with a violence that sent it 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 form
of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the
branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words of
ours can describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It
was a confused struggle on the dried leaves, accompanied by
loud and terrible cries, barks, and growls. Miss Temple continued on her knees, bending over the form of 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 its
225talons, and stained with his own- blood, 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 courage, he
was only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher
bound than ever, raised the wary and furious beast far beyond
the reach of the dog, who was making a desperate, but
fruitless dash at it, and it alighted, in a favorable position,
on the back of its aged foe. For a single moment, only,
could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog
returning with a convulsive effort. 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 blood, and, directly, that his frame
was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and helpless.  Several mighty efforts of the panther to extricate itself
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.
Elizabeth 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 its fallen foe; next, to scent its
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 projecting 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 separated 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
226rather to mock the organs, than to meet her ears.  "Hist!
hist!" said a low voice; "stoop lower, gal; 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 heroine 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 Leather-stocking rushed by her; and he
called aloud, " Come in, Hector; come in, you old fool;'t is
a hard-lived animal, and may jump ag'in." The old man
maintained his position in front of the maidens, most fearlessly, notwithstanding  the violent bounds and threatening
aspect of the wounded panther, which gave several indications of returning strength and ferocity; until his rifle was
again.loaded; when he stepped up to the enraged animal, and,
placing the muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was
extinguished by the discharge.                   J. F. COOPER.
LESSON XCVI.
THE SULIOTE MOTHER.
[It is related, in the life of AliPashaw,that several of the Suliote women, on
the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled
on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves,
with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of
the enemy.]
SHE stood upon the lofty peak,
Amid the clear, blue sky:
A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye,
"Dost thou see them, boy?-through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest?
My babe that I cradled on my breast!
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy!
That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!"
22'liNow set' the teeth, and stretch' the nostril wide;
Hold hard' the breath, and bend' up every spirit
To its full hight!  On', on', you noble English,
Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof!
REnMARK. Wlhen the imperative mode is used to express gentle entreaty, the rising inflection is sometimes used; as, Let him come back; Leavze me not' in this extremity. So also, desire is often expressed by the rising inflection; as, 0 that they
utnderstood this', that they would consider their danger'!
2. Emphatic Exclamation.
Thou slave'! thou wretch'! thou coward.'
Thou little valiant, great in villainy!
Oh, ye Gods'! Ye Gods'! must I endure all this?
Hark'! hark' the horrid sound
Hath raised up his head.
3. Emphatic Repetition.
And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the
gate, and wept; and as he went, thus he said; 0 my son Absalom'! my
son', my son Absalom'! would to God I had died for thee, 0 Absalom', my
son', my son'!
4. Simple empjhasis.
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldieri. bidding me depend
Upon thy' stars, thy' fortune, and thy' strength'?
Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who having eyes', see not,
and having ears', hear not'?
For exception to this principle, see Exception to Rule.
5. Series.
A series is a number of particulars, immediately following
one another. When a series begins a sentence, but does not
end it, it is called a commencing series; where it ends the sentence, whether it begins it or not, it is called a concluding
series.
In a commencing series, the last member must have the rising inflection, and all the others the falling inflection: In a
concluding series, the last member but one must have the rising inflection; all the others, the falling inflection.
Thefalling inflection is given on the principle of emphasis,
and the rising, to one member of tlie series, for the sake of harmony.
Examples of commencing series.
Wine', beauty', music', pomp', are poor expedients to heave off the load of an
hour from the heir of eternity'.
21For in the rocky strait beneath,
Lay Suliote sire and son:
They had heaped high the piles of death,
Before the pass was won.
"They have crossed the torrent, and on they come;
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sung thee, fair babe, to sleep,
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!"
And now the horn's loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal's clang,
Till even the upper air was stirred
As cliff and hollow rang.
"Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild?
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armed sire.
Still! be thou still! there are brave men low;
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now."
But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swelled the horn,
And further yet the tambour's* peal
Through the dark pass was borne.
"Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth?
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,
Free, and how cherished, my- warrior's son!
He, too, hath blessed thee, as I have done:
Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be;
Freedom, young Suliote!for thee and me!"
<And from the arrowy peak she sprung,
And fast the fair child bore:
A vail upon the wind was flung,
A' cry-and all was o'er!         MR. HEAx.IS
*Pronounced Tam'-boor
13
228  LESSON XCVII.
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.
THE morning broke. Light, stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty. Earth received again
Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms,-and the painted flowers,
And every thing that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.
All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were caroling as life
Were a new thing to them: but, oh! it came
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
How cruellyit tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed
Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out,
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
Fromr her long lashes, as it had been flame.
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his- round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother's face until he caught
The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.
Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily. His beard
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.
229His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigor is not there; and, though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.
He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face; but laid his hatd,
In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.
Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn,
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her tendencies again 2
O no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her cheek the rose,
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness-yet give
One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.
But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how,
By wrong or silence, any thing that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness,
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.
She went her way with a strong step and slow;
Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed,
As it had been a diamond, and her form
Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
His hand till it was pained; for he had caught,
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.
The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat;
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
230YOUNG LADIES' RE.DER.
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grew
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of-a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourned:
"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy;
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,
And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die!
I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazel, among the flowers;
Or wearing rosy hours,
By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.
Oh no! and when I watched by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream
In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile,
How prayed I that my father's land might be
A heritage for thee!
And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And oh! my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair!"
231232               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
She stood beside the well her God lhad given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.
N. P. WILLIS.
LESSON  XCVIII.
THY WILL BE DONE.
THY will be done! how hard a thing to say
When sickness ushers in death's dreary knell,
When eyes, that lately sparkled bright and gay,
Wander around with dimly conscious ray,
To some familiar face, to bid farewell!
Thy will be done! the falt'ring lips deny
A passage to the tones as yet unheard;
The sob convulsed, the raised and swimming eye
Seem as appealing to their God on high
For power to breathe the yet imperfect word.
Orphan! who watchest by the silent tomb,
Where those, who gave thee life, all coldly sleep:
Or thou, who sittest in thy desolate home,
Calling to those beloved who cannot come,
And, thinking o'er thy loneliness, dost weep!
Widow! who musest over by-gone years
Of life, and love, and happiness with him
Who shared thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Who now art left to shed unnoticed tears,
Till thy fair cheek is wan, and eyes grow dim!
Husband! who dreamest of thy gentle wife,
And still in fancy seest her rosy smile
Brightening a world of bitterness and strif'e;
Who from the lonely future of thy life
Turnest, in dreariness, to weep the while!
Mother! whose prayers could not avail lo save
Him whom thou lovedst most, thy blue-eyed boy!
Who, with a bitter agony, dost raveTo the wild winds that fan his early.grave,
And dashedst from thy lips the cup of-joy!,
Mourners! who linger in a world of woe,
Each, bowing'neath his separate load of grief!
Turn from the silent tomb, and, kneeling low
Before that throne at which the angels bow,
Invoke a God of mercy forrelief.
Pray that ye too may journey, when ye die,
To that far world where blessed souls are gone,
And, through' the gathering sob of agony,
Raise, with a voice resigned, the humble cry,
"Father! Creator! Lord! thy will be done!"
MRs. NORTON.
LESSON XCIX.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
TELL me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! life is earnest!
And, the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow,
Find us further than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
20
233Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act!-act in the living Present,
Heart within, and God o'er head.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprintson the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
H. W. LOeNGFELLOW
LESSON C.
MATERNAL INFLUENCE.
THE minds of children are easily interested, as every thing
is new to them, and a new and most beautiful world is opening
before them, with all the attractions of nature and art. Their
capacities expand astonishingly, with even moderate instruce
tion, if it be systematic and regular, as it leads them to investigation and inquiry, far beyond the sphere of the instructions
they receive. At this time, how necessary it is, to endeavor to
stamp upon their minds some salutary truths, not to be effaced.
The works of nature present an extensive field for instruction,
wherein a child may be soon taught to acknowledge the existence of a Supreme Being, from the convictions of reason.
In connection with the book of nature, the Bible should be
the first book used, from whence to draw our precepts, as
containing instruction suitable to the earliest age.  It is not
necessary to wait until the child is able to read for itself.
The best mode of presenting instruction is by familiar verbal
-communication. Its truths are thus better remembered, and in
this manner, too, a large portion of the Bible can be condensed
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
234into a small compass.  Give the young minds subjects for
thought; they are ever active, ever busy; and, if not provided
with proper aliment by those:who have the care of them, they
will resort to something themselves, which may be adverse in
its influence.
The precepts of the gospel are ennobling and refining in a
high degree; and they will ere long show their effects upon
the mind, trained in their discipline. I have often been led to
observe the striking difference between children who have
been brought up according to the wisdom of this world, and
of those, taught according to the gospel; how much more
expanded is the young mind of one, instructed in the gospel
precepts; how much more elevated in its character; how
much more ready to sympathize with suffering, and to respond
to benevolent and noble sentiments. It has partaken of the
true and proper food of the soul, and by it has flourished and
become vigorous.  It is the fostering atmosphere of the
nursery, where the form is given to the young and tender
plant. A celebrated artist once said, my mother's kiss made
me a painter.  How many thousands might say, my mother's
kiss made me a christian or an infidel, a useful or a useless
member of society.
If mothers wish to know the extensive influence which
their precepts and examples exert, either for good or evil, upon
the career and destiny of their children, they need only refer
to some striking examples for proof sufficient to establish this
fact. In observing, and reading the history of great and good
men, the thought rarely occurs, that they- have once been
children, have passed through the helpless years of infancy, and
have been acted upon by influences which have formed their
characters; and yet, if we should trace their goodness or their
crimes to the right source, we should find, that, for the most
part, the seeds of early influence have produced the corresponding fruit. And I have no doubt, that, could we know the history of very many philanthropists, we should find, that the
seeds of their usefulness had been sown in the nursery, and
the germs fostered by the kind and gentle instruction of some
CHRISTIAN MOTHER, whose voice sounded like music on the
ear, and whose sympathy fell like balm upon the heart, grieved
by the little trials and pains of childhood. MRS. A. WEIELPLET.
235LESSON CI.
A MOTHER'S GIFT.
(The Bible.)
REMEMBER, love, who gave thee this,
When other days shall come,
When she who had thine earliest kiss
Sleeps in her narrow home.
Remember!'t was a mother gave
The gift to one she'd die to save!
That mother sought a pledge of love,
The holiest for her son;
And, from the gifts of God above,
She chose a goodly one:
She chose for her beloved boy,
The source of light, and life, and joy;
And bade him keep the gift, that when
The parting hour should come,
They might have hope to meet again,
In an eternal home.
She said his faith in this would be
Sweet incense to her memory.
And should the scoffer in his pride,
Laugh that fond faith to scorn,
And bid him cast the pledge aside,
That he from youth hath borne,
She bade him pause, and ask his breast
If SHE or HE had loved him best.
A parent's blessing on her son
Goes with this holy thing;
The love that would retain the one,
Must to the other cling.
Remember!'tis no idle toy:
A mother's gift-remember, boy!   W. FeGUSQa.
236LESSON CII.
INCENTIVES  TO DEVOTION.
Lo! the unlettered hind, who never knew
To raise his mind excursive to the hights'
Of abstract contemplation, as he sits
On the green hillock by the hedge-row side,
What time the insect swarms are murmuring,
And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds,
That fringe, with loveliest hue, the evening sky,
Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse
The thrill of gratitude, to him who formed
The goodly prospect; he beholds the God
Throned in the'west; and his reposing ear
Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze
That floats through neighboringeopse or fairy brake,
Or lingers, playful, on,the- haunted stream.
Go with the cotter to his winter fire,
When o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill,
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;
Mark with what awe he lists the wilds uproar,
Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless
The God that rides on the tempestuous cloud,
For his snug hearth, and all his little joys.
Hear him compare his happier lot, with his
Who bends his way across the wintery wolds,
A poor night-traveler, while the dismal snow
Beats in his face, and, dubious of his paths,
He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast,
He hears some village mastiff's distant howl,
And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light;
Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes,
And clasps his shivering hands, or overpowered,
Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep,
From which the hapless wretch shall never wake.
Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise
And glowing gratitude: he turns to bless
With honest warmth, his Maker and his God.
And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind,
Nursed in the lap of ignorance, and bred
In want and labor, glows with noble zeal
To laud his Maker's attributes, while he
Whom starry science in her cradle rocked,
237Absalom's beauty', Jonathan's love,' David's valor', Solomon's wisdon,z
the patience of Job', the prudence of Augustus', the eloquence of Cicero',
and the intelligence of all', though faintly amiable in the creature, are found
in immense perfection in the Creator\.
War', famine', pest', volcano', tempest', storm',
Intestine broils', oppression with her heart
Wrapped up in triple brass', besiege mankind'.
Examples of concluding series.
They passed o'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp;
Rocks', caves,; lakes', fens', bogs', dens', and shades of death'.
They, through faith, subdued kingdoms', wrought righteousness', obtained
promises', stopped the mouths of lions', quenched the violence of fire', escaped the edge of the sword', out of weakness were made strong', waxed
valiant in fight', turned to flight the armies of the aliens'.
Inspizing rites! which stimulate fear', rouse hope', kindle zeal', quicken
dullness', sharpen discernment', exercise memory', and inflame curiosity'.
N o T E. - When the emphasis on these words or members,
is not very decided, they take the rising inflection according to
Rule IV; as,
They are the offspring of restlessness', vanity', and idleness'.
Love', hope', and joyt took possession of his breast.
Exception to the Rule. While the tendency of emphasis is
decidedly to the use of the falling inflection, sometimes a word
to which the falling inflection naturally belongs, changes this,
upon its becoming emphatic, for the rising inflection; as,
Three thousand ducats';'tis a good, round sum'.
It is useless to point out the beauties of nature to one who is blind'.
Here sum  and blind, according to  Rule I, would take the
falling inflection, but as they are emphatic, and the object of
emphasis is to draw attention to the word emphasized, this is
here accomplished, in part, by giving an unusual inflection.
Some speakers would give these words the circumflex, but it
would be the rising circumflex, so that the sound would still
terminate with the rising inflection.
R U L E I II.--Questions which cannot be answered by
yes or no, together with their answers, generally require the
falling inflection; as,
Where has he gone'?       Ans. To New York'.
What has he done'?         Ans. Nothing'.
Who did this?            Ans. I know not%.
When di(d he go?          Ans. Yesterday'.
C CAnd Castaly enchastened with its dews,
Closes his eye upon the holy word;
And, blind to all but arrogance and pride,
Dares to declare his infidelity,
And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts?
Oh! I would walk
A weary journey to the furthest verge
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand,
Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art,
Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God,
Feeling the sense of his own littleness,
Is as a child of meek simplicity!
What is the pomp of learning? the parade
Of letters and of tongues. Even as the mists,
Or the gray morn before the rising sun,
That pass away and perish. Earthly things
Are but the transient pageants of an hour;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to, die.
H. K. WHITE.
LESSON CIII.
WOMAN'S INFLUENCE ON CHARACTER.
THE domestic fireside is the great guardian of society
against the excesses of huinan'passions.  When man, after
his intercourse with the world,--where, alas! he finds so
much to inflame him with a feverish anxiety for wealth and
distinction,-retires, at evening, to the bosom of his family, he
finds there a repose for his tormenting cares.  He finds
something to bring him back to human sympathies. The
tenderness of his wife, and the caresses of his children, introduce a new train of softer thoughts and gentler feelings. He
is reminded of what constitutes the real felicity of man; and,
while his heart expands itself to the influence of the simple
and intimate delights of the domestic circle, the demons of
avarice and ambition, if not exorcised from his breast, at least,
for a time, relax their grasp. How deplorable would be the
consequence, if all these were reversed; and woman, instead
of checking the violence of these passions, were to employ her
238YOUNG LADIES' READER.                  239
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 race!
But the influence of the female character on the virtue of
man, is not seen merely in restraining and softening the violence of human passions.  To her is mainly committed the
task of pouring into the opening mind of infancy its first impressions of duty, and of stamping on its susceptible heart the
first image of its God. Who will not confess the influence 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 woman'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 mind?
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 pre-eminent degree, to give tone and elevation to
the moral character of the age, by deciding the degree of virtue
that shall be necessary to afford a passport to her society. 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; how much would be
done to re-enforce the motives to moral purity among us, and
impress on the minds of all, a reverence for the sanctity and
obligations of virtue!
The influence of woman on the moral sentiments of society,
is intimately connected with her influence on its religious
character; for religion, and a pure and elevated morality, must
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 the pursuits, of the world, this
great truth is, alas!, too often, and too easily forgotten and disregarded; while woman, less engrossed by occupation, more
"at leisure to be good," led often, by her duties, to retirement,
at a distance from many temptations, and endowed with an imagination more easily excited and raised than man's, is better
prepared to admit and cherish, and be affected by, this solemn
and glorious acknowledgment of a God.
Again: the gospel reveals to us a Savior, invested with little
of that brilliant and dazzling glory, with which conquest and
success would array him in the eyes of proud and aspiring
man; but rather as a meek and magnanimous sufferer, clothed
in all the mild and passive graces, all the sympathy with human woe, 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 unvails.
where all- that is dark and doubtful in this shall be explained;
where penitence, and faith, and virtue shall be accepted;
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 mor-e 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 Heaven's benignant
care 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 formed to own and
cherish the most sublime and important of truths! The vestal
flame of piety, lighted up by Heaven in the breast of woman,
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
240diffuses its light and warmth over the world; and dark would
be the world, if it should ever be extinguished and lost.
THATCHER.
LESSON CIV.
MY MOTHER S PICT URE'.
0 THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine; thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhoo-d solaced me:
Voice only fails; else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss;
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers, " Yes."
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What-ardently I wished, I long believed,
And disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot:
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
21
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
241WVhere once we dwelt, our name is heard no more;
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapped
in scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,'T is now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm  that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And, thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile;)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart; the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might;
But no! What here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
242YOUNG LADIES' READER.                     243
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
WVhere spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
"Where tempests never-beat nor billows roar."
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed;
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and cornpass lost;
And, day by day, some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet 0, the thought that thou art safe', and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth:
But higher far my proud pretensions rise;
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell! Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft;
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.    CowPEa.
LESSON CV.
THE SEA IS HIS, AND HE MADE IT.
CTHE sea is his, and he made it,"' cries the Psalmist of
Israel, in one of those bursts of devotion, in which he so often
expresses the whole of a vast subject by a few simple words.244               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Whose else, indeed, could it be, and by whom else could it
have been made?  Who else can heave its tides, and appoint
its bounlds?  Who else can urge its mighty waves to madness
with the breath and the wings of the tempest, and then speak
to it again with a master's accents, and bid it be still?
Who else could -have poured out its magnificent fullness
round the solid land, and
" Laid, as in a storehouse safe, its watery treasures by?"
Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabitants,
and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and filled
it from its deepest bed to its expanded surface; filled it from
its center to its remotest shores; filled it to the brim, with
beauty, and mystery, and power? Majestic ocean! Glorious
sea!  No created being rules thee, or made thee.  Thou
hearest but one voice, and that is the Lord's; thou obeyest but
one arm, and that is the Almighty's.  The:: ownership and the
workmanship are God's; thou art his, and he made thee.
"The sea is his,and he made it."  Its majesty is of God.
What is there more sublime than the trackless, desert; all-surrounding, unfathomable sea? What is there more peacefully
sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent sea? What is
there more terribly sublime than tthe angry, dashing, foaming
sea? Power, resistless, overwhelming power, is its attribute
and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious grandeur
of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is
awful, when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with
the black clouds, and the howling winds, and the thunder, and
the thunder-bolt, and they sweep on in the joy of their dread
alliance, to do the Almighty's bidding. And it is awful, too,
when it stretches its broad level out, to meet in quiet union the
bended sky, and show, in the line of meeting, the vast rotundity
of the world.
There is majesty in its wide expanse, separating and in
closing the great continents of the earth, occupying two thirds
of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with
its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly
pouring tribute of every river, of every shore. There is majesty
in'its fullness, never diminishing, and never increasing. There
is majesty in its integrity, for its whole vast substance is uniYOUNG LADIES' READER.                  245
form; in its local unity, for there is but one ocean, and the
inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants
of any other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime; who
can sound it?  Its strength is sublime; whatifabric of man
can resist it? Its voice is sublime, whether in the prolonged
song of its ripple, or the stern music of its roar; whether it
utters its hollow and melancholy tones, within a labyrinth of
wave-worn caves; or thunders at the base of some huge promontory; or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the
voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony; or dies
away, with the calm and dying twilight, in gentle murmurs on
some sheltered shore.'"The sea is his, and he made it."  Its beauty is of God.
It possesses it, in richness of its own; it borrows it of earth,
and air, and heaven.  The clouds lend it the various dyes of
their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of
their shadows, as they go sailing and sweeping by.  The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet; the sun loves to visit it,
and the moon, and the glittering brotherhood of planets and
stars; for they delight themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams
return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire; the
moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to
and fro, with the breeze and the waves, through the livelong
night.  It has a light, -too, of its own, a soft and sparkling light,
rivaling the stars; and'often does the ship, which cuts its surface, leave streaming behind a milky way of dim and uncertain
luster, like that which is shining dimly above.
What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of
the sea?  The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters,
where it dwells and rests, singing its spells, and scattering its
charms on all the coast. What rocks and cliffs are so glorious,
as those which are washed by the chafing sea? What groves,
and fields, and dwellings are so enchanting, as those which
stand by the reflecting sea?
If we could see the great ocean as it can be seen by no mortal eye, beholding at one view what we are now obliged to visit
in detail, and spot by spoti if we could, from a flight far higher
than the sea-eagle's, and with a sight more keen and comprehensive than his, view the immense surface of the deep, all
spread out beneath us like a universal chart, what an infinitevariety such a scene would display! Here, a storm would be
raging, the thunder bursting, the waters boiling, and rain, and
foam, and fire, all mingling together; and there, next to this
scene of magnificent confusion, we should see the bright blue
waves glittering in the sun, and, while the brisk breezes flew
over them, clapping their hands for very gladness; for they do
clap their hands, and justify, by the life and almost individual
animation which they exhibit, that remarkable figure of the
Psalmist.  Here, again, on this self-same ocean, we should
behold large tracts, where there was neither tempest nor
breeze, but a dead calm, breathless, noiseless, and, were it not
for the swell of the sea, which never rests, motionless. Here,
we should see a cluster of green islands, set like jewels in the
midst of its bosom; and there, we should see the broad shoals
and gray rocks, fretting the billows, and threatening the mariner.
"There go the ships," the white-robed ships; some on this
course, and others on the opposite one; some just approaching
the shore, and some just leaving it; some in fleets, and others
in solitude; some swinging lazily in a calm, and some driven
and tossed, and perhaps overwhelmed, by the storm; some for
traffic, and some for state; some in peace, and others, alas, in
war. Nor are the ships of man the only travelers whom we
shall perceive on this mighty map of the ocean. Flocks of
sea-birds are passing and repassing, diving for their food, or for
pastime, migrating from shore to shore with tnwearied wing
and undeviating instinct, or wheeling and swarming round the
rocks, which they make alive and vocal by their numbers and
their clanging cries.
"The sea is his, and he made it." And when he made it,
he ordained, that it should be the element and dwelling-place
of multitudes of living beings, and the treasury of many riches.
How populous, and wealthy, and bounteous are the depths of
the sea! How many are the tribes which find in them abundant sustenance, and furnish abundant sustenance to man! In
all its- life, its variety and beauty, its sublimity and majesty,
" the sea is his, and he made it."          GREErNWOOD.
246I.ESSON CVI.
(Elliptical.)*
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE.
NAature.
DEAR Nature is the kindest mother still,
Though always changing, in her aspect, mild:
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-weaned, thoughtnot her favorite (.
Oh, she is (..   ) in her features wild,
Where nothing polished dares pollute her path:
To me by day or night she ever smiled,
Though I have (. -.  ) her when none other hath,
And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.
BYRON.
WONDROUS, O, Nature! is thy sovereign power,
That gives to horror hours of (  --, -..-) mirth;
For here might Beauty build her summer bower.
Lo! where yon rainbow spans the (... ) earth,
And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower,
The (..... ) sun comes forth, a godlike birth;
While'neath his loving eye, the gentle lake
Lies like a sleeping child, too blest to ('c... ).
WILSON.
Light.
HAIL, (.         )':;  light! offspring of heaven, first-born,
Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam,
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 uncreate!
Or hearest thou rather l 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 ( a..   ) didst invest
The rising world of waters, dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.    MILTOV.
Ocean.
THOU glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed; in breeze, or gale, or storm,
* See Note prefixed to Lesson 82.
247N  o T E. -If these questions are repeated, the inflection is
changed, according to the principle stated under the exception
to Rule II; as,
Where did you say he had gone'?
WhMen did he go'?
Questions. --What is the first rule for the use of the falling inflection? Give an
example. When this occurs at the close of a sentence, what is it called? What is
said about the manner of closing a sentence?'What is the best guide on this
point? Where else may the sense be complete? What inflection must be used in
this case? Give an example. What is the first exception to the first rule? Give
an example. What is antithesis? What is the substance of the second exception? Explain the example. Repeat the second rule. What is the first particular
under this rule? Give an example. Repeat the remark under this head. What
is the second particular? Give an example. What is the third head under this
rule? Give examples. State the fourth head, and give examples. What is a
series? What is a commencing series? WVhat is a concluding series? Give examples. Repeat the note, and give the examples under it. Repeat the exception.
Give the examples. What is the reason of the exception? Repeat the third rule
for the use of the falling inflection. If these questions are repeated, what inflection is used? and why?
3. Rising Inflection.
As the completeness of the sense, forms the first rule for the
use of the falling inflection, so the converse of that principle
forms a guide for the use of the rising inflection, and may be
expressed thus:
R u L E I V.--  Where a pause is rendered proper by the
meaning, and the sense is incomplete, the rising inflection is
generally required; as,
To endure slander and abuse with meekness', requires no ordinary degree
of self-command'.
Night coming on', both armies retired from the field of battle'.
As a dog returneth to his vomit', so a fool returneth to his folly'.
The nominative addressed comes under this head; as,
Fathers'! we once again are met in council.
My Lords'! and Gentlemen'! we have arrived at an awful crisis.
Age'! thou art shamed.
Rome'! thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods.
Exception. Where a word, which, according to this rule,
iequires the rising inflection, becomes emphatic either from
contrast, or any other cause, it generally must have the falling
inflection, according to Rule II; as,
23YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Icing the pole, or in the torrid ( -.:. )
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime;
The image of Eternity; the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The (.:.. ) of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, (... ).
B3 YitoN.
Morning.
BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The (... ) brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheep-fold's (. ) bell;
The song of early shepherd, dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The (.. ) murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
BEATTIE.
There was a roaring in the wind all night,
The rain came heavily, and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising (... ) and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
-Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods;
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters;
And all the world is (.. - ) with pleasant noise of waters.
All things that love the sun are out of doors:
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright,with rain-drops; on the nmoors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And, with her feet, she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
WORDSWVORTMI.
Evening.
On, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things;
Home to the weary; to the hungry cheer;
To the (..   ) birds the parent's brooding wings;
The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
BYRONNow came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad.
Silence accompanied: for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;
She, all night long, her amorous descant sung.
Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament
With living Sapphires: Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unvailed her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.  MILTOT.
LESSON  CVII.
THANKS TO GOD FOR MOUNTA1NS.
THERE is a charm  connected with mountains so powerful,
that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their
magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the
spirit at once into the bosom of their enchanted regions. How
the mind is filled with their vast solitude! How the inward eye
is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks!
How our hearts bound to the music of their solitary cries, to
the tinkle of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts!
How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the upland turf,
from the rock-hung flower, from  the hoary and solemn pine!
How beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and
that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys
and lower slopes as over a vast, inimitable picture!
Whoever has not seen the rich and russet hues of distant
slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud
tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then stood
panting on that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately
gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of
every varied hue, but all silent as images'of eternity; and cast
his gaze over lakes, and forests, and smoking towns, and wide
lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing
beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth
which his own country possesses.
249When we indulge the imagination, and give it free charter
to range through the glorious ridges of continental mountains,
through Alps,. Apennines, or Andes, how is it possessed and
absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scenery and
character! The sky-ward and inaccessible pinnacles, the
Palaces where nature thrones
Sublimity in icy halls!
the dark Alpine forests, the savage rocks and precipices, the
fearful and unfathomable chasms filled with the sound of everprecipitating waters; the cloud, the silence, the avalanche, the
cavernous gloom, the terrible visitations of heaven's concentrated lightning, darkness, and thunder; or the sweeter features
of living, rushing streams, spicy odors of flower and shrub,
fresh, spirit-elating breezes sounding through the dark pine
grove; the ever-vary-ing lights and shadows, and aerial hues;:
the wide prospects, and, above all, the simple inhabitants!
Thanks be to God. for' mountains! is often the exclamation
of my heart, as I trace the history of the world-.  From age tor
age, they have been the last friends of man.. In a thousand'
extremities thkey have saved him..  What great hearts have
throbbed in their defiles from the days of Leonidas to those of
Andreas Hofer!  What lofty souls, what tender hearts, what
poor and persecuted creatures have they sheltered in their'
stony bosoms, from the weapons and tortures of their fellow,
men!
Avenge, 0 Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mouintains cold!
was the burning exclamation of Milton's agonized and indignant spirit, as he beheld those sacred bulwarks of freedom for
once violated by the disturbing demons of the earth; and thesound of his fiery and lamenting appeal to heaven, will' beechoed in every generous soul to the end of time.
Thanks be to God for mountains! The variety, which they
Impart to the glorious bosom  of our planet, were no small advantage; the beauty which they spread out to our vision- in,
their woods and waters, their crags and slopes,. their clouds
and atmospheric hues, were a splendid gift; the sublimity
which they pour inrto,our deepest souls from. their majesti.
250aspects, the poetry which breathes from  their streams, and
dells, and airy hights, were a proud heritage to imaginative
minds. But what are all these when the thought comes, that
without mountains, the spirit of man must have bowed to the
brutal and the base, and probably have sunk to.th-monotonous
level of the unvaried plain?
Look at the bold barriers of Palestine! see how the infant
liberties of Greece, were shelter&ed-.om  the vast tribes of the
uncivilized north by the:high tf:s"t';ei:~mus and Rhodope!
Behold how  the Alps describe their'magnificent crescent,
inclining their opposite extremities to the Adriatic and Tyrrhine Seas, locking up Italy from the Gallic and Teutonic
hordes, till the power and spirit of Rome had reached their
maturity, and she had opened.the. Wide forest of Europe to the
light, spread far her laws and'tlangu:e, and planted the seeds
of many mighty nations!  
Thanks to God for mountains! Their colossal. firmness
seems almost to break the current of time itself. The:geologist
in them searches for traces of the early world, and it is there
too, that man, resisting the revolutions. of lower regions, retains
through innumerable years his habits ahd his rights.  While
a multitude of changes has remolded the people of Europe,
while languages, and laws, and dynasties, and creeds, have
passea over it like shadows over the landscape, the children of the Celt and the Goth, who fled to the mountains
a thousand years ago, are found there now, and show us in
face and figure, in language and garb, what their fathers were;
show us a fine contrast with the modern tribes dwelling below
and around them; and show us, moreover, how adverse is the
spirit of the mountain to mutability, and that there the fiery
heart of Freedom is found forever.                HOWITT.
LESSON CVIII.
HYMN OF THE MOUNTAINEERS.
FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
251Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge,
Where the spoiler's feet ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
We are watchers of a beacon
Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar'Mid the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;
For the strength of-the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
For the dark, resounding caverns,.
Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirred;
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God; our fathers' God.
l'he royal eagle darteth
On his quarry from the hights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,
Have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
T'he banner of the chieftain,
Far, far, below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves;
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!        Mus. HEMAKfS.'252LESSON CIX.
THE WINDS.
WE come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight;
And over the mountains, and over the deep,
Our broad invisible pinions sweep
Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free,
And ye look on our works, and own'tis we;
Ye call us the Winds; but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?
Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forests, or fan the flower,
When the hare-bell moves, and the rush is bent,
When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent,
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave,
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave;
And ye say it is we! but can ye trace
The wandering winds to their secret place?  
And whether our breath be loud and high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh,
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear,
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear
With music aerial, still,'tis we.
And ye list, and ye look; but-what do you see!
Can you hush one sound of our voice to peace!
Or waken one note, when our numbers cease!
Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand;
We come and we go at his command,
Though joy, or sorrow, may mark our track,
His will is our guide, and we look not back;
And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away,
Or win us in gentle airs to play,
Then lift up your hearts to him who binds,
Or frees, as he will, the obedient Wihtds!
MIss H. F. CrOULD.
253LESSON  CX.
MUSINGS.
I WANDERED out one summer night,'T was when my years were few,
The breeze was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
The moonbeams lay upon the hill,
The shadows in the vale,
And here and there a leaping rill
Was laughing at the gale.
One fleecy cloud upon the air
Was all that met my eyes,
It floated like an angel there
Between me afnd the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.
The waves came leaping o'er the sea,
In bright and glittering bands,
Like little children wild with glee,
They linked their dimpled hands.
They linked their hands, but ere I caught
Their mingled drops of dew,
They kissed my feet as quick as thought;
Away the ripples flew!
The twilight hours like birds flew by,
As lightly and as free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand in the sea.
For every wave with dimpled cheek,
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.
The young moon, too, with upturned sides,
Her mirrored beauty gave,
And as a bark at anchor rides
She rode upon the wave.
The sea was like the heaven above,
As perfect and as whole,
Save that it seemed to thrill with love,
As thrills the immortal soul.
254The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred,
Made murmurs on the air,
Low murmurs, that my spirit heard,
And answered with a prayer,
For't was upon the dewy sod,
Beside the moaning seas,
I learned at first to worship God,
And sing such strains as these.
The flowers all folded to their dreams,
Were bowed in slumber free,
By breezy hills and murmuring streams,
Where'er they chanced to be.
No guilty tears had they to weep,
No sins to be forgiven;
They closed their eyes and went to sleep,
Right in the face of heaven.
No costly raiment round them shone,
No jewels from the seas,
Yet Solomon, upon his throne,
Was ne'er arrayed like these.
And just as free from guilt and art,
Were lovely human flowers,
Ere sorrow set her'bleeding heart
On this fair world of ours.
I heard the laughing wind behind,
Playing with my hair,
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were!
I heard the night bird warbling o'er
Its soft enchanting strain:
I never heard such sounds before,
And never shall again.
Then wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze,
Can sing a sweeter lay?
I'd give the world for their sweet art,
The simple, the divine;
I'd give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.    MRS. A. B. WELBY.
255LESSON CXI.
BYRON AND HIS POETRY.
NEVER had any writer so vast a command of the whole
eloquence of scorn, misanthropy, and despair. That Marah
was never dry. No art could sweeten, no draughts could
exhaust its perennial waters of bitterness. Never was there
such variety of monotony as that of Byron. From maniac
laughter to piercing lamentation, there was not a single note
of human anguish of which he was not master. Year after
year, and month after month, he continued to repeat, that to be
wretched is the destiny of all; that to be eminently wretched is
the destiny of the eminent; that all the desires by which we
are cursed, lead alike to misery; if they are not gratified, to the
misery of disappointment; if they are gratified, to the misery
of satiety. He always describes himself as a man of the same
kind with his favorite creations; as a man whose heart had
been withered, whose capacity for happiness was gone, and
could not be restored; but whose invincible spirit dared the
worst that could befall him here or hereafter.
How much of this morbid feeling sprang from an original
disease of mind, how much from real misfortune, how much
from the nervousness of dissipation, how much of it was fanciful, how much of it was merely affected, it is impossible for us,
and would probably have been impossible for the most intimate
friends of Lord Byron, to decide. Whether there ever existed,
or can ever exist, a person answering to the description which he
gave of himself, may be doubted; but that he was not such a
person is beyond all doubt.
It is ridiculous to imagine that a man, whose mind really
was imbued with scorn of his fellow-creatures, would have published three or four books every year to tell them so; or that
a man who could say with truth, that he neither sought sympathy nor needed it, would have admitted all Europe to hear
his farewell to his wife, and his blessings on his child. In the
second canto of Childe Harold, he tells us that he is insensible
to fame and obloquy:
"Ill may such contest now the spirit move,
Which heeds,nor keen reproof nor partial praise."Yet we know, on the best evidence, that, a day or two before
he published these lines, he was greatly, nay, indeed, childishly elated, by the compliments paid to his maiden speech in
the House of Lords.
Among the large class of young persons, whose reading is
almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popularity of Lord Byron was unbounded. They bought pictures of
him, they treasured up the smallest relics of him,; they learned
his poems by heart, and did their best to write like him, and to
look like him. Many of them practiced at the glass, in the
hope of catching the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the
brow, which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded
their neckcloths in imitation of their great leader. For some
years, the Minerva press sent forth no novel without a mysterious, unhappy, Lara-like peer.
The number of hopeful undergraduates, and medical students
who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the freshness
of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose passions had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom the relief of tears
was denied, passes all calculation. This was not the worst.
There was created, in the minds of many of these enthusiasts,
a pernicious and absurd association between intellectual power
and moral depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they
drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and
voluptuousness. This affectation has passed away; and a few
more years will destroy whatever yet remains of that magical
potency which once belonged to the name of Byron. To our
children he will be merely a writer; and their impartial judgment will appoint his place among writers, without regard to
his rank, or to his private history.    T. B. MACAULAY.
IN no productions of modern genius, is the reciprocal influence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than in those
of the author of Childe Harold. His character produced the
poems, and it cannot be doubted that his poems are adapted to
produce such a character. His heroes speak a language supplied not more by imagination than by consciousness. They
are not those machines, that, by a contrivance of the artist,
send forth a music of their own; but instruments through
22
257When we aim at a high standard, if we do not attains it, we shall secure
a high degree of excellence.
Those who mingle with the vicious, if they do not become depraved',
will lose all delicacy of feeling.
So also, when a child addresses his father, he first says,
Father'! but if he repeats it emphatically, he changes the inflection and says, Father'! Father'!
R u L E V. Harmony of sound generally requires, that
when a sentence closes with the falling inflection, the rising
inflection should be used at the last pause before the close; as,
Charles was extravagant', and by this means' became poor'.
He was a great statesman', and he was an amiable man'.
The mountains will be dissolved', and the earth will vanish', but God will
never cease to exist'.
For exception, see exception to the last Rule.
R u L E V I. Negative sentences, or members of sentences,
generally end with the rising inflection; as,
My Lord, we could not have had such designs'.
It shields not only the dust of the humble'.
I did not mean to complain'.
You need not be alarmed', or offended'.
You are not left alone', to climb the steep ascent.
Do not slight him because of his humility'.
EXCEPTIONS. 1. Emphasis; as, " We repeat it, we do not' desire to prt..
duce discord; we do not' wish to kindle the flames
of a civil war."
2. General propositions, when not emphatic; as,;' God is
not the author of sin'."
" Thou shalt not kill'."
R U L E V I I. Questions which may be answered by yes
or no, generally require the rising, and their answers, the falling inflection; as,
Has he arrived'? Yes'.
Will he return'? No'.
Does the law condemn him'? It does not'.
Exception.  If these questions are repeated emphatically,
they take the falling inflection according to Rule II; as,
Has he arrived'?
Will he return'?
24which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympathetic impulse to those who
hear. The desolate misanthropy, of his mind rises, and throws
its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his own rlined
castles.  We feel it to be sublime, but we forget that it is a sublimity which-it cannot have, till it is abandoned by every thing
that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready
to become the haunts of out-laws and assassins.
Nor are his more- tender and affectionate passages those to
which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness.
It is not that we can here and there select a proposition formally false or pernicious; but that he leaves an impression
unfavorable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, peculiarly dangerous to the finest minds and most susceptible hearts.
They are the scene of a summer evening, where all is tender,
and beautiful, and grand; but the damps of disease descend
with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapors of night are
breathed in with the fragrance and balm, and the delicate and
fair are the surest victims of the exposure.    FRisBIE
LESSON CXII.
IIENRY MARTYN AND LORD BYRON.
BOTH Henry Martyn and., Lord Byron shared the sorrows
of life, and their records teach the different workings of the
Christian and the worldly mind. Byron lost his mother, and
when urged not to give way to sorrow, he burst into an agony
of grief, saying, "I had but one friend in the world, and now
she is gone!" On the death of some of his early friends, he
thus writes: "My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a
lonely tree before I am withered. I have no resource but my
own reflections, and they present no prospect here or hereafter,
except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. I am
indeed most wretched."
And thus Henry Martyn mourns the loss of one most dear.
"Can it be that she has been lying so many montlhs in the cold
grave? Would that I could always remember it, or always
258
YOUNG LADIES' READER.YOUNG LADIES' READER.                259
forget it; but to think a moment on other things, and then feel
the remembrance of it come, as if for the first time, rends my
heart asunder. 0 my gracious God, what should I do without
Thee! But now thou art manifesting thyself as' the God of
all consolation.' Never was I so near thee. There is nothing
in the world for which I could wish to live, except because it
may please God to appoint me some work to do. 0 thou
incomprehensibly glorious Savior, what hast thou done to
alleviate the sorrows of life!"
It is recorded of Byron, that, in society, he generally appeared humorous and prankish; yet, when rallied on Ihis melancholy turn of writing, his constant answer was, that though
thus merry and full of laughter, he was, at heart, one of the
most miserable wretches in existence. And thus he writes:
"Why, at the very hight of desire, and human pleasure,
worldly, amorous, ambitious, or even avaricious, does there
mingle a certain sense of doubt and sorrow, a fear of what is
to come, a doubt of what is? If it were not for hope, what
would the future be? A hell! As for the past, what predominates in memory?  Hopes baffled!  From whatever place
we commence, we know where it must all end. And yet
what good is there in knowing it? It does not make men
wiser or better. If I were to live over again, I do not know
what I would change in my life, unless it were for-not to
have lived at all. All history and experience teach us, that
good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, and
that what is most to be desired, is an easy passage out of it.
What can it give us but years? and these have little of good but
their ending."
And thus Martyn writes: " I am happier here in this remote
land, where I seldom hear what happens in the world, than I
was in England, where there are so many calls to look at
things that are seen. The precious Word is now my only
study, by means of translations. Time flows on with great
rapidity. It seems as if life would all be gone before any thing
is done. I sometimes rejoice that I am but twenty-seven, and
that, unless God should ordain it otherwise, I may double this
number in constant and successful labor. But I shall not cease
from my happiness, and scarcely from my labor, by passing
into the other world."And thus they make their records at anniversaries, when
the mind is called to review life and its labors. Thus Byron
writes: "At twelve o'clock I shall have completed thirty-three
years! I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having
lived so long and to so little purpose.  e  *  It is now three
minutes past twelve, and I am thirty-three!
"Alas, my friend, the years pass swiftly by."
But I do not regret them so much for what I have done, as for
what I might have done."
And thus Martyn: " I like to find myself employed usefully,
in a way I did not expect or foresee.  The coming year is to
be a perilous one, but my life is of little consequence, whether
I finish the Persian New Testament or not. I look back with
pity on myself, when I attached so much importance to my
life and labors. The more I see of my own works, the more
I am ashamed of them, for coarseness and clumsiness mar all
the works of maln. I am sick when I look at the wisdom of
man, but am relieved by reflecting, that we have a city whose
builder and maker is Gpd. The least of his works is refreshing. A dried leaf, or a straw, makes me feel in good company,
and complacence and admiration take the place of disgust.
What a momentary duration is the life of man!  "It glides
along, rolling onward forever," may be affirmed of the river;
but men pass away as soon as they begin to exist.  Well, let
the moments pass!"
" They waft us sooner o'er
This life's tempestuous sea,
Soon we shall reach the blissful shore
Of blest eternity!"
Such was the experience of those who in youth completed
their course.                            MIss C. E. BEECHER.
LESSON  CXIII.
THE DIVER.
THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow,
Thou hast fought with eddying waves;
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves!
260
YOUNG LADIES' READER.Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven;
The deep is a strong and fearful hold,
But thou its bar hast riven!
A wild and weary life is thine,
A wasting task and lone;
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine,
To all besides unknown.
A weary life! but a swift decay
Soon, soon shall set thee free!
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!
In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read;
Go, for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled.
And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be;
A star to all the festive hall;
But who shall think on thee?
None; as it gleams from the queen-like head,
Not one,'mid throngs, will say,
"A life hath been, like a rain-drop, shed,
For that pale and quivering ray,"
Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
And are not those like thee,
Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!
Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below,
From many a buried urn:
Wringing from lava-veins the fire
I'hat o'er bright words is poured;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.But oh! the price of bitter tears,
Paid for the lonely power,
That throws at last, o'er desert years,
A darkly glorious dower!
Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strewed;
The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude.
And who will think, when the strain is sung,
Till a thousand hearts are stirred,
What life-drops from the minstrel wrung,
Have gushed with every word l
None, none! his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee;
Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,
O wrestler with the sea!           MRS. HEMANS.
LESSON CXIV.
EXCELSIOR.
THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore,'mid snow and ice,
A banner, with the strange device,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad: his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung,
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!
"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
262And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!
"0 O stay," the maiden said, " and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,
Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the hight,
Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!
A traveler, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!       H. W. LONGFELLOW
LESSON CXV.
A NAME IN THE SAND.
ALONE I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year, the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.
263And so, methought,'t will shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea
Will sweep across the place,
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more,
Of me, my day, the name I bore,
To leave nor track nor trace.
And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know the -lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,
Of all this mortal part has wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught,
For glory, or for shame.   MIss. H. F. GouLD.
LESSON CXVI.
VOICE OF THE WAVES.
Written near the scene of a recent ship-wreck.]
ANSWER, ye chiming waves,
That now in sunshine sweep!
Speak to me from thy hidden caves,
Voice of the solemn deep
Hath man's lone spirit here
With storms in battle striven?
Where all is now so calmly clear,
Hath anguish cried to heaven?
Then the sea's voice arose,
Like an earthquake's under-tone:
" Mortal, the strife of human woes
Where hath not nature known 1.
" Here, to the quivering mast,
Despair hath wildly clung,
The shriek upon the wind hath passed,
The midnight sky hath rung.
5264"And the youthful and the brave
With their beauty and renown,
To the hollow chambers of the wave
In darkness have gone down.
"They are vanished from their place;
Let their homes and hearths make moan!
But the rolling waters keep no trace
Of pang or conflict gone."
Alas! thou haughty deep!
The strong, the sounding far!
My heart before thee dies;-I weep
To think on what we are.
To think that so we pass,
High hope, and thought, and mind,
Even as the breath-stain from the glass,
Leaving no sign behind.
Saw'st thou naught else, thou main?
Thou and the midnight sky.
Naught save the struggle, brief and vain,
The parting agony?
And the sea's voice replied,
"Here nobler things have been;
Power with the valiant, when they died,
To sanctify the scene:
Courage, in fragile form,
Faith, trusting to the last,
Prayer, breathing heavenward through the storm,
But all alike have passed."
Sound on, thou haughty sea!
These have not passed in vain:
My soul awakes, my hope springs free
On victor wings again.
Thou, from thine empire driven,
Mayst vanish with thy powers;
But, by the hearts that here have striven,
A loftier doom is ours.    MRS. HEM&x.
23
265LESSON CXVII.
THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN.
THERE is, in the fate of the unfortunate Indians, much to
awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our
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 melancholy than
their history?  By a law of their nature they seem destined to
a slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, 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.
Two'centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams, and the
fires of their councils, rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay
to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and
the lakes. The shouts of victory, and the war-dance, rung
through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows, 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 listened to the songs-of other days. The mothers
played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm
hopes of the future. Braver men never lived; truer men never
drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity,
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 klindness. If
their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity 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 power, a moral canker, which hath eaten
into their heart-cores; a plague, which the touch of the white
266man communicated; a poison, which betrayed them into a
lingering ruin.
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 the Mississippi.
I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless,
the women, and the warriors, "'few and faint, yet fearless
still."  The ashes are cold on their native hearths.  The
smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins.  They move
on with a slow, unsteady step.  The white man is upon their
heels, for terror or dispatch; but they heed him not. They
turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a
last glance upon the graves of their fathers.  They shed no
tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans.
There is something in their hearts which passes speech.
There is something in their looks, not of vengeance nor submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes
all utterance; which has no aim nor method. It is courage
absorbed in despair. -They linger but for a moment. Their
look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall
never be repassed by them; no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know, and feel,
that there is for them still one remove further, not distant, nor
unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.
Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read, in such a fate,
much that we know not how, to interpret; much of provocation
to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of apology for
wrong and perfidy; much of pity mingling with indignation;
much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful
recollection; much of dark foreboding.  Philosophy may tell
us, that conquest, in other cases, has adopted the conquered
into its own bosom; and thus, at no distant period, given them
the common privileges of subjects; but that the red men are
incapable of such an assimilation. By their very nature and
character, they can neither unite themselves with civil institutions, nor with safety be allowed to remain as distinct communities.
Policy may suggest that their ferocious passions, their independent spirit, and their wandering life, disdain the restraints
of society; that they will submit to superior force only while
267N o T E. -When a word or sentence is repeated as a kind
of interrogatory  exclamation, the rising  inflection is used, according to the principle of this Rule; as,
You ask, who would venture' in such a cause?  Who would venture'!
Rather say, who would not' venture all things for such an object?
He is called the friend' of virtue. The friend'!ay! the enthusiastic
lover', the devoted protector', rather.
So also when one receives unexpected information, he exclaims, ah'!  indeed'!
In  the  above  examples, the  words "venture,"  "friend,"
"ah!" &c. may be considered as interrogatory exclamations,
because if the sense were carried out, it would  be in the form
of question; as, "Do  you ask who would venture'?"   "Do
you say that he is the friend' of virtue?" " Is it possible'?"
and thus, they would receive the rising inflection according to
this rule.
Questions.--Repeat Rule IV. Of what rule is this the converse or opposite?
Give some of the examples under this rule. WVhat inflection has the nominative
addressed? Give examples. Give the exception to Rule IV. and examples. Repeat Rule V. Give examples. Repeat Rule VI. Give examples. What are the
exceptions? Repeat Rule VII. Give examples and exception. Repeat the note
and illustrate it by examples.
4. Both Inflections.
R u L E V I I I. --- The different members of a sentence expressing comparison, or contrast, or negation and affirmation,
or where the parts are united by or used disjunctively, require
different inflections; generally the rising iisnlection in the first
member, and the fallinlg inflection in the second member.
This order is, however, sometimes inverted.
1. Comparison and contrast. This is also called antithesis.
Examples. By all things approving ourselves the ministers of God; by
honor', and dishonor'; by evil' report, and good\ report; as deceivers', and
yet true'; as unknown', and yet well' known; as dying', and behold we
live'; as chastened', and not killed'; as sorrowful', yet always rejoicing'; as
poor', yet making many rich'; as havinlg nothing', and yet possessing all'
things.
Europe was one great battle field, where the weak struggled for freedom,,
and the strongfor dominion'. The king was without powers, and the nobles,
without principle'. They were tyrants at home', and robbers abroad'.
2; Negation and affirmation.
25it chains them to the earth by its pressure.  A wilderness is
essential to their habits and pursuits. They can neither be
tamed nor overawed. They subsist by war or hunting; and
the game of the forest is relinquished only for the nobler game
of man. The question, therefore, is necessarily reduced to the
consideration, whether the country itself shall be abandoned by
civilized man, or maintained, by his sword, as the right of the
strongest.
It may be so; perhaps, in the wisdom of Providence, it must
be so.  I pretend not to comprehend, or solve, such weighty
difficulties.  But neither philosophy norI policy can shut out
the feelings of nature.  Humanity must continue to sigh at the
constant sacrifices of this bold but wasting race. And Religion,
if she may not blush at the deed, must, as she sees the successive victims depart, cling to the altar with a drooping heart,
and mourn over a destiny without hope and without example.
STORY.
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 abogt his frame,
Whose sorry plight but mocks his ancient state,
And in the bleak and. pitiless stortn 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 0n earth.
IMULELLAX.
268269
LESSON CXVIII.
POCAHONTAS.
THE romantic story of Pocahontas forms a beautiful episode
in the early history of Virginia. Her intercession for Smith is
thus described by the historians of that period. "The captive,
bound hand and foot, was laid upon the stones, and Powhatan,
to whom the honor was respectfully assigned, was about to
put him to death. Something like pity beamed from the eyes
of the savage crowd, but none dared to speak. The fatal club
was uplifted; the captive was alone among hostile savages, without a friend to succor him. The multitude were anticipating the
dreadful crash that was to deprive him of life, when the young
and beautiful Pocahontas, the king's darling daughter, with a
shriek of terror and agony, threw herself on the body of the
victim. Her dark hair unbound, her eyes streaming with tears,
and her whole manner, bespoke the agony of her bosom. She
cast the most beseechinglooks at her angry and astonished father,
imploring his pity, and the life of the captive, with all the eloquence of mute, but impassioned sorrow."
"The remainder of this scene" says Burke "is highly honorable
to Powhatan, and remains a lasting monument, that, though different principles of action, and the influence of custom, had given
to the manners of the people an appearance neither amiable nor
virtuous in general, yet they still retained the noblest property
of human character; the touch of sympathy, and the feelings of
humanity. The club of the Emperor was still uplifted; but
gentle feelings had overcome him, and his eye was every moment
losing its fierceness. He looked around to find an excuse for his
weakness, and saw pity in every face. The generous savage
no longer hesitated. The compassion of the rude state is neither
ostentatious nor dilatory, nor does it insult its object by the
exaction of impossibilities. Powhatan lifted his grateful and
delighted daughter from the earth, but lately ready to receive
the blood of the victim, and commanded the stranger captive to
rise."
Pocahontas, who performed so important a part in this interesting scene, though born and reared in savage life, was a creature of exquisite loveliness and refinement. The gracefulnessof her person, the gentleness of her nature, her benevolence,
her courage, her noble self-devotion in the discharge of duty,
elevate this lovely woman to an equality with the most illustrious and most attractive of her sex; and yet, those winning
graces and noble qualities were not the most remarkable
features of her character. This was even more distinguished
by the wonderful tact, and the delicate sense of propriety, which
marked all the scenes of her brief, but eventful history.
The mingled tenderness and heroism of her successful intercession for the adventurous Smith present a scene, which for dramatic effect and moral beauty, is not excelled either in the records of history, or the most splendid creations of inventive genius.
Had the generous spark of love, which is inbred in the heart
of woman, been cherished by the refinements of education, it
could not have burned with a brighter flame. The motive of
that noble action was benevolence, the purest and most lofty
principle of human action. It was not the caprice of a thoughtless girl, it was not a momentary passion for the condemned
stranger, pleading at a susceptible heart, for her affections were
reserved for another, and the purity, as well as the dignity of
her after life, showed that they were truly and cautiously bestowed.
By her intervention, her courage, and her talent, the
colony of Virginia was several times saved from famine and
extermination, and when perfidiously taken prisoner by those
who owed every thing to her noble devotion to their cause, she
displayed in her captivity a patience, a sweetness of disposition, and a propriety of conduct, that won universal admiration.
As the wife of Rolfe she was equally exemplary; and when
at the British court she stood in the presence of royalty, surrounded by the beauty and refinement of the proudest aristocracy in the world, she was still a lovely and admired woman,
unsurpassed in the appropriate graces of her sex.
JAXIES HALL.
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
270LESSON CXIX.
THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER.
(Pocahontas.)
UPON the barren sand
A single captive stood,
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red men of the wood.
Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim;
The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.
Above his head in air,
The savage war-club swung;
The frantic girl, in wild despair,
Her arms about him flung.
Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen-limb,
Subdued by that heroic maid,
Who breathed a prayer for him.
"Unbind him!" gasped the chief,
"It is your king's decree!"
He kissed away her tears of grief,
And set the captive free.'T is ever thus, when, in life's storm,
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.
GEO. P. MORRIS.
LESSON C X X.
THE PERUVIAN SOLDIER.
Pizarro, Davillo, Gomez, Spaniards, and Orozembo, a Peruvian
prisoner.
(Enter Gomez.)
Pizarro.  How! Gomez, what bringest thou?
Gomez. On yonder hill, among the palm trees, we have
surprised an old Peruvian. Escape by flight he could not,and we seized him and his attendant unresisting: yet his lips
breathe nothing but bitterness and scorn.
Pizarro.  Drag him before us.  (Gomez leads in Orozembo.)  What art thou, stranger?
Orozembo. First tell me which ainong you is the captain
of this band of robbers.
Piz.  Audacious!  This insolence has sealed thy doom.
Die thou shalt, gray-headed ruffian. But first confess what
thou knowest.
Oro. I know that which thou hast just assured me of;
that I shall die.
Piz. Less audacity, perhaps, might have preserved thy life.
Oro. My life is as a withered tree; it is not worth pre
serving.
Piz.  Hear me, old man. Even now we march against the
Peruvian army. We know there is a secret path that leads to
your strong hold among the rocks: guide us to that, and name
your reward. If wealth be thy wish--
Oro. Ha! ha!- ha! ha!
Piz.  Dost thou despise my offer?
Oro. Thee, and thy offer! Wealth? I have the wealthl
of two, dear, gallant sons; I have stored in heaven the riches
which repay good actions here; and still, my chief treasure I
do bear about me.
Piz.  What is that?  Inform me.
Oro. I will; for it never can be thine: the treasure of a
pure, unsullied conscience.
Piz. I believe there is no other Peruvian dares speak as
thou dost.
Oro. Would I could believe there is no other Spaniard who
dares act as thou dost.
Gonr.  Obdurate Pagan!  How numerous is your army?
Oro. Count the leaves of yonder forest.
Piz.  Which is the weakest part of your camp?
Oro.  It has no weak part; on every side'tis fortified by
truth and justice.
Piz.  Where have you concealed your wives and your
children?
Oro. In the hearts of their husbands and their fathers.
Piz.  Knowest thou Alonzo?
272Oro. Know him?  Alonzo?  Know him?  Our nation's
benefactor?  The guardian angel of Peru?
Piz.  By what has he merited that title?
Oro. By not resembling thee.
Piz.  Who is this Rolla, joined with Alonzo in command?
Oro. I will answer that; for I love to hear and to repeat
the hero's name. Rolla, the kinsman of the king, is the idol
of our army; in war, a tiger; chased by the hunter's spear; in
peace, more gentle than the unweaned lamb. Cora was once
betrothed to him; but finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned
his claim, and, I fear, his peace, to friendship, and to Cora's
happiness: yet still he loves her with a pure and holy fire.
Piz. Romantic savage! I shall meet this Rolla soon.
Oro. Thou'dst better not!  The terror of his -noble eye
would strike thee dead.
Dav.  Silence, or tremble!
Oro. Beardless robber! why should I tremble before man?
Why before thee, thou less than man!
Dav. Another word, audacious heathen, and I strike!
Oro. Strike, christian! Then boast among thy fellows,I, too, have murdered a Peruvian!
Dav. Death and vengeance seize thee!    (Stabs him.)
Piz. Hold!
Dav. Couldst thou longer have endured his insults?
Piz.  And therefore should he die untortured?
Oro. True! Observe, young man, thy unthinking rashness
has saved me from the rack; and thou thyself hast lost the
opportunity of a useful lesson; thou mightest thyself have seen
with what cruelty vengeance would have inflicted torments;
and with what patience virtue would have borne them.
Piz.  Away! Davillo! if thus rash a second timeDav. Forgive the hasty indignation which--
Piz.  No more-our guard and guides approach. Follow
me, friends! each shall have his post assigned, and ere Peruvia's God shall sink beneath the main, the Spanish banner,
bathed in blood, shall float above the walls of vanquished
Quito.                                     R. B. SHERIDAN.
273LESSON  CXXI.
DISINTERESTED FRIENDSHIP.,lonzo, Sentinel, and Rolla.
SCENE. J2 dungeon; X.lonzo in chains; a sentinel walking near.
/Jlonzo. For the last time, I have beheld the shadowed
ocean close upon the light. For the last time, through my
cleft dungeon's roof, I now behold the quivering luster of the
stars. For the last time, oh sun! (and soon the hour,) I shall
behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists
of morn to glittering dew-drops. Then comes my death, and
in the morning of my day, I fall,-but no, Alonzo, date not
the life which thou hast run by the mean reckoning of the
hours and days which thou hast breathed. A life spent worthily
should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds,- not years.
Then wouldst thou murmur not, but bless Providence, which,
in so short a span, made thee the instrument of wide and
spreading blessings to the helpless and oppressed!  Though
sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely falls, whose memory
records no benefit conferred by him on man. They only have
lived long, who have -lived virtuously.  Surely, even now,
thin streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the
east. If so, my life is but one hour more. I will not watch
the coming dawn; but, in the darkness of my cell, my last
prayer to thee, Power Supreme! shall be for my wife and
child!  Grant them innocence and peace; grant health, and
purity of mind; all else is worthless.
(Enters his cell.)
(Rolla enters, disguised as a monk.)
JRolla. Inform me, friend, is Alonzo, the Spanish prisoner,
confined in this dungeon?
Sentinel.  He is..Rol. I must speak with him.
Sen. You must not.
Rol.  He is my friend.
Sen. Not if he were thy brother.
Rol. What is to be his fate?
Sen. He dies at sunrise.
274Rol. Ha! then I am come in time.
Sen. Just,--to witness his death.
Rol.  Soldier, I mutst speak to him.
Sen.  Back, back. It is impossible.
Rol. I do entreat thee, but for one moment.
Sen. Thou entreatest in vain; my orders are most strict.
Iol.  Even now, I saw a messenger go hence.
Sen.  He brough-t a pass which we are all accustomed to
obey.
Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold; look on these
precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for thee
and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them; they are
thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.
Sen. Away!  Wouldst thou corrupt me?  Me? an old
Castilian? I know my duty better.
Rol. Soldier, hast thou a wife?
Sen. I have.
Rol. HIast thou children?
Sen. Four,-honest, lively boys.
Rol. Where didst thou leave them?
Sen. In my native village; even in the cot where myself
was born.
Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?
Sen. Do I love them?  God knows my heart. I do.
Ro. Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel
death, in a strange land. What would be thy last request?
Sen. That some of my comrades should carry my dying
blessing to my wife and children.
Rol. Oh! but if that comrade were at thy prison gate, and
should there be told,--thy fellow soldier dies- at sunrise, yet
thou shalt not, for a moment, see him, nor shalt thou bear his
dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife,--what
wouldst thou think of him who thus could- drive thy comrade
from the door?Sen. How?
Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come to receive
for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.
Sen. Go in.
Rol. Oh! holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain.
There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form, and life,
275human or savage, native of the forest wild, or giddy air,
around whose parent bosom thou hast not a chord entwined of
power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and, at thy will,
to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the bloodstained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to
her breast, soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled
brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently. Yes,
now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate! Alonzo!
Alonzo! my friend; ah! in gentle sleep! Alonzo! rise!
XAlonzo.  How? is my hour elapsed?  Well, I am ready.
Rol. Alonzo! know me.
A.l.  What voice is that?
Rol.'T is Rolla's.
Xl. Rolla! my friend!  Heavens! how couldst thou pass
the guard? Did this habit--
Rol.  There is not a moment to be lost in words: this disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field
of battle: it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon; now, take
it, thou, and fly.
A/1. And Rolla--
Rol. Will remain here in thy place.
/1l.  And die for me? No! Rather eternal tortures rack me.
Rol.  I shall not die, Alonzo.  It is thy life Pizarro seeks,
not Rolla's; and from my prison soon will thy arm delivei
me; or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain,
standing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives
beneath my shelter.  Thou art-a husband and a father--the
being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life.
Go! go, Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy
child!
31.  Urge me not thus, my friend; I had prepared to die in
peace.
Rol.  To die in peace? devoting her thou hast sworn to live
for, to madness, misery, and death?  For, be assured, the state
I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return.
l1.  Merciful heavens!
Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well.
I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word,
and shrunk from its fulfillment. If thou art proudly obstinate
to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in
276thee, no power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence;
and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla
perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and
thy child are lost forever..di.  Oh, Rolla!
Rol. Begone. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me.
I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender and submission. ]
shall gain time, no doubt, while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, mayst, at night, return, release thy friend,
and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo!
Even now, I hear thy frantic wife, poor Cora, call thee!
Haste, Alonzo! Haste! Haste!
1I.  Rolla! you distract me.  Wear you the robe, and,
though dreadful the necessity, we will strike down the guard,
and force our passage.
Rol. What, the soldier on duty here?.11. Yes, else, seeing two, the alarm will be instant death.
Rol.  For my nation's safety, I would not harm  him.
That soldier, mark me, is a man! All are not men that wear
the human form.  He refused my prayers, refused -my gold,
denying admittance, till Ihis ownfeelings bribed him. I would
not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heart-strings
from consuming fire. But haste! A momenlt's further pause
and all is lost.
Xl.  Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honor, and
from right.
Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his friend?.1l. Oh! my preserver!
Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go!
I am rewarded.  (Throwing afriar's garment over lionzo.)
There, conceal thy face; and that they may not clank, hold
fast thy chains.  Now, God be with thee!.1. At night we meet again.  Then, so aid me Heaven! I
return to save, or-perish with thee!             (Exit.)
Rol. He has passed the outer porch! he is safe! he will
soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, didst thou not
wrong me?  This is the first time, throughout my life, I ever
deceived man. Forgive me, God of T'ruth! if I am wrong.
Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again! Yes, there!
(Lifting his hands to heaven.) Assuredly we shall meet
277Examples. He desired not to injure' his friend, but to protect' him.
We desire not your money', but yourselves'.
I did niot say a better' soldier, but an elder'.
If the affirmative clause comes first, the order of the inflec.
tions is inverted; as,
He desired to protect' his friend, not to injure' him.
We desire yourselves', not your money'.
I said an elder' soldier, not a better'.
The affirmative clause is sometimes understood; as,
We desire not your money'.
I did not say a better' soldier.'rhe region beyond the grave, is not a solitary land.
If such sentences are repeated emphatically, they take the
falling inflection according to Rule II; as,
We do not' desire your money.
I did not' say a better soldier.
3. Or used disjunctively.
Examples. Did he behave properly', or improperly'?
Are they living,' or dead'?
Is he rich', or poor'?
Does God, having made his creatures, take no further' care of them, or does
he preserve, and guide' them?
N  o T E. -Where or is used conjunctively, this rule does
not apply; as,
Will the law of kindness' or of justice' justify such conduct'?
Questions.- What is the eighth Rule?  What is the first head under this Rule?
Give an example. W~hat isthe second head? Give examples. If the affirmative
clause comes first, in what order are the inflections used? Give examples. Is
either clause ever omitted? Give examples. If sentences requiring the rising inflection are repeated emphatically, what inflections are used? What is the third
head under this rule? Give examples. Repeat the note.
5. Circumflex.
THF, circumflex is a union of the rising and falling inflections upon the same sound. Of these there are two, the one
called the rising circumflex, (_) in which the voice slides
down and then up; and the other, (-) the falling circumflex, in
which the voice slides upward and then downward on tile same
vowel. The circumflex is used chiefly to indicate the emphasis
of irony, or of contrast, or of hypothesis.
CIRCUMFLEX.
26278               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
again; there, possess in peace the joys of everlasting love and
friendship,--on earth, imperfect and imbittered.
R. B. SHERIDAN.
LESSON CXXII.
FRIENDSHIP IN SCRIPTURE.
Two very remarkable instances of friendship occur in the
history of our Savior's life. It may not, perhaps, be altogether
uninteresting to state them in all their striking circumstances.
The Evangelist, in relating the miracles which Christ performed at Bethany, by restoring a person to life, who had lain some
days in the grave, introduces his narrative by emphatically
observing, that 1" Jesus loved Lazarus;" intimating, it would
seem, that the sentiments which Christ entertained of Lazarus,
were a distinct and peculiar species of that general benevolence,
by which he was actuated towards all mankind.
Agreeably to this application of the sacred historian's meaning, when the sisters of Lazarus sent to acquaint Jesus of the
state in which their brother lay, they did not even mention his
name, but pointed him out by a more honorable and equally
notorious designation. The words of this message were, 1" Behold, he whom thou lovest is sick!" Accordingly, when he
informs the disciples of the notice he had thus received, -his
expression is, " Our friend Lazarus sleepeth."
Now that Christ did not, upon this occasion, use the word
friend, in its loose, undistinguished acceptation, but in a restrained and strictly appropriated sense, is not only manifest from
this plain account of the fact itself, but appears further evident
from the sequel. For, as he was advancing to the grave,
accompanied by the relations of the deceased, he evinced emotion like that which swelled in their bosoms, and sympathizing
with their common sorrow, he melted into tears.  "Jesus
wept." This circumstance was too remarkable to escape particular observation; and it drew from the spectators, what we
think it must necessarily draw from every reader, this natural
and obvious reflection, "Behold how he loved him."In the concluding catastrophe of our Savior's life, he gave a
still more decisive proof, that sentiments of the strongest personal attachment and friendship, were not unworthy of being
admitted into his sacred bosom. They were too deeply impressed, indeed, to be extinguished even by the most excruciating torments. In that dreadful moment, observing among the
afflicted witnesses of his painful and ignominious sufferings,
the faithful follower, who is described by the historian as; "the
disciple whom Jesus loved," he distinguished him by the most
convincing instance of superior confidence, esteem, and affection, that ever was exhibited to the admiration of mankind.
For, under circumstances of the most agonizing torment, when
it might be thought impossible for-human nature to retain any
other sensibility but that of its own inexpressible suffering, he
recommended to the care and protection of this, his tried and
approved friend, in terms of peculiar regard and endearment,
the most tender and sacred object of his private affections.
But no language can represent this pathetic and affecting
scene, with a force and energy equal to the sublime simplicity of
the Evangelist's own narrative: "Now there stood by the cross
of Jesus, his mother, and his mother's sister, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple
standing by whom he loved; he saith unto his mother,' Behold
thy son!' Then he saith to the disciple,' Behold thy mother!'
And from that hour, that disciple took her unto his own home."
MELMOTI.
LESSON CXXIII.
(Elliptical.)
NAOMI AND RUTH.
Now it came to pass, in the days when the judges ruled, that
there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Bethlehem-judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab, he, and his
wife, and his two sons. And the name of the man was Elimelech, and the ( i..-'    ) of his wife, Naomi, and the
(.......) of his two sons, Mahlon and Chilion, Ephrathites
of Bethlehem-judah. And they came into the (' ".. - )
279of Moab, and continued there. And Elimelech, Naomi's husband, died: and she was left, and her two sons. And they
took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the
one was Orpah, and the name of the other Ruth; and they
('. ~:-- ) there about ten years. And Mahlon and Chilion died also, both of them; and the woman was left of her
two sons and her husband.
Then she (... ), with her daughters-in-law, that she
might return from the' country of Moab; for she had hear&d in
the country of Moab, how that the Lord had visited his people,
in (;        ) them bread.  Wherefore she went forth out
of th6 plade where she was, and her two daughters-in-law
with her; and they went on the way to (... )unto the
land of Judah. And Naomi said unto her two daughters-inlaw, Go, return each to her mother's house; the Lord deal
kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me.
The Lord grant you that ye may find rest, each of you in the
house of her husband. Then she kissed them; and they lifted
up their voice and wept.
And -they said unto her, Surely we will return with thee
unto thy people. And Naomi said, Turn again, my daughters,
why will ye go with me? It ( --:..'; "  ) me much, for your
sakes, that the hand of the Lord is gone out ( l  -...X ) me.
And they lifted up their voice, and wept again; and Orpah
kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clave unto her.  And
she said, Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto hei
(    /, -..... ), and unto her gods; return thou after thy sisterin-law.
And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee; or to return from
following after thee; for whither thou goest, I (..
and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my
people, and thy God my God; where thou diest will I die,
and there will I be bu ied  The Lord do so to me, and more
also, if aught but (... ) part thee and me. When she
saw that she was steadfastly minded to go with her, then she
left (:';.i:. ) unto her.
So they two went until they came to Bethlehem. And it
came to pass, when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the
city was (..    ) about them; and they said, is this
Naomi? And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me
280Mara; for the Almighty hath dealt very (  1:;,   ) with
me.  I went out full, and the Lord hath brought me home
again (.'..2  ) why then call ye me Naomi, seeing the
Lord hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted
me?   So Naomi returned, and Ruth, the Moabitess, her
daughter-in-law, with her.                            RUTH.
LESSON CXXIV.
FRIENDSHIP.
WE have been friends together,
In sunshine and in shade,
Since first beneath the chestnut trees
In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together;
Shall a light word part us now?
We have been gay together;
We have laughed at little jests;
For the fount of hope was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts.
But laughter now hath fled thy lip,
Anfd sullen, glooms thy brow;
We have been gay together;
Shall a light word part us now.
We have been sad together;
We have wept with bitter tears
O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumbered
The hopes of early years.
The voices which were silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together;
Shall a light word part us now?
MRS. NORTON.
24
281LESSON CXXV.
THE NEGLECTED CHILD.
I NEVER was a favorite;
My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness
That blessed her fairer child;
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek.
While fondled on her knee;
I've turned away to hide my tears;
There was no kiss for me!
And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offense;
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck.
How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh, beauty! in my nursery
I learned to know thy worth;
For even there I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn,
And wished-for others wished it too--
I never had been born.
I'm sure I was affectionate,
But in my sister's face
There was a look of love, that claimed
A smile or an embrace;
But when I raised my lip to meet
The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart;
They spoke not in my eyes.
But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses decked;
282283
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.
But soon a time of triumph came,
A time of sorrow too;
For Sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw:
The features once so beautiful
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.'T was then, unwearied, day and night,
I watched beside her bed,
And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillowed her poor head.
She lived, she loved me for my care;
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!      T. H. BAYLY.
LESSON CXXVI.
POOR MARGARET.
YES, it would have grieved
Your very soul to see her: evermore
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast;
And, when she at her table gave me food,
She did not look at me. Her voice was low,
Her body was subdued. In every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied, to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the firo
We sat together, sighs came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.
Ere my departure, to her care I gave,
For her son's use, some tokens of regard,Which, with a look of welcome, she received;
And I exhorted her to have her trust
In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe,
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;
She thanked me for my wish; but for my hope
Methought she did not thank me.
I returned,
And took my rounds along this road again,
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had learned
No tidings of her husband; if he lived,
She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same
In person and appearance; but her house
Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence.
The' floor was neither dry nor neat; the hearth
Was comfortless: and her small lot of books,
Which, in the cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves,
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe
Had from its mother caught the trick of grief,
And sighed among its playthings.
Once again,
Toward the garden gate I turned, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her. Weeds defaced
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass;
No ridges there appeared of clear, black mold,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seemed the better part were gnawed away,
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root;
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep.
Poor Margaret is dead!
The light extinguished of her lonely hut,
The hut itself abandoned to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave!
2840 sir! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket. To her hut no one came,
But he was welcome; no one went away,
But that it seemed she loved him.
She was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts. By some especial care,
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A being, who, by adding love to peace,
Might live on earth a life of happiness.
WORUDSWORTr
LESSON CXXVII.
THE THREE PAINTERS.
FIRST, Fancy seized the brush, and well
Her magic hues she blent,
As beautiful as if Heaven's bow
Its own bright hues had lent:
But, ere her brush was laid aside,
Each lovely scene had fled,
And not a trace remained to show
The tints her hand had spread.
Next, Feeling, from the heart's rich store,
Her varied hue supplies;
And never sunset clouds could wear
More deep and gorgeous dyes.
"These will not fade."  E'en while she spoke,
Her own rude touch effaced
All that with so much anxious skill
The pencil's art-had traced.
Then Memory came; with dark, cold tints,
And pencil rude, she drew
The scenes of many a vanished joy,
Which once the sad heart knew.
I looked, in hope her dreary sketch,
Like Fancy's scenes, would fade:
I hoped in vain; fadeless Ier tints;
She only paints in shade.        MRS. EMBURY.LESSON CXXVIII.
TEA-PARTIES IN NEW YORK.
THE company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and
went away about six; unless it was in winter time, when the
fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get
home before dark. The tea-table was crowned with a huge
earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown,
cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company,
being seated around the genial board, and each furnished with
a fork, evinced their dexterity in lanching at the fattest pieces
in this mighty dish; in much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes.
Sometimes, the table was graced with immense apple-pies, or
saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always
sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough,
fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts, a delicious kind of
cake; at present scarce known in the city, excepting in genuine
Dutch families.
The tea was served out of a, majestic, delft tea-pot, ornamented with paintings of fat, littl'e, Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air, and houses
built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in
replenishing this pot, from a huge, copper tea-kettle, which
would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate
days sweat merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a
lump of sugar was laid beside each- cup; and the company
alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an
improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old
lady, which was, to suspend a large lump directly over the teatable, by a string fromn the ceiling, so that it could be swung
from mouth to mouth.
At these primitive tea-parties, the utmost propriety and
dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquetting,
no gambling of old ladies, nor hoiden chattering and romping
of young ones; no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits,
and monkey divertisements, of smart young gentlemen, with
no brains at all. On the contrary, the young -ladies seated
286287
themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit
their own woolen stockings; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to say, "Yes, sir," or -'Yes, madam," to any question
that was asked them; behaving,;in all things, like decent, well
educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of
the blue and white tiles, with which the fire-places were
decorated.The parties broke up without noise and without confusion.
They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to say,
by the vehicles nature had provided for them, excepting such of
the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen
gallantly attended their fair ones to their respective abodes, and
took leave of them at the door.                 w. IRVIRG.
LESSON -C XXIX.
ON TASTE AND BEAU-TY IN DRESS.
IN 110o way have civilized beings played more fantastic tricks,
than in the matter of dress. The influence of fashion is so
strong in corrupting the eye, and perverting the taste, that it
has led some persons to doubt the existence of any true
standard of beauty in costume. There are, however, some
forms of dress -which appear beautiful to us, after they have
ceased to be the reigning mode. These are in general simple
and unpretending. The occasional triumph of good taste over
fashion is shown by the frequent return of pretty shapes. I
would have young people look at every thing with an eye of
taste, and so modify their compliance with the prevailing mode,
as not to sacrifice to it their sense of beauty.
Mere fashion should never be allowed to triumph over common sense or good taste. Neither do I mean to recommend a
wide departure from it. Ingenuity should be called up to invent
a modification, which shall combine beauty with fashion. I
have seen two young ladies with equal pretensions to personal
beauty, one of whom was arrayed in a French embroidered
cape, that cost twenty-five dollars; while the other wasExamples.  Queen. Hamlet, you have your father much offended.
Hamlet. Madam, y6u have my father much offended.
This is the emphasis of contrast. The queen had poisoned
her husband, of which she incorrectly supposed her son ignorant, and she blames him for treating his father-in-law with disrespect. In his reply, Hamlet contrasts her deep crime with
his own slight offence, and the circumflex upon you, becomes
proper.
They offer us their protec'tion. Yes', such protection as viultures give
to limbs, covering and dev6uring them.
Here the emphasis is ironical. The Spaniards pretended,
that they would protect the Peruvians, if they would submit
to them, whereas, it was evident, that they merely desired to
plunder and destroy them. Thus their protection is ironically
called su?ch protection as vultures give to lambs, &c.
I knew when seven justices could not make up a quarrel; but when the
parties met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, if you said
s6, then I said s6; 0 ho! did you say s6?  So they shook hands and were
sworn brothers.
In this example, the word " so" is used hypothetically, that
is, it implies a condition or supposition. It will be observed
that the rising circumflex is used in the first "so," and the
falling, in the second, because the first " so " must end with the
rising inflection, and the second, with the falling inflection,
according to previous rules.
Questions.-W7Tlat inflections are united to form the circumflex? Explain the
two kinds of circumflex. WVhat does the circumflex indicate? Give an example
in which it is used to indicate the emphasis of contrast, anld explain it. Explain
the one, in whiclh the empllasis of irony is illustrated. Give the last example and
explain it.
6. Monotone.
WHEN  no word in a sentence receives an inflection, it is
said to be read in a monotone; that is, in nearly the same tone
throughout.  This uniformity of tone is occasionally adopted,
and is fitted to'express solemnity or sublimity of idea, and
sometimes intensity of feeling.   It is used, also, when the
whole sentence or phrase is emphatic. In books of elocution,
when it is marked at all, it is generally marked thus, (-), as
in the following examples.
MONOTONE.
27dressed in one made of plain cambric, edged with embroidery,
that cost two dollars; and any person who had an eye for
beautiful forms, would have preferred the latter, because the
proportions of the lady's cape and figure were suited to each
other, whereas the former had chosen a cape so much too large
for her, that she seemed encumbered by her finery.
Conversing, one evening, at a brilliant party in one of our
southern cities, with an ingenious gentleman, who had devoted
much time to the fine arts, having studied architecture and
practiced modeling, and who was also a close observer of
female attire, I was amused to hear him compare the different
modes of dress to the different styles- of architecture. When
he saw a lady dressed with great simplicity, and her hair
niaturally arrayed, he called that style of dress, Grecian. One
more elaborately attired, but still in good taste, reminded him
of the ancient Roman style. Anything cumbrous, however
rich its material, or grand its form, was called Gothic. And
when a lady approached us covered with finery, that looked as
if it had been showered upon_her from a band-box held over
her head, he exclaimed, "Here is a specimen of the florid
Gothic."
He never could bear to see bows that tied nothing, rows of
buttons that fastened nothing, and little appendages that had no
real or apparent use. He insisted, that in dress, as well as in
architecture, all beauty was founded in utility, and asked me if
I did not think, that columns which supported nothing would
look very badly. He said, he liked to see borders to papered
walls, because they hid the terminating edge, and he liked to
see ladies gowns trimmed round the bottom of the skirt, because
the trimming hid the hem, and was a handsome finish to the
figure. "; But," he continued, "inasmuch as, I should condemn
the taste that made a paper bordering so wide as to cover half
the walls, so do I denounce the fashion of extending trimmings
half way up the skirt. They have no longer the effect of a
border, but form an overload of ornament, which cuts up the
figure, and spoils any dress."
Nothing can be truly beautiful which is not appropriate. All
styles of dress, therefore, which impede the motions of the
wearer, which do not sufficiently protect the person, which
add unnecessarily to the heat of summer, or to the cold of
288winter, which do not suit the age and occupation of the wearer,
or which indicate an expenditure unsuited to her means, are
inappropriate, and therefore destitute of one of the essential
elements of beauty.   Propriety, or fitness, lies at the foundation of all good taste in dressing. Always consider whether
the articles of dress which you wish to purchase are suited
to your age, your condition, or your means, and then let the
principles of good taste keep you from the extremes of the
fashion, and regulate the form so as to combine utility and beauty.
Some persons seem'to have an inherent love of finery, and
adhere to it pertinaciously.  They cannot reason upon this
preference. They can only say, that what others condemn as
tawdry, looks pretty to them. No plainness of dress can ever
be construed to your disadvantage; but ornamental additions,
which, in their best state, are a very doubtful good, become a
positive evil, when defaced, or soiled, or tumbled. Shabby
feathers, and crushed or faded artificial flowers, are an absolute
disgrace to a lady's appearance; whereas their total absence
would never be remarked. Cleanliness is the first requisite in
a lady's dress.                                Mus. FtRARa.
LESSON CXXX.
THE CROW TURNED CRITIC,
IN ancient times, tradition says,
When birds like men would strive for praise,
The bulfinch, nightingale, and thrush,
With all that chant from tree to bush,
Would often meet in song to vie;
The kinds that sing not sitting by.
A knavish crow, it seems, had got
The knack to criticise by rote;
He understood each learned phrase,
As well as critics now-a-days.
Some say he learned them from an owl,
By listening when he taught a school.'Tis strange to tell, this subtle creature,
Though nothing musical by nature,
25
289YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Had learned so-well to play his part,
With nonsense couched in terms of art,
As to be owned by all at last
Director of the public taste.
Then, puffed with insolence and pride,
And sure of numbers on his side,
Each song he freely criticised:
What he approved not was despised.
But one false step, in evil hour,
For ever stripped him of his power.
Once when the birds assembled sat,
All listening to his formal chat,
By instinct nice he chanced to find
A cloud approaching in the wind,
And ravens hardly can refrain
From croaking when they think of rain..His wonted song he sung; the blunder
Amazed and scared them worse than thunder
For no one thought so harsh a note
Could ever sound from any throat.
They all, at first, with mute surprise
Each on his neighbor turned his eyes:
But scorn succeeding soon took place,
And might be read in every face.
All this the raven saw with pain,
And strove his credit to regain.
Quoth he, the solo which ye heard
In public should not have appeared:
My voice, that's somewhat rough and strong,
Might chance the melody to wrong,
But, tried by rules, you'll find the grounds
Most perfect and harmonious sounds.
He reasoned thus; but, to his trouble,
At every word the laugh grew double:
At last, o'ercome with shame and spite,
He flew away, quite out of sight.    WILKIE
290LESSON CXXXI.
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.
OH! what's the matter  what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill  
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffel gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,'T is all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,'T is all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he!
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,
His voice was like the voice of three.
Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door,
Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling,
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas,'t was hardly worth the telling;
It would not pay for candle light.
This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide.
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage,
But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.
291'T was well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer day,
Then at her door the canty dame,
Would sit, as any linnet gay.
But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then,how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met her,'T was a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dread;
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed,
And then for cold not sleep a wink.
Oh, joy for her! whene'er, in winter,
The winds at night had made a rout,
And scattered many a lusty splinter,
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, wood or stick,
Enough to warm her, for three days.
Now when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And now and then, it must be said,
When her old hones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now Harry, he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake,
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take,
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out, did Harry stand;
The moon was full, and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
292YOUNG LADIES' READER.
He hears a noise,-he's all awake,Again!-on tiptoe down the hill
He softly creeps.'T is Goody Blake!
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!
Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-road back again tO take,
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you, then, at last!"
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God who is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm:
"God! who art never out of hearing,
0, may he never more be warm!"
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus, on her knees did Goody pray,
Young Harry heard what she had said,
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow,
That he was cold and very chill;
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.'T was all in vain! a useless matter!
And blankets were about him pinned,
But still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind.
293And HTarry's flesh it fell away,
And all who see him say't is plain,
That live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.
No word to any man he utters,
Abed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
Abed or up, by night or day,
His teeth they chatter, ehatter still;
Now think, ye farmers, all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.    WORDSWORTH.
LESSON CXXXII.
FEMALE ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
A YOUNG lady may excel in speaking French and Italian;
may repeat a few passages from a volume of extracts; play
like a professor, and sing like a siren; have her dressing-room
decorated with her own drawings, tables, stands, flower-pots,
screens, and cabinets; nay, she may dance like Sempronia
herself, and yet we shall insist that she may have been very
badly educated. I am far from meaning to set no value whatever 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 becoming, but "one thing is needful."  Besides, as the world seems to be fully apprised of the
value of whatever tends to embellish life, there is less occasion
here to insist on its importance.
But, though a well-bred young lady may lawfully learn most
of the fashionable arts; yet, let me ask, does it seem to be the
true end of education, to make women of fashion, dancers, singers, players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gilders, varnishers,
engravers, and embroiderers? Most men are commonly destined
to some profession, and their minds are consequently turned,
each to its respective object. Would it not be strange, if they
294YOUNG LADIES READER.                   295
were called out to exercise their profession, or to set up their
trade, with only a little general knowledge of the trades and
professions of all other men, and without any previous definite
application to their own peculiar calling?
The profession of ladies, to which the bent of their instruction should be turned, is that of daughters, wives, mothers, and
mistresses of families.  They should be, therefore, trained
with a view to these several conditions, and be furnished
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 arts, which merely embellish life, must claim admiration;
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 him in his affairs, lighten
his cares, soothe his sorrows, purify his joys, strengthen his
principles, and educate his children.     HANNAr MORE.
LESSON CXXXIII.
THE PROFESSI-ON OF A WOMAN.
IT is to mothers and to teachers, that the world is to look for
the character, which is to be enstamped on each succeeding
generation; for it is to th-em that the great business of education
is almost exclusively committed.  And will it not appear 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 watch,
to nurse, and to rear the bodily system, so fearfully and wonderfully made, and upon the order and regulation of which, the
health and well-being of the mind so greatly depend?
But let most of our sex, upon whom these arduous duties
devolve, be asked, 1" 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 structure, thenature, and the laws of the body, which you inhabit? Were
you ever taught to understand the operation of diet, air, exercise, and modes of dress upon the human frame?  Have the
causes whiclh 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?"
Perhaps almost every voice would respond, 1" No. We have
attended to almnost 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 profession of a woman, to guard the
health, and form the physical habits of the young?  And is not
the cradle of infancy and the chamber of sickness sacred to
woman alone? And ought she not to know, at least, some of
the general principles 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 falls 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, in 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 you been taught the powers and faculties of the human
mind, and the laws by which it is regulated? Have you studied
how to direct its several faculties? how to restrain those that are
overgrown, and strengthen and mature those that are deficient?
Have you been taught the best modes of communicating 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 pettishness and ill-humor may be
296297
changed to cheerfulness and kindness?   Has any woman
studied her profession in this respect?"'
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 appecar:,, that, though it is
woman's express business to rear the body and form the mind,
there is scarcely any thing to which hbr attention has been
less directed.                         Miss c. E. BEEcEn.
LESSON CXXXIV.
THE MUSICAL INS CRUMENT.
"THY grandmother," said uncle Toby, addressing himself
to young Laura, just from the city, and who was playing' the
battle of Marengo,' on the piano, "thy grandmother, child,
used to play upon a much better instrument than thine." "Indeed," said Laura, " how could it have been better? You know
it is the most fashionable instrument, and is used by everybody
that is anything."  "Your grandmother was something, and
yet she never saw a pianoforte."  "But what was the name
of the instrument?  Had it strings, and was it played by the
hand?"  "You must give mre time to recollect the name: it
was indeed a stringed instrument, and was played with the
hand."
"By the hands alone?  How vulgar!  But I should really
like to see one; and papa must buy me one when I return
to the city; do you think we can obtain one?" 1" No, you
probably will not obtain one there, but doubtless they may be
found in some of the country towns." "How many strings
had it? Must one play with both hands? And could one play
the double base?"  "I know not whether it would play the
double base, as you call it; but it was played with both hands,
and had two strings."
"Two strings only? Surely you are jesting!  How couldECLECTIC EDUCATIONAL SERIES.
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(1)Hence! loathed Melancholy!
Where brooding darkness spreads her jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings;
There, under ebon shades and low browed rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian darkness ever dwell.
Thus saith the High and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name
is Hily; "I dw6ll in the high and holy place."
Questions.-When is a sentence said to be read in a monotone? When is the
monotone appropriate?
SECTION  IV.
ACCENT.
IN every word, which contains more than one syllable, one
of the syllables is pronounced with a somewhat greater stress
of voice than the others; as, love'-ly, where this stress is on
the first syllable; and, re-turn', where it is on the last syllable.
This syllable is said to be accented.  The accented syllable is
distinguished by this mark ('), the same which is used in
inflections.
In most cases, custom is the only guide for placing the accent
on one syllable rather than another. Sometimes, however, the
same word is differently accented, in order to mark its different
meanings; as,
Corot-jure, to practice enchantments, and con-jure', to entreat.
Gal'-lant, brave.                    gal-lant', a gay fellow.
Auz'-gust, a month.                  au-gust', grand, &c.
A number of words, also, have their accent on one syllable
when verbs or adjectives, and on another, when nouns; as,
Sub'-ject, the noun, and to sub-ject', the verb.
Pres'-ent,   "       to pre-senzt',   "
Con'-duct,   "        to con-duct',  
Ob'-ject,   "         to ob-ject', &c.'
Questions.-When is a syllable said to be accented? Give an example. How is
the accented syllable marked? W'Vhat is generally the guide for placing the accent?
When is the same word differently accented?'Give an example, under each head.
28
ACCENT.good music be produced from such an instrument, when the piano
has two or three hundred?" " Oh, the strings were very long,
one of them about fourteen feet; and the other may be lengthened at pleasure, even to fifty feet or more."'" What a prodigious deal of room it must take up! But no matter, I will
have mine in the old hall, and papa may have an addition
made to it; for he says I shall never want for anything, and
so (loes mamma. But what kind of sound did it make? Were
the strings struck with little mallets like the piano; or were
they snapped like a harpsichord."   " Like neither of those
instruments, as I recollect, but it produced a soft kind of humming music, and was peculiarly agreeable to the husband and
relations of the performer."
" Oh, as to pleasing one's husband or relations, you know
that is altogether vulgar in fashionable society. But I am determined to have one, at any rate.  Was it easily learned? and
was it taught by French and Italian masters?"  "It was easily
learned, but taught neither by Frenchmen nor Italians." " Call
you not possibly remember the name?  How shall we know
what to inquire for?"  " Yes, I do now remember the name;
and you must inquire for a Spinning Wheel."   ANoNxmous
LESSON-- CXXXV.
ALNWICK CASTLE.
HoMIE of the Percy's high-born race,
Home of their beautiful and brave,
Alike their birth and burial place,
Their cradle and their grave!
Still sternly o'er the castle gate
Their house's lion stands in state,
As in his proud departed hours;
And warriors frown in stone on-high,
And feudal banners "flout the sky,"
Above his princely towers.
A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds
Through this romantic scene,
298As silently and sweetly still,
As when, at evening, on that hill,
While summer's wind blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,His Katharine was a happy bride,
A thousand years ago.
Gaze on the abbey's ruined pile:
Does not the succoring ivy, keeping
Her watch around it, seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping?
One solitary turret gray
Still tells, in melancholy glory,
The legend of the Cheviot day,
The Percy's proudest border story.
That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang,from aisle to pictured dome,
The light step of the soldier's march,
The music of the trump and drum:
And babe and sire, the old, the young,
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song,
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long,
Welcomed the warrior home.
Wild roses by the abbey towers
Are gay in their young bud and bloom:
They-were born of a race of funeral flowers,
That garlanded, in long-gone hours,
A templar's knightly tomb.
He died, the sword in his mailed hand,
On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land,
Where the cross was damped with his dying breath;
When blood ran free as festal wine,
And the sainted air of Palestine
Was thick with the darts of death.
WVise with the lore of centuries,
What tales, if there be " tongues in trees,"
Those giant oaks could tell,
Of beings born and buried here;
Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,
lThe welcome and farewell,
Since, on their boughs, the startled bird
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard
The&Norman's curfew bell.
299I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced, upon the chapel walls,
Each high, heroic name,
From him* who once his-'standard set
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the sultan's crescent moons,
To him who, when a younger son,t
Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.
That last half stanza-it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup;
The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world-is gone;
And Alnwick's but a market town,
And this, alas! its market day,
And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scots;
Men in the coal and cattle line,
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, -:
So dazzling to the dreaming boy;.-.
Ours are the days of fact, not fable;
Of knights, but not of the round table;
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy;'T is what " our President," Munroe,
Has called "the era of good feeling:'
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt-their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,
And leave off cattle-stealing:
* One of the ancestors ot the Percy family was an emperor of Constantino
t The late duke. He commanded one of the detachments of the British ar  Ia
the affair at Lexington and Concord;in 1775. b- -
300Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglas in red herrings;
And noble name, and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild, or the Barings.
The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart!
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start,)
Is England's friend and fast ally;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,
And on the cross and altar stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And hears the Christian maiden shriek,
And sees the Christian father die;
And not a saber blow.is given
For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,
By Europe's craven chivalry.
You'll ask if yet the Percy lives
In the armed pomp of feudal state?
The present representatives
Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate,"
Are some half dozen serving men,
In the drab coat of. WVilliam Penn;
A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek -and brown hair, bright and curling,
Spoke nature's aristocracy;
And one, half groom, half seneschal,
Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall,
From donjon keep to turret wall,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling...    F. G. HALLECK.
LESSON CXXXV I.
THE LAST DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.
THE Earl of Essex,- after his return from the fortunate expedition against Cadiz, observing the increase of the queen's
teond attachment towards him, took occasion to regret that the
301necessity of her service required him often to be absent from
her person, and exposed him to all those ill offices, which his
enemies, more assiduous in their attendance, could employ
against him. She was moved with this tender jealousy, and
making him the present of a ring, desired him to keep that
pledge of her affection, and assured him, that, into whatever
disgrace he should fall, whatever prejudices she might be
induced to entertain against him, yet, if he sent her that ring,
she would immediately, upon sight of it, recall her former tenderness; would afford him a patient hearing, and would lend a
favorable ear to his apology.
Essex, notwithstanding- all his misfortunes, reserved this
precious gift to the last extremity; but after his trial and condemnation, he resolved to try the experiment, and he committed the ring to the Countess of Nottingham, whom he
desired to deliver it to the queen. The countess was prevailed
on by her husband, the mortal enemy of Essex, not to execute
the commission; and Elizabeth, who still expected that her
favorite would make this last appeal to her tenderness, and who
ascribed the neglect of it to his invincible obstinacy, was, after
much delay, and many internal combats, pushed by resentment
and policy to sign the warrant for his execution.
The Countess of Nottingham  falling into sickness, and
affected with the near approach of death, was seized with
remorse for her condluct; and having obtained a visit from the
queen, she craved her pardon, and revealed the fatal secret.
The queen, astonished with this incident, burst into a furious
passion. She shook the dying countess in her bed; and crying
to her, Thlat God might pardon her, but she never could,
she broke from her, and thenceforth resigned herself over to
the deepest and most incurable melancholy. She resisted all
consolation; she even refused food and sustenance; and,
throwing herself on the floor, she remained sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring life
and existence an intolerable burden to her. Few words she
uttered; and they were all expressive of some inward grief
which she cared not to reveal; but sighs and groans were the
chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which,
though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease
or assuage them.
302YOUNG LADIES' READER.                  303
Ten days and nights, she lay upon the carpet, leaning on
cushions which her maids brought her; and her physicians
could not persuade her to allow herself to be put to bed, much
less to make trial of any remedies which they prescribed to
her. Her anxious mind, at last, had so long preyed upon her
frail body, that her end was visibly approaching; and the
council being assembled, sent- the keeper, admiral, and secretary, to know her will with regard to her successor. She
answered, with a faint voice, that, as she had held a regal scepter,
she desired no other than a royal successor. Cecil requesting
her to explain herself more particularly, she subjoined, that
she would have a king to succeed her; and who should that
be, but her nearest kinsman, the King of Scots?
Being then advised by the Archbishop of Canterbury to fix
her thoughts upon God, she replied, that she did so, nor did her
mind, in the least, wander from H,im. Her voice, soon after,
left her; her senses failed; she fell into a lethargic slumber,
which continued some hours; and she expired gently, without
further struggle or convulsion, in the seventieth year of her
age, and forty-fifth of her reign. So dark a cloud overcast the
evening of that day, which had shone out with a mighty
luster, in the eyes of all Europe  HU-Rx.
LESSON  CXXXVII.
DEATH OF PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
WITHOUT the slightest warning, without the opportunity of
a moment's immediate preparation, in the midst of the deepest
tranquillity, at midnight, a voice was heard in the palace, not
of singing men and singing women, not of revelry and mirth,
but the cry, "Behold the bridegroom cometh!"  The mother,
in the bloom of youth, spared just long enough to hear the tidings of her infant's death, almost immediately, as if summoned
by his spirit, follows him into eternity. "It is a night much
to be remembered." Who foretold this event, who conjectured
it, who detected, at a distance, the faintest presage of its approach, which, when it arrived, mocked the efforts of humanskill, as much by their incapacity to prevent, as their inability
to foresee it?
Unmoved by the tears of conjugal affection, unawed by the
presence of grandeur, and the prerogatives of power, inexorable
death hastened to execute his stern commission, leaving nothing
to royalty itself, but to retire and weep.  Who can fail to discern, on this awful occasion, the hand of Him who "bringeth
the princes to nothing, who maketh the judges of the earth as
vanity;" who says, " they shall not be planted; yea, they shall
not be sown; yea, their stock shall not take root in the earth;"
and he " shall blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the
whirlwind shall take them away as stubble."
But is it now any subject of regret, think you, to this amiable
Princess, so suddenly removed, "that her sun went down
while it was yet day," or that, prematurely snatched from
prospects the most brilliant and enchanting, she was compelled
to close her eyes so soon on a world, of whose grandeur she
formed so conspicuous a part?  No.  In the full fruition of
eternal joys, for which we humbly hope Religion prepared her,
she is so far from looking back with lingering regret on what
she has quitted, that she is surprised, that it had the power of
affecting her so much; that she.took so deep an interest in the
scenes of this shadowy state of being, while so near to an
"eternal weight of glory."   Memory may be supposed to
contribute to her happiness, not by the recollection that she
was of illustrious birth, with the most elevated prospects
before her, but that she visited the abodes of the poor, and
l-earned to weep with those that weep; that, surrounded
with the fascinations of pleasure, she was not inebriated by its
charms; that she resisted the strongest~ temptations to pride,
preserved her ears open to-truth4 was impatient of the voice of
flattery; in a word,'that she sought and cherished the inspira.
tions of piety, and walked humbly with-her God.
The nation has certainly not been wanting in the proper
expression of poignant regret, at the. suddeni removal of this
most lamented Princess, nor of -sympathy with the royal
family, deprived, -by this visitation, of:its brightest ornament.
Sorrow is painted in every countenance, the pursuits of business and of pleasure have been.suspended, and the. kingdom is
covered with the signals- of distress.  But what, my friends,
30~4(if it were lawful to indulge such a thought,) what would be
the funeral obsequies of a lost soul? Where shall we find
tears fit to be wept at such a spectacle; or, could we realize the
calamity in all its extent, what tokens of commiseration and
concern would be deemed equal to the occasion? Would it
suffice for the sun to vail his light, and the moon her brightness; to cover the ocean with mourning, and the heavens with
sackcloth; or, were the whole fabric of nature to become animated and vocal, would it be possible for her to utter a groan
too deep, or a cry too piercing, to express the magnitude and
extent of such a catastrophe?                   ROBERT HALL,
LESSON CXXXVIII.
THE HOUR OF DEATH.
LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death!
Day is for mortal care,
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer;
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!
The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears; but all are thine!
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee; but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death!
26
305306               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee.
Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie.
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale.
They have one season; all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam;
Thou art where music melts uporn the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home;
And the world calls us forth, and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death!
MRS. HEMArNS.
LESSON CXXXIX.
THE DEPARTED.
THEn departed! the departed  
They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories
Like shadows over streams;
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant luster burn,
The departed, the departed,
Can never more return!
The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!Or where the surging night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!
I look around, and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed,
Is borne upon the breeze.
That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free anld careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,
As their remembered words.
I sometimes dream, their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate,
To think that they are gone.   PARK BERJAxIxw
LESSON C<XL.
GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
THEY grew in beauty, side by side;
They filled one home with glee:
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
307SECTION V.
EMPHASIS.
THAT stress of voice which marks the accent, when increased, forms EMPIHASIS. A word is said to be emphasized,
when it is uttered with a greater stress of voice, than the other
words with which it is connected.  This increased stress is,
generally, not upon the whole word, but only upon the accented syllable. The object of emphasis is, to attract particular
attention to the word upon which it is placed, indicating, that
the idea to be conveyed, depends very much upon that word.
This object, as just stated, is generally accomplished by increasing the force of utterance,, but sometimes, also, other
methods are used, as, for instance, a change in' the inflection,
the use of the monotone, or by uttering the words in a very
low or whispering tone. Emphatic words are often denoted
by italics, and a still stronger emphasis, by capitals. Emphasis
constitutes the most important feature in reading and speaking,
and, properly applied, gives life and character to language.
Accent, inflection, and, indeed, every thing yields to emphasis.
The inflections, especially, are auxiliary to it.  In the article
on that subject, it has been already observed, how often they
yield to emphasis, or are used to enforce it.  In the following
examples, it will be seen that accent, in like manner, is governed
by it.
What is done, cannot be undone.
There is a difference between giving and forgiving.
He that descended is the same that ascended.
Some appear to make very little diff-erence between decency and indecency,
morality and immorality, religion and irreligion.
The nature and importance of emphasis may be illustrated
by examples like the following. It will be observed, that the
meaning and proper answer of -the question varies with each
change of the emphasis.
Did yotu walk into the city yesterday 1  Ans. No, my b&-other went.
Did you walk into the city yesterday?  Ans. 1No, I rode.
Did you walk into the city yesterday?   Ans. No, I went into the
country.
Did you walk into the city yesterday?   Ans. No, I went the day
before.
29She had each folded flower in sight;
Where are those dreamers now v
One,'mid the forest of the wes:,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dresscd,
Above the noble slain;
He wrapped his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field -of Spain.
And one,-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded'mid Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed,
Around one parent knee;
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth:
Alas! for love, if thotu wert all,
And naught beyond, 0 Earth!    MRS. HEMANs.
LESSON CXLI.
THE CHEERFUL GIVER.
"WHAT shall I render Thee, Father Supreme,
For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?"
Said a young mother, as she fondly watched
Her sleeping babe.
There was an answerincg voice
That night, in dreams.
308" Thou hast a tender flower,
Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love.
Give me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven."
But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep,
Breathless, and terror-stricken, that the lip
Blanched in its trance.
"Thou hast a little harp;
How sweetly would it swell the angel's song!
Lend me that harp."
Then burst a shuddering sob,
As if the bosom by some hidden sword
Were cleft in twain.
Morn came. A blight had found
The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud,
The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke,
And that young mother lay upon the earth
In childless agony.
Again the voice
That stirred her vision.
" He, who asked of thee,
Loveth a cheerful giver."
So she raised
Her gushing eye, and ere the tear-drop dried
Upon its fringes, smiled.
Doubt not that smile,
Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness.
MRS. SIGOURnEY.
LESSON CXLII.
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
I HAVE read, in some old marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of specters pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
309YOUNG LADIES' READER.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice, nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle ground
The spectral camp is; seen,And, with a sorrowful, deejr ysound,
Flows the River of Lfe between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.   H. W. LONGFELLOW.
310LESSON  CXLIII.
MATILDA.
OUR happiness is in the power of One, who can bring it,;
about in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight.
If example be necessary to prove this, I will give you a story,
told us by a grave, though sometimes romancing, historian.
"Matilda was married, very young, to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a
mother, at the age of fifteen. As she stood, one day, caressing
her infant son, in the open window of an apartment which
hung over the river Volturnus, the child, with a sudden spring,
leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in
a moment.  The mother, struck with instant surprise, and
making an effort to save him, plunged in after; but, far from
being able to assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty,
escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers
were plundering the country on that side, who immediately
made her their prisoner.
"As the war was then carried on, between the French and
Italians, with the utmost inhumanity, they were going, at
once, to take her life.  This base resolution, however, was
opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat required
the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and carried her
in safety to her native city.  Her beauty, at first, caught his
eye, her merit, soon after, his heart. They were married: he
rose to the highest posts: they lived long together, and were
happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent. After an interval of several years, the troops which
he commanded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to
take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife.
Here they suffered a siege, and the city, at length, was taken.
"Few  histories can produce more various instances of
cruelty, than those which the French and Italians at that time
exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors,
upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death;
but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he
was principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their
determinations were, in general, executed- almost as soon as
resolved upon
3.11",The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner,
with his sword, stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy
silence, awaited the fatal blow, which was on'y suspended till
the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It
was in this interval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda
came to take her last farewell of her husband and deliverer,
deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that
had saved her from perishing, by a premature death, in the
river Volturnus, to be the spectator of still greater calamities.
TI'he general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise
at her beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still stronger
emotions, when he heard her mention her former dangers. He
was her son; the infant, for whom she had encountered so
much danger. He acknowledged her, at once, as his mother,
and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed. The
captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship,
and duty could confer on each, was enjoyed."    GOLDSXITH.
LESSON CXLIV.
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE: AN ALLEGORY.
"LIFE," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which
we are perpetually changing our scenes; we first leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then the better and more pleasing part of old age."
The perusal of this passage having excited in me a train of
reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluctuation of his
wishes, the gradual change of his disposition to all external
objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along the
stream of time, I sunk into a slumber amid my meditations,
and, on a sudden, found my ears filled with a tumult of labor,
the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of
winds, and the dash of waters.
My astonishment, for a time, repressed my curiosity; but
soon recovering myself, so far as to inquire whither we were
going, and what was the cause of such clamor and confusion, I
was told that we were launching out into the ocean of life, that
312YOUNG LADIES' READER.                  313
we had already passed the straits of infancy, in which multitudes had perished, some by the weakness and fragility of their
vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence of
those who undertook to steer them; and that we were now on
the main sea,- abandoned to the winds and billows, without
any other means of security than the care of the pilot, whom it
was always in our power to choose among the great number
that offered their direction and assistance.
I then looked around with anxious eagerness, and first, turning my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery
islands, which every one that sailed along seemed to behold
with pleasure, but no sooner touched, than the current, which,
though not noisy or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him
away. Beyond these islands all was darkness, nor could any
of the passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked.
Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violently
agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most perspicacious eye could sde but a little way. It appeared to be
full of rocks and whirlpools: for many sunk unexpectedly,
while they were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting
those whom they had left behind.
So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and so thick the
darkness, that no caution could confer security.  Yet there
were many, who, by false intelligence, betrayed their followers
into whirlpools, or, by violence, pushed those whom they
found in their way against the rocks.  The current was
invariable and insurmountable. But, though it was impossible
to sail against it, or to return to the place that was once passed,
yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities for dexterity or courage, since, though none could retreat from danger,
yet they might avoid it by an oblique direction.
It was, however, not very common to steer with much care
or prudence; for, by some universal infatuation, every man
appeared to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts
every moment sinking around him; and no sooner had the
waves closed over them, than their fate and their misconduct
were forgotten. The voyage was pursued with the same jocund
confidence; every man congratulated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and believed himself able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, or glide over the
27rocks on which he was dashed; nor was it often observed that
the sight of a wreck made any man change his course; if
he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and
left himself again to the disposal of chance. This negligence
did not proceed from indifference, or from weariness of their
condition; for not one of those, who thus rushed upon destruction, failed, when he was sinking, to call loudly upon his associates for that help which could not now be given him; and
many spent their last moments in cautioning others against the
folly by which they were intercepted in the midst of their
course.  Their benevolence was sometimes praised, but their
admonitions were unregarded.
In the midst of the current of life was the gulf of Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which
the pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops
covered with herbage, on which Ease spread couches of repose,
and with shades where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation.
Within sight of these rocks, all who sail on the ocean of life
must necessarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand,
to steer the passengers through a narrow outlet by which
they might escape; but few  could, by her entreaties or
remonstrances, be induced to put the rudder into her hand,
without stipulating that she should approach so near to the
rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace themselves with a
short enjoyment of -that delicious region, after which they
always determined to pursue their course without any other
deviation.
Reason was too often prevailed upon so far, by these promises, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulf of
Intemperance, where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but
yet interrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, toward  the center.  She then repented her
temerity, and, with all her force, endeavored to retreat; but the
draught of the gulf was generally too strong to be overcome;
and the passenger, having danced in circles, with a pleasing
and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed and lost.
As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude
about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from
some unknown power: "Gaze not idly upon others, when
thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless tranquil314YOUNG LADIES' READER.                 315
lity, when thou and they are equally endangered?" I looked,
and seeing the gulf of Intemperance before me, started and
awoke.                                         DR. JoHNsoN.
LESSON CXLV.
THE EMIGRANT'S ABODE.
IN making remoter journeys- from the town, beside the rivulets, and in the little bottoms not yet in cultivation, I discerned
the smoke rising in the woods, and heard the strokes of the ax,
the tinkling of bells, and the baying of dogs, and saw the
newly arrived emigrant either raising his log cabin, or just entered into possession.
It has afforded me more pleasing reflections, a happier train
of associations, to contemplate those -beginnings of social toil in
the wide wilderness, than, in our more cultivated regions, to
come in view of the most sumptuous mansion. Nothing can
be more beautiful than these little bottoms, upon which these
emigrants deposit, if I may so say, their household gods.
Springs burst forth in the intervals between the, high and low
grounds.  The trees and shrubs are of the  most beautiful
kind. The brilliant red-bird is seen flitting among the shrubs,
or, perched on a tree, seems welcoming, in her mellow notes,
the emigrant to his abode. Flocks of paroquets are glittering
among the trees, and gray squirrels are skipping from branch
to branch.
In the midst of these primeval scenes, the patient and laborious father fixes his family. In a few weeks they have reared
a comfortable cabin, and other out-buildings. Pass this place
in two years, and you will see extensive fields of corn and
wheat, a young and thrifty orchard, fruit-trees of all kinds, the
guarantee of present abundant subsistence, and of future luxury. Pass it in ten years, and the log buildings will have disappeared. The shrubs and forest trees will be gone. The
Arcadian aspect of humble and retired abundance and comfort
will have given place to a brick house, with accompaniments
like those that attend the same kind of house in the older
countries. By this time, the occupant who came there, perhaps, with a small sum of money, and moderate expectations,
from humble life, and with no more than a common school
education, has been made, in succession, member of the assembly, justice of the peace, and, finally, county judge.
I admit, that the first residence among the trees affords the
most agreeable picture to my mind; and that there is an inexpressible charm in the pastoral simplicity of those years, before
pride and self-consequence have banished the repose of their
Eden, and when you witness the first strugglings of social toil
with the barren luxuriance of nature.            T. FLINT.
LESSON CXLVI.
A SONG OF EMIGRATION.
THERE was heard a song on the chiming sea,
A mingled breathing of grief and glee;
Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there,
Filling with triumph the sunny air;
Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new,
Tt sang, while the bark through the surges flew.
But ever and anon
A murmur of farewell,
Told by its plaintive tone,
That from woman's lip it fell.
"Away, away, o'er the foaming main!"
This was the free and joyous strain-,;
"There are clearer skies than ours, afar,
We will shape our course by a brighter star;
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath pressed,
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest."
"But alas! that we should go,"
Sang the farewell voices then,
"From the, homesteads warm and low,
By the brook, and in the glen!"
"We will rear new homes, under trees that glow
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough;
O'er our white walls we will train the vine,
And sit in its shadow at day's decline;
316And watch our herds as they range at will
Through the green savannas, all bright and still."
"But woe for that sweet shade
Of the flowering orchard-trees,
Where first our children played'Mid birds and honey-bees!"
"All, al. our own shall the forests be,
As to the bound of the roe-buck free!
None shall say,' Hither, no further pass!'
We will track each step through the wavy grass,
We will chase the elk in his speed and might,
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night."
"But oh! the gray church-tower,
And the sound of the Sabbath bell,
And the sheltered garden bower,
We have bid them all farewell!"
"We will give the names of our fearless race,
To each bright river whose course we trace;
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods,
And the path of our daring in boundless woods:
And our works on many a lake's green shore,
Where the Indians' graves lay alone, before."
"But who shall teach the flowers
Which our children loved, to dwell
In a soil that is not ours?
Home, home and friends,farewell!"
MRS. HEMANS.
LESSON CXLVII.
THE BACKWOO D SMAN.
THE silent wilderness for me!
Where never sound is heard,
Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot,
And the flitting wing of bird,
Or its low and interrupted note,
And the deer's quick, crackling tread,
And the swaying of the forest boughs,
As the wind moves overhead.
3171. dbsolute E~)mphasis.
SOMrETIMES a word is emphasized simply to indicate the importance of the idea.  This is called ABSOLUTE EMPHASIS.
The following are examples.
To arms! they come, the Greek! the Greek  
STRIKE-till the last armed foe expires,
STRIKE--for your altars and your fires,
STRIKIE--for the green graves of your sires,
Gon--and your native land.
Woe unto you PHARISEES! HYPocRITES!
Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll.
In inlstances like the last, it is sometimes called the emphasis of specification.
2. Relative Emphasis.
WORDS are often emphasized, in order to exhibit the idea
they express as compared or contrasted with some other idea.
This is called RELATIVE EMPHAS1S. The following are examples.
It is much better to be injured, than to injure.
They fight for plunder, we, for our country.
Homer was the greater genius, Virgil, the better artist
This is sometimes carried through several sets or pairs of
antithesis, or contrasted words.  In the following examples,
there are two sets of antithesis in the same sentence.
John was punished; William, rewarded.
Without were fightings, withiz were fears.
Business sweetens pleasure, as labor sweetens rest.
Justice gives reward to merit, and punishmnent to crime.
The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation, the fool,
when he gains the applause of others.
In the following examples the relative emphasis is applied to
three sets of antithetic words.
The difference between a madman and a fool is, that the former reasons
justly from false data; and the latter, erroneously, from just data.
A friend cannot be known in prosperity; an enemy cannot be hidden
in adversity.
They follow an adventurer whom they fear; we serve a monarch whom
we love.
o30
EMPHASIS.318                YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Alone, (how glorious to be free!)
My good dog at my side,
My rifle hanging in my arm,
I range the forests wide.
And now the regal buffalo
Across the plains I chase;
Now track the mountain stream to find
The beaver's lurking place.
I stand upon the mountain's top,
And (solitude profound!)
Not even a woodman's smoke curls up
Within the horizon's bound.
Below, as o'er its ocean breadth
The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves
Is glancing in the sun.
I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,
And this imperial domain,
This kingdom, all is mine.
This bending heaven, these floating clouds,
Waters that ever roll,
And wilderness of glory, bring
Their offerings to my soul.
My palace, built by GOD'S own hand,
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,
Pillared and roofed with green;
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences;
My festal lamps are stars.
Though, when in this, my lonely home,
My star-watched couch I press,
I hear no fond "good night," think not
I am companionless.
O, no! I see my father's house,
The hill, the tree, the stream,
And the looks and voices of my home
Come gently to my dream.And in these solitary haunts,
While slumbers every tree
In night and.silence, GOD himself
Seems nearer unto me.
I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;
And, as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hushed in prayer.    E. PEABODY.
LESSON CXLVIII.
THE SETTLER.
His echoing ax the settler swung
Amid the sea-like solitude,
And rushing, thundering, down were flung
The Titans of the wood;
Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed
From out his mossy nest, which crashed
With its supporting bough,
And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed
On the wolf's haunt below.
Rude was the garb, and strong the frame,
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:
To form that garb, the wild-wood game
Contributed their spoil;
The soul that warmed that frame, disdained
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned
Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,
This forest tamer decked.
The paths which wound'mid gorgeous trees,
The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,
The winds that swelled their harmonies
Through these sun-hiding bowers,
The temple vast, the green arcade,
The nestling vale, the grassy glade,
Dark cave, and swampy lair;
These scenes and sounds majestic, made
His world, his pleasures, there.
319320                YOUNG LADIES' READER.
His roof adorned a pleasant spot,'Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,
And herbs and plants the woods knew no.,
Thrived in the sun and rain.
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,
Which was the living chronicle
Of deeds that wrou(rht the change.
The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,
The rose of summer spread its glow,
The maize hung out its Autumn fringe,
Rude Winter brought his snow;
And still the lone one labored there,
His shout and whistle woke the air,
As cheerily he plied
His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.
He marked the fire-storm's blazing-flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth-and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath;
He marlied the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day
With streaming bough and severed root,
Hurled whizzing on its way.
His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,
The grim bear hushed his savage growl
In blood and foam the panther gnashed
His fangs with dying howl;
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,
Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,
And with its moaning cry,
The beaver sank beneath the wound,
Its pond-built Venice by.
Humble the lot, yet his the race,
When liberty sent forth her cry,
Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place,
To fight, to bleed, to die;
WVho cumhered Bunker's hight of red,By hope through weary years were led,
And witnessed Yorktown's sun
Blaze on a nation's banner spread,
A nation's freedom won.        A. B. STREET.
LESSON CXLIX.
THANKS GIVING.
THANKSGIVING! There is a magic in the sound of the
word, which calls up from the grave of years the shadows of
departed pleasures, breathes upon them the breath of life, fills
them with their original attributes, decorates them again with
the freshness of reality, and bids them move before the enraptured imagination, a long and gay procession of images, reflecting the innocence of childhood, the generous affection of youth,
and the fervency and faithfulness of that unsophisticated and
momentary interval, which precedes the entrance on the scenes
of business and bustle, of anxiety and calculation, of coldhearted indifference, of selfish distrust, and, perhaps, of treacherous friendship and insidious hypocrisy.
First in the smiling pageant approaches the child, rich--O
how rich, beyond the wealth of princes!--in the possession of
its primers and playthings, wondering at all the bustle of preparation for the feast, and inquiring, with characteristic simplicity, the meaning of the unusual prodigality and ceremony which
every where meet and enchant its unaccustomed eye. Next,
comes the troop of schoolboys, with limbs all life and elasticity,
and hearts all harmony and gladness, drunk with their dream
of liberty and release from study; and mingled with these are
the less happy, but, perhaps, more fortunate boys, whose lot
compels them to labor for their bread, with well-strung nerves
and bodies invigorated by health and exercise, bounding, to find
their homes, over fields and meadows, over brook and patlh
with hearts as ulnconcerned and steps as light as those of the
roe or the young hart on the mountains of spices.  The apprentice, the implements of'his handcraft laid by, and the
stinted portion of his daily simple subsistence forgotten, his
eyes glistening with exultation, and his breast heaving with the
321322              YOUNG LADIES' READER.
fullness of anticipation, rushes along to meet at home the
anxious parent, proud of the boy's advance in a trade, that will
make him independent, and the younger child, who wonders
if a year can have wrought so astonishing a transformation,
and almost doubts his identity.
Now  approach the brother and the sister, whom a few
months of separation have rendered more affectionate; the
friends, whom difference of employment or variety of pursuit
had partially estranged; the lovers, whose impatient hearts,
though blessed with frequent and delightful intercourse, welcome the return of Thanksgiving as the day when hope and
love are to find their consummation, the day which is forever
after to be more sacred in their calendar than all the days of
the year besides.  But the images too thickly throng, " too fast
they crowd," for the powers of description. In the midst of
the gay and glorious assembly are the father, the mother, the
patriarch bowed with years, and she who has been the nurse
of generations, partaking of the general joy and congratulation,
nor murmuring that, while such a scene engages and employs
their faculties, the wheels of time do not more rapidly bring on
the promised period of translation to another and more enduring heaven.
An anonymous modern writer has beautifully said, "There
are moments in existence which comprise the power of years;
as thousands of roses are contained in a few drops of their
essence."  The remark is no more beautiful than just. I
once witnessed an incident, which made me feel its truth,
though long before the sentiment itself was written.  In one
of the largest villages in the eastern part of Connecticut, a
woman was left a widow with ten children, all but one of
whom were under twenty years of age. The family had once
enjoyed a competence, and looked forward to years of ease
and plenty. Toward the close of the revolutionary war, the
father, thinking to make a profitable speculation, disposed of a
large and profitable stock in trade, and received in payment
what, at the time, was called cash, but which turned out
shortly after to be worthless paper; bills of the old "Continental currency."  These bills were laid up in his desk, and
soon began to depreciate in value. The deterioration went on
from  day to day, and in a few months the bubble burst; andthe fund, which had been hoarded to educate a family, would
not buy thenm a breakfast.  At this moment the father died.
I will not trace the history of this family through its days
of destitution and poverty.  It is sufficient to state that the
children were scattered in various directions, -and engaged in
various employments, till at length all were gone, and the mother
left alone, dependent on friends for a bedroom, and on the labor
of her hands for her own subsistence; a precarious dependence, for to other misfortunes had succeeded the loss of health.
In process of time, one of the sons, having completed his apprenticeship, hired a house for his mother, and lived with her,
while he followed the occupation of a shoemaker. Thanksgiving Day came; and with it, returned an opportunity to indulge in its peculiar rites, which they had not enjoyed for
ten years.  The two younger boys, who lived at a distance
from each other and from  the parent, came HOME tO keep
Thanksgiving.
The festive preparations were completed. The table was
spread. Around it stood a mother and three sons, who had
not been assembled together before within the remembrance
of the youngest of the group.  The grateful and pious mother
lifted her heart and her voice to the widow's God, and uttered
a blessing on that kindness which had not broken the bruised
reed, and that goodness which had remembered all her sorrows,
and permitted her once more to see so many of her orphan
children assembled around her. Her expressions of gratitude
were not finished, when the tide of affection and thanksgiving,
which swelled the heart, overpowered the physical faculties.
Her bosom heaved with strong convulsions, her utterance was
choked, the lips could not relieve by words the emotions which
filled the soul: she faltered, and would have fallen, had not
the elder son caught and sustained her in his arms. Tears, at
length, came to her relief, and the earthquake of the soul was
succeeded by those grateful and affectionate sensations, which
can find no parallel but in a mother's heart.
It is more than forty years since this incident took place.
The scene is now as fresh and bright to my imagination, as it
was at the moment of its occurrence.:Eternity cannot obliterate its impression from my memory; for that widow was MY
MOTHER.                                   J. T. BUCKINGEAIM.
323LESSON CL.
DUTIES OF AMEMICAN MOTHERS.
IT is by the promulgation of sound morals in the coinmunity, and, more especially, by the training and instruction of
the young, that woman performs her part towards the preservation of a free government. It is now generally admitted, that
public liberty, the perpetuity of a free constitution, rests on the
virtue and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. How
is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be
communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madam De Stael in
what manner he could most promote the happiness of France.
Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said; "Instruct
the mothers of the French people." Because the mothers are
the affectionate and' effective teachers of the human race. The
mother begins this process of training with the infant in her
arms. It is she who directs, so to speak, its first mental and
spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible
years of childhood and youth; and hopes to deliver it to the
rough contest, and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those
good principles which her child has first received from maternal care and love.
If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers
of a civilized nation, what do we see? We behold so many
artificers, working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on
the immortal mind, molding and fashioning beings who are to
exist forever; We applaud the artist whose skill and genius
present the mimic man upon the canvas; we admire and celebrate the sculptor who works out that same image in enduring
marble; but how insignificant are these achievements, though
the highest and the fairest in all the departments of art, in comparison with the great vocation of human mothers! They
work not upon the canvas that shall fail, or the mnarble that
shall crumble into dust, but upon mind; upon spirit, which is
to last forever, and which is to bear, throughout its duration,
the impress of a mother's plastic hand.
I have already expressed the opinion, which all allow to be
correct, that our security for the duration of the free institutions which bless our country, depends upon the habits of
virtue, and the prevalence of knowledge and education. Know324ledge does not comprise all which is contained in the larger
term of education. The feelings are to be disciplined; the
passions are to be restrained; true and worthy motives are to
be inspired; a profound religious feeling is to be instilled, and
pure morality inculcated under all circumstances.
All this is comprised in education. Mothers who are faithful to this great duty, will tell their children that neither in
political nor in any other concerns of life, can man ever withdraw himself from the perpetual obligations of conscience and
duty; that in every act, whether public or private, he incurs a
just responsibility; and that in no condition is he warranted in
trifling with important rights and obligations. They will impress upon their children the truth, that the exercise of the
elective franchise is a social duty, of as solemn a nature as man
can be called to perform; that a man may not innocently trifle
with his vote; that every free elector is a trustee as well for
others as himself; and that every man and every measure he
supports, has an important bearing on the interests of others
as well as on his own. It is in the inculcation of pure and
high morals such as these, that, in a free Republic, woman
performs her sacred duty, and fulfils her high destiny.
D. WEBSTER.
LESSON CLI.
(Elliptical.)
LADY AR-ABELLA JOHNSON.
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 (..       She died in a very
short time after her ( i.'.'), and lies buried near the neighboring shore. No stone, or other memorial, indicates the exact
(  -..... ); but tradition has (.. ) it with a holy
reverence.  The remembrance of her (... ) is yet
fresh in all.our thoughts; and many a heart still kindles with
(,.....- ) of her virtues; and many a bosom heaves with
sighs at her untimely- end.
325What, 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
('/;.'<.-~:) by affluence; with every prospect which could
make hope gay, and fortune desirable; accustomed to the
(-ak,;v <; ) of a court, and the scarcely less splendid hospitalities of her ancestral home; she was yet (::.. 4.t) to
quit, what has, not inaptly, been termed "-this paradise of
plenty and pleasure," for "a wilderness of wants," and, with
a fortitude (.. ) to the delicacies of her rank and sex, to
trust herself to an unknown ocean and a distant (  <     )
that she might partake,'with her husband, the pure and spiritual
worship of God.
To the honor, to the eternal honor of her sex, be it said,
that, in the path of duty, no (" i'~..  j) is with them too
high or too dear.  Nothing is with them (..-   ), but to
shrink from what love, honor, innocence, religion, require.
The voice of pleasure or of power may pass by unheeded;
but the voice of affliction, never. The chamber of the sick,
the pillow of the dying, the vigils of the dead, the altars of
religion, never missed the presence or the sympathies of
(... ). Timid though she be, and so delicate that the
winds of heaven may not too (.    ) visit her, on such
occasions she loses all sense of danger, and assumes a preternatural courage, which knows not, and fears not (.')..
Then she displays 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 (.          )'even over death itself.
The lady Arabella (   ~       ) in this noble undertaking,
of which she seemed the ministering angel; and her death
spread (..   i ) gloom throughout the colony.  Her husband was overwhelmed with (... ) at the unexpected
event, and survived her but a single month. Governor Winthrop has pronounced his eulogy in one short sentence:'" He
was a holy man, and wise, and died in sweet peace."
He was truly the idol of the people; and the spot selected
by himself for his own (... ) became consecrated in
their eyes; so that many left it as a' dying request, that they
might be buried by his side. Their request prevailed; and
326YOUNG LADIES' READER.                 327
thle Chapel burying-ground in Boston, which (. ~;   
his remains, became, from that time, appropriated to the
( (i:. r, -.    ) of the dead.  Perhaps the best tribute to this
excellent pair is, that time, which, with so unsparing a hand,
consigns statesmen, and heroes, and even sages, to oblivion,
has embalmed the memory of their worth, and preserved it
among the choicest of New England relics. It can scarcely
be forgotten, but with the annals of our country.  STORY.
L E SSO N s CL l.
TRIALS OF THE PILGRIMS.
FROM  the dark portals of the Star Chamber, and in the
stern text of the acts of uniformity, the Pilgrims received a
commission more efficient than any that ever bore the royal
seal.  Their banishment to Holland was fortu'nate; the decline
of their little company in a strange land was fortunate; the
difficulties which they experienced in getting the royal consent
to banish themselves to this wilderness were fortunate; all
the tears and heart-breakings of that ever memorable parting at
Delfthaven, had the happiest influence on the rising destinies
of New England. All this purified the ranks of the settlers.
These rough touches of fortune brushed off the light, uncertain,
selfish spirits. They made it a grave, solemn, self-denying
expedition, and required of those, who engaged in it, to be so
too. T'hey cast a broad shadow of thought and seriousness
over the cause; and if this sometimes deepened into melancholy and bitterness, can we find no apology for such a human
weakness?
It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters which the little
band of pilgrims encountered; sad to see a portion of them the
prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously embarked in an
unsound, unseaworthy ship, which they are soon obliged to
abandon, and crowd themselves into one vessel; one hundred
persons, besides the ship's company, in a vessel of one
hundred and eighty tons! One is touched at the story of the
long, cold, and weary autumnal passage; of the landing on theIn many instances one part only of the antithesis is expressed, the corresponding idea being understood; as,
A friendly eye would never see such faults.
Here the unfriendly eye is understood.
King Henry exclaims, while vainly endeavoring to compose
himself to rest;
How many thousands of my subjects are at this hour asleep.
Here the emphatic words thousands, subjects, and asleep are
contrasted in idea with their opposites, and if the contrasted
ideas were expressed, it would be done something in this way:
While I alone their sovereign am doomed to wakefulness.
3. Emphatic Phrase.
SOMETIMES, several words in succession are emphasized.
The following are examples.
Shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and not only of the Alpine
nations, but of the Alps themselves-shall I compare myself with this
HALF-YEAR-CAPTAIN  
There was a time, my fellow-citizens, when the Lacedaimonians were
sovereign masters, both by sea and land; while this state had not one shipno, NOT---ONE-WALL.
4.  Emphatic  Pause.
An emphatic expression of sentiment often requires a pause,
where the grammatical construction authorizes none.'rhis is
sometimes called the rhetorical pause. Such pauses occur,
chiefly, before or after an emphatic word or phrase, and sometimes both before and after it.  Their object is, to attract attention to  the emphatic idea, or to give the mind time to dwell
upon it, and thus strengthen the impression.
Examples. Rise-fellow-men! our country- yet remains!
By that dread name we wave the sword on high,
And swear,for her - to live -v with her - to die.
But most --by numbers judge the poet's song;
And smooth or rough, with them is - right or wronzg.
He said; then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo! -'twas white.
31
EMPHASIS.inhospitable rocks at this dismal season, where they are
deserted, before long, by the ship which had brought them,
and which seemed their only hold upon the world of fellowmen; a prey to the elements and to want, and fearfully ignorant of the numbers, the power, and the temper of the savage
tribes that filled the unexplored continent upon whose verge
they had ventured. But all this wrought together for good.
These trials of wandering and exile, of the ocean, the winter,
the wilderness, and the savage foe, were the final assurance of
success.
It was these that put far away from our fathers' cause all
patrician softness, all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. No
effeminate nobility crowded into the dark and austere ranks of
the Pilgrims; no Carr or Villiers would lead on the ill-provided
band of despised Puritans; no well-endowed clergy were on
the alert to quit their cathedrals, and set up a pompous hierarchy in the frozen wilderness; no craving governors were
anxious to be sent over to our cheerless El Dorados of ice and
of snow. No. They could not say that they encouraged, patronized, or helped the pilgrims. Their own cares, their own
labors, their own counsels, their own blood, contrived all,
achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They could not afterward
fairly pretend to reap where they had not sown; and, as our
fathers reared this broad and solid fabric with pains and watchfulness, unaided, barely tolerated, it did not fall when the favor,
which had always been withholden, was changed into wrath;
when the arm, which had never supported, was raised to
destroy.
Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel,
the May-Flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I
behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain,
the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months
pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them
not in sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily
supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in
their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous
route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the
high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls
through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from
328their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship
leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks
and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats,
with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel.
I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but
desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months'
passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth; weak and weary
from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending
on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on
board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter,
without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.
Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, in how
many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage
tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England?
Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on
which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish
on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the
baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this.
Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads
of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals?
was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady
of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart,
aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved
and left, beyond the sea? was it some, or all of these united,
that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate?
And is it possible that none of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible,
that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so
much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress
so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a
reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?
E. EVERETT.
28
329LESSON CLIII.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.
THE breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung 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 drums,
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 hymns of lofty cheer.
Amid the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of 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.
There were men with hoary hair,
Amid that pilgrim band;
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land.
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar.
Bright jewels of the mine.
330The wealth of seas, the spoils of war t
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found,
Freedom to worship God!         MRS. HMXAKrs.
LESSON CLIV.
THE VAUDOIS WIFE.
[The wife of a Vaudois leader, in an attack made on one of their hamlets,
received a mortal wound, and died in her husband's arms, exhorting him
to courage and endurance.]
THY voice is in mine ear, beloved!
Thy look is in my heart,
Thy bosom is' my resting-place,
And yet I must depart.
Earth on my soul is strong, too strong,
Too precious is its chain,
All woven of thy love, dear friend,
Yet vain--though mighty-vain!
Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved!
Thou seest my life-blood flow.
Bow to the chastener silently,
And calmly let me go.
A little while between our hearts
The shadowy gulf must lie,
Yet have we, for their communing,
Still, still, Eternity.
Alas! thy tears are on my cheek,
My spirit they detain;
I know that from thine agony
Is wrung that burning rain.
Best, kindest, weep not; make the pang,
The bitter conflict, less;
Oh! sad it is, and yet a joy,
To feel thy love's excess.
331'YOUNG LADIES' READER.
But calm thee! Let the thought of death
A solemn peace restore!
The voice that must be silent soon,
Would speak to thee once more,
That thou mayst bear its blessings on
Through years of after-life;
A token of consoling love
Even from this hour of strife.
I bless thee for the noble heart,
The tender, and the true,
Where mine hath found the happiest rest,
That e'er fond woman's knew;
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide,
For my own, my treasured share,
In the mournful secrets of thy soul,
In thy sorrow, in thy prayer.
I bless thee for kind looks and words
Showered on my path like dew;
For all the love in those deep eyes,
A gladness ever new;
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied
But in kindly tones of cheer;
For every spring of happiness,
My soul hath tasted here.
I bless thee for the last, rich boon
Won from affection tried,
The right to gaze on death with thee,
To perish by thy side;
And yet more for the glorious hope
Even to these moments given;
Did not thy spirit ever lift
The trust of mine to Heaven?
Now be thkou strong! Oh! knew we not
Our path must lead to this?
A shadow and a trembling still
Were mingled with our bliss.
We plighted our young hearts, when storms
Were dark upon the sky,
In full, deep knowledge of their task,
To suffer and to die..132YOUNG LADIES' BEADER.                    333
Be strong! I leave the living voice
Of this, my martyred blood,
With the thousand echoes of the hills,
With the torrent's foaming flood.
A spirit'mid the caves to dwell,
A token on the air,
To rouse the valiant from repose,
The fainting from despair.
Hear it, and bear thou on, my love-!
Ay, joyously endure!
Our mountains must be altars yet,
Inviolate and pure;
There must our God be worshiped still
With the worship of the free;
Farewell! there's but one pang in death,
One only,--leaving thee!       MRS. HEMANS.
LESSON CLV.
MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.
THOU'RT passing hence, my brother!
Oh! my earliest friend, farewell!
Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice,
In a lonely home to dwell;
And from the hills, and from the -hearth,
And from the household-tree,
With thee departs the lingering mirth,
The brightness goes with thee.
But thou, my friend, my brother!
Thou'rt speeding to the shore
Where the dirge-like tone of parting words
Shall smite the soul no more.
And thou wilt see our holy dead,
The lost on earth and main;
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts,
Thou wilt be bound again.
Tell, then, our friend of boyhood,
That yet his name is heard
On the blue mountains, whence his youth
Passed, like a swift, bright bird.The light of his exulting brow,
The visions of his glee,
Are on me still; oh! still I trust
That smile again to see.
And tell our fair, young sister,
The rose, cut down in spring,
That yet my gushing soul is filled
With lays she loved to sing,
Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams,
Tender, and sadly sweet:
Tell her my heart within me burns,
Once more that gaze to meet.
And tell our white-haired father,
That in the paths he trod,
The child he loved, the last on earth,
Yet walks, and worships God.
Say, that his last, fond blessing yet
Rests on my soul like dew,
And by its hallowing might I trust
Once more his face to view.
And tell our gentle mother,
That on her grave I pour
The sorrows of my spirit forth
As on her breast of yore.
Happy thou art, that soon, how soon,
Our glad and bright will see!
Oh! brother, brother! may I dwell,
Ere long, with them and thee!   Mns. HErANs.
LESSON CLVI.
ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA.
"4 ONLY one night at sea,"'T was thus the promise ran,By frail, presumptuous mortal given,
To vain, confiding man;
"Only one night at sea,
And land shall bless thy sight,
When morning's rays dispel
The shadows of that night."
334The pledge has been received,
The vessel leaves the shore,
Bearing the beautiful and brave,
Who ne'er shall greet us more;
And- every heart beats high,
As bounding o'er the wave,
The gallant bark moves on
To bear them to their grave.
The merry beams of day
Before the darkness flee,
And gloomy night comes slowly on,
That " only night at sea."'
The watch upon the deck
Their weary vigils keep,
And countless stars look down
In beauty o'er the deep.
Within that stately boat
The prattler's voice is still,
And beauty's lovely form is there,
Unheeding of the ill;
And manhood's vigorous mind
Is wrapped in deep repose,
And sorrow's victim lies
Forgetful of his woes.
But, hark! that fearful sound,
That wild appalling cry,
That wakes the sleepers from their dreams,
And rouses them-to die:
Ah, who shall tell the hopes
That rose, so soon to flee;
The good resolves destroyed
By that "one night at sea!"
That hour hath passed away,
The morning's beams are bright,
As if they met no record there
Of that all-fearful night;
But many souls have fled
To far eternity,
And many hearts been wrecked
In that" one night at sea."
335Great God! whose hand hath launched
Our boat upon life's sea,
And given us as a pilot there
A spirit bold and free,
So guide us with thy love,
That our frail barks may be,'Mid waves of doubt and fear,
"Only one night at sea."    R. M. CCHARLTON'.
LESSON CLVII.
THE TRANSPORT.
THE great eye of day was wide open, and a joyful light
filled air, heaven, and ocean. The marbled clouds lay motionless far and wide over the deep, blue sky, and all memory of
storm and hurricane had vanished from the magnificence of that
immense calm. There was but a gentle fluctuation on the
bosom of the deep, and the sea-birds floated steadily there, or
dipped their wings for a moment in the wreathed foam, and
again wheeled sportively away into the sunshine. One ship,
only one single ship, was within the encircling horizon, and
she had lain there as if at anchor since the morning light; for,
although all her sails were set, scarcely a wandering breeze
touched her canvas, and her flags hung dead on staff and at
peak, or lifted themselves uncertainly up at intervals, and then
sunk again into motionless repose. The crew paced not her
deck, for they knew that no breeze would come till after meridian, and it was the Sabbath day.
A small congregation were singing praises to God in that
chapel, which rested almost as quietly on the sea, as the house
of worship in which they had been used to pray then rested,
far off on a foundation of rock, in a green valley of their forsaken Scotland. They were emigrants, without hope of seeing
again the mists of their native mountains. But as they heard
the voice of their psalm, each singer half forgot that it blended
with the sound of the sea, and almost believed himself sitting,
in the kirk of his own beloved parisk. But hundreds of billowy
leagues intervened between them and the little tinkling bell that
was now tolling their happier friends to the quiet house of God
336And now an old, gray-headed man rose to pray, and held up
his withered hand in fervent supplication for all around, whom,
in good- truth, he called his children; for three generations
were with the patriarch in that tabernacle.  There, in one
group were husbands and wives standing together, in awe of
Hiln who held the deep in the hollow of his hand; there,
youths and maidens, li'nked together by the feeling of the same
destiny, some of them, perhaps, hoping, when they reached the
shore, to lay their heads on one pillow; there, children, hand
in lhand, happy in the wonders of the ocean, and there, mere
infants smiling on the sunny deck, and unconscious of the
meaning of hymn or prayer.
A low, confinled, growling noise was heard struggling beneath the deck, and a sailor, called with a loud voice, " Fire!
fire! the ship's on fire!"  Holy words died on the prayer's
tongue! the congregation fell asunder; and pale faces, wild
eyes, groans, shrieks, and outcries rent the silence of the lonesome sea. No one for awhile knew the other, as all were
hurried as in a whirlwind up and down the ship. A dismal
heat, all unlike the warmth of that beautiful sun, came stiflingly on every breath. Mothers, who in their first terror had
shuddered but for themselves, now clasped their infants to their
breasts, and lifted up their eyes to heaven.
Bold, brave men grew white as ashes, and hands, strengthened by toil and storm, trembled like the aspen-leaf. "Gone!
gone! we are all gone!" was now the cry; yet no one knew
whence that cry came; and men glared reproachfully on each
other's countenances, and strove to keep down the audible
beating of their own hearts. The desperate love of life drove
them instinctively to their stations, and the water was poured,
as by the strength of giants, down among the smoldering
flames. But the devouring element roared up into the air; and
deck, masts, sails, and shrouds, were one crackling and hissing
sheet of fire.
"Let down the boat!" was now the yell of hoarse voices;
and in an instant she was filled with life. Then, there was
frantic leaping into the sea; and all who were fast drowning
moved convulsively towards that little ark. Some sunk down
at once into oblivion; some grasped at nothing with their disappearing hands; some seized in vain unquenched pieces of the
29
33732                  THE READING OF POETRY.
And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus,- THOU - IIAST - LIED!
Heaven gave this Lyre, and thus decreed,
Be thou a bruised - but not a broken  reed.
Questions. - When Is a word said to be emphasized? Upon what part of the
word is the increased stress placed? What is the object of emphasis? In what
other way, than the one just mentioned, can this be accomplished? How are emphatic words marked? What is said of the importance of emphasis? What other
things yield to emphasis? Give some examples in which accent yields to it?
What is absolute emphasis? Give examples. What is meant by relative emphasis?
Give the examples, and show the words contrasted. Give the examples, in which
the emphasis is carried through several sets of contrasted words, and point out
which words are opposed to each other. Is the idea corresponding to the emphatic
word ever left out? Explain the two last examples under this head, and show what
is the idea opposed to friesndly, in the one, and what are opposed to thlousand, subjects, and asleep, in the other. WVVhat is meant by the emphatic phra-se?  Give the
examples. W~hat do you understand by the emphatic pause? Where does it occur?
What'is its object? Give examples.
SECTION VI.
T H E RE ADING O F POE T RY.
Poetic Pauses.
IN  poetry, we have three sets of pauses, viz., grammatical
pauses, rhetorical pauses, and poetic pauses.  The first two
are common to  poetry and prose.  The last belongs to poetry
alone, and its object is simply to promote the melody.
At the end of each line, a slight pause is generally proper,
whatever be the grammatical construction, or the sense. The
purpose of this is, to make prominent the melody of the
measure, and, in rhyme, to allow the ear to appreciate the harmony of the similar sounds.
There is, also, another important pause, somewhere near the
middle of each line, which is,' called the cesura or cesural
pause.   It should never be so placed, as to injure the  sense.
It adds very  much to the beauty of poetry, where it naturally
coincides with the pause required by the sense.  The  follow
ing lines present an example of this pause. It is marked thus {1
There are hours long departed I whichl memory brings,
Like blossoms of Eden 1I to twine round the heart,
And as time rushes by 11 on the might of his wings,
They may darken awhile 11 but they never depart.fiery wreck; some would fain have saved a friend almost in
the last agonies; and some, strong in a savage despair, tore
from  them the clinched fingers that would hlave -dragged them
down, and forgot in fear both love and pity.
Enveloped in flames and smoke, yet insensible as a corpse
to the burning, a frantic mother flung down her baby among
the crew; and, as it fell among the upward oars unharmed, she
shrieked out a prayer of thanksgiving: "Go, husband, go; for
I am  content to die.  Oh! live! live! my husband! for our
darling Willy's salie." But, in the prime of life, and with his
manly bosomn full of health and hope, the husband looked but for
a moment, till he saw his child was safe; and then, taking his
young wife in his arms, sat down beneath the burning fragments
of the sail, with the rest that were resigned, never more to rise
up till the sound of the last trtmpet, when the faithful and
afflicted shall be raised to breathe for ever the pure air of
Heaven.                                           ANoxo.rYoxs.
LESSON CLVIII.
THE:DEAD OF THE WRECK.
[The Steamer Atlantic was wrecked, in a st'orm, on Long Island Sound,
in Nov., 1846. As soon.:  boat struck, its bell commenced tollinlg,
probally from the action 0Af:W lnd upon it, and' continued to toll slowly
and mournfully, as long aswWgjt uon of the wckrwas to be seen.l
TOLL, toll, toll;
Thou Bell by billbis swung,
And night and dayr w.yt.-rarning words
Repeat with mournfil tongue!
Toll for the queenly boat,:
WrecEed:on yon rocky shore,
Sea-weed is in her palace halls,
She rides the surge no more!
Toll for the master bold,
The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life,
Amid the crested wave!
338YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Toll for the hardy crew,
Sons of the storm and blast,
W,ho long'the tyrant Ocean dared
i But it vanquished them at last!
Toil for the man of God,
W'hose hallowed voice of prayer,
Rose calm above the stifled groan
Of Lhat intense despair!
How precious were those tones
On that sad verge of life,
Amid the fierce and freezing storm,
And the mountain billows' strife!
Toll for the lover, lost
To the summoned bridal train!
Bright glows a picture on his breast,
Beneath the unfathomed main;
One fronm her casement gazeth'
Long o'er the misty sea;
He cometh not, pale imtaiden,
His heart is cold to thee!
Toll for the absent sire,
Who to his home drew near,
To biess a glad expecting group,
Fond wife and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth,
The festal board is spread,
But a fearfuil guest is at the gate:
Room for the sheeted dead!
Toll for the loved and fair,
The whelmed beneath the tide,
The broken harps around whose strings
The dtll sea-monsters glide!
Mother and nursling sweet,
Reft't from the household throng,
There's bitter weeping in the nest
Where breat.hed their soul of song.
Toll for the hearts that bleed'Neath misery's furrowing trace!
Toll for the hapless orphan left
The last of all his race!
339Yea, with thy heaviest knellFrom surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living, not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er!
Toll, toll, toll,
O'er breeze and billow free,
And with thy startling lore instruct
Each rover of the sea;
-'        Tell how o'er proudest joys
May swift destruction sweep,
And bid him build his hopes on high;
Lone teacher of the deep!   MRs. SIGOURNET.
LESSON CLIX.
THE CHARNEL SHIP.
THE night, the long, dark night, at last,
Passed fearfully away;'Mid crashing ice, and howling blast,
They hailed the dawn of day,
Which broke to cheer the Whaler's crew,
And wide around its gray light threw.
The storm had ceased; its wrath had rent
The icy wall asunder;
And many a piercing glance they sent
Around in awe and wonder;
And sailor hearts their rude praise gave,
To God, that morn, from o'er the wave.
The breeze blew freshly, and the sun
Poured his filll radiance far
On heaps of icy fragments, won,
Sad trophies, in the past night's war
Of winds and waters, and in piles
Now drifted by bright shining isles.
But lo! still further off appears
A form more dim and dark;
And anxious eyes, and hopes, and fears,
Its slow, strange progress mark.
340YOUNG LADIES' READER.
It hastens to them, by the breeze
Borne onward from more northern seas.
Near, and more near; and can it be,
(More venturous than their own)
A Ship, whose seeming ghost they see
Among the icebergs thrown?
With broken masts, dismantled all,
And dark sails like a funeral pall.
God of the mariner! protect
IHer inmates as she moves along,
Through perils, which ere now had wrecked,
But that thine arm is strong!
Ha! she has struck! she grounds! she stands
Still, as if held by giant hands!
"' Quick, man the boat!" away they sprang,
The stranger ship to aid,
And loud their hailing voices rang,
And rapid speed they made;
But all in silence, deep, unbroke,
The vessel stood; none answering spoke.'T was fearful! not a sound arose,
No moving thing was there,
To interrupt the dread repose
Which filled each heart with fear.
On deck they silent stepped, and sought,
Till one, a man, their sad sight caught.
He was alone, the damp-chill mold
Of years hung on his cheek;
While the pen within his hand had told
The tale no voice might speak:
"Seventy days," the record stood,
"We have been in the ice, and wanted food!"
They took his book,-and turned away,
Butt soon discovered where
The wife, in her death sleep, gently lay
Near him in life mnost dear,
Who, seated beside his young heart's pride,
Long years before had calmly died.
341Oh, wedded love! how beautiful,
How pure a thing thou art,
Whose influence e'en in death can rule,
And triumph o'er the heart;
Can cheer life's roughest walk, and shed
A holy light around the dead!
There was a solemn, sacred feeling
Kindled in every breast,
And, softly from the cabin stealing,
They left them to theirrest;
The fair, the young, the constant pair,
They left tfem, with a blessing, there.
And to their boat returning, each
With thoughtfuil brow, and haste,
And o'ercharged heart, too full for speech,
They left amid that waste
The Charnel ship, which, years before,
Had sailed from distant Albion's shore.
They left her in the icebergs, where
Few venture to intrude,
A monument of death and fear,'Mid Ocean's solitude;
And grateful for their own release,
Thanked God, and sought their homes in peace.
Mas. A. P. DINXiEs.
LESSON CXL.
THE USES OF SUFFERIN G.
BENEVOLENCE has a higher aim than to bestow enjoyment.
There is a higher goo(l than enjoyment; and this requires
suffering, in order to be gained. Suffering ministers to human
excellence; it calls forth tile magnanimous and sublime virtues, and, at the same time, nourislhes the tenderest, sweetest
svmp;itllies of our nature; it rouses us to energy and to the
consciousness of our powers, and, at the same time, infuses
the meekest dependence on God; it stimulates toil for the
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
342goods of this world, and, at the same time, weans us from it,
and lifts us above it.  I lhave seen it admonishing the heedless,
reproving the presumptuous, humbling the proud, rousing the
sluggish, softening the insensible, awakening the slumbering
conscience, speaking of God to the ungrateful, infusing courage,
and force, and faith, and unwavering hope of heaven. 1 do
not then doubt God's beneficence, on account of the sorrows
and pains of life. I look without gloom  on this suffering
world.
True; suffering abounds. The wail of the mourner comes
to me fromn every region under heaven; from  every human
habialtion, for death enters into all; from the ocean, where
the groan of the dying mingles with the solemn roar of the
waves; from the fierce flame, encircling, as an atmosphere or
slhroudJ, the beloved, the revered.   Still, all these forms of
suffering do not subdue my faith; for all are fitted to awaken
the huiman soul; and through all it may be glorified.
We shrink, indeed, with horror, when imagination carries
us to the blazing, sinking vessel, where young and old, the
mother and her child, husbands, fathers, friends, are overwhelmed by a common, sudden, fearful fate. But the soul
is mightier than the unsparing elements.  I hlave read of holy
men, who, in days of persecution, have been led to the stake,
to pay the penalty of their uprightness, not in fierce and suddenly destroying flames, but in a slow fire; and, though one
retracting word would have snatched them from death, they
have chosen to be bound; and, amid the protracted agonies
of limb burning after limb, they have looked to God with
unwavering faith, and sought forgiveness for their enemies.
What then are outward fires to the celestial flame within us?
And can I feel, as though God had ceased to love, as though
man were forsaken by his Creator, because his body is scattered into ashes by the fire?
It would seem as if God intended to disarm the most terrible events of their power to disturb our faith, by making them
the occasions of the sublimest virtues.  In shipwrecks we are
fuirnished with some of the most remarkable examples that
hlistory affords, of trust in God, of unconquerable energy,
and of tender, self-sacrificing love, making  the devouring
ocean the most glorious spot on earth.  A friend rescued
343from a wreck, told me, that a company of pious Christians,
who had been left in the sinking ship, were heard, from the
boat in which he had found safety, lifting up their voices, not
in shrieks or moans, but in a joint hymn to God; thus awaiting, in a serene act of piety, the last, swift approaching hour.
How much grander was that hymn than the ocean's roar!
And what becomes of suffering, when thus awakening, into
an energy otherwise unknown, the highest sentiments of the
soul? I can shed tears over hurnan griefs; but thus viewed,
they do not discourage me: they strengthen my faith in God.
W. E. CHANNING
LESSON CLXI.
MORAL INFLUENCE OF BURIAL-PLACES.
IF this tender regard for the dead be so absolutely universal,
and so deeply founded in human affection, why  is it not made
to exert a more profound influenlce on our lives? Why do, we
not enlist it with more persuasive energy in the cause of human
improvement? Why do we not enlarge it as a source of religious consolation?  Why do we not make it a more efficient
instrument to elevate ambition, to stimulate genius, and to
dignify learning  Why do we not connect it indissolubly with
associations, which charm us in nature, and engross us in art?
Why do we not dispel from it that unlovely gloom, from which
our hearts turn, as from a darkness that ensnares, and a horror
that appalls our thoughts?
To many, nay, to most of the heathen, the burying-place
was the end of all things. They indulged no hope, at least no
solid hope, of any future intercourse or re-union with their
friends. The farewell at the grave was a long, and an everlasting farewell. At the moment when they breathed it, it brought
to their hearts a startling sense of their own wretchedness.
Yet, when the first tumults of anguish were passed, they visited
the spot, and strewed flowers, and garlands, and crowns around
it, to assuage their grief, and nourish their piety. They delighted to make it the abode of the varying beauties of nature;
344
YOUNG LADIES' READERto give it attractions which should invite the busy and the
thoughtful; and yet, at the same time, afford ample scope for
the secret indulgence of sorrow.
Why should not christians imitate such examples?  They
have far nobler motives to cultivate moral sentiments and sensibilities; to make cheerful the pathway to the grave; to combine with deep meditations on human mortality, the sublime
consolations of religion. We know, indeed, as they did of
old, that "man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go
about the streets."  But the separation is not everlasting, and
the mourners may not weep, as those who are without hope.
What is the grave to us, but a thin barrier, dividing time
from eternity, and earth from heaven?  What is it, but "the
appointed place of rendezvous, where all the travelers on life's
journey meet," for a single night of repose?
"'T is but a night, a long and moonless night,
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone."
Know we not,
"The time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea,
But must give up its long committed dust
Inviolate."
Why, then, should we darken, with systematic caution, all
the avenues to these repositories?  Why should we deposit
the remains of our friends in loathsome vaults, or-beneath the
gloomy crypts and cells of our churches; where the human
foot is never heard, save when the sickly taper lights some new
guest to his appointed apartment, and "lets fall a supernumerary horror" on the passing procession?  Why should we
measure out a narrow portion of earth for our grave-yards, in
the midst of our cities; and heap the dead upon each other,
with a cold, calculating parsimony, disturbing their ashes, and
wounding the sensibilities of the living? Why should we
expose our burying-grounds to the broad glare of day, to the
unfeeling gaze of the idler, to the noisy press of business, to
the discordant shouts of merriment, or to the baleful visitations
of the dissolute?
Why should we bar up their approaches against real mourn345346               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
ers, whose delicacy would shrink from observation, but whose
tenderness would be soothed by secret visits to the grave, and
by holding converse there with their departed joys?  Why all
this unnatural restraint upon our sympathies and sorrows,
whlich confines the visit to the grave to the only time in which
it must be utterly useless  when the heart is bleeding with
fresh anguish, and is too weak to feel, and too desolate to desire
consolation?                                         STonY.
LESSON CLXII.
DEATH AND SLEEP: A PARABLE.
LINKED together like brothers, the angel of sleep and the
angel of death walked through the earth. It was evening.
They laid themselves down upon a hill not far from the abodes
of men. A melancholy stillness reigned all around, and the
evening bell in the distant hamlet had ceased to toll. In quietness and silence, as their manner is, the two beneficent genii
of mankind sat in confiding embrace, and night was already
drawing near. Then the angel of sleep arose from his mossy
couch, and with gentle hand scattered the imperceptible seeds
of slumber. The evening wind bore them away to the habitation of the weary peasant. And now, sweet sleep calne over
the occupants of the rural cottages, from the gray head, who
goes on his staff, down to the infant in the cradle. Sickness
forgot its pains, mourning its grief, penury its cares. The eyes
of all were closed. After finishing his labor, the benevolent
angel of sleep lay down again beside his brother.
" When the morning blushes in the east," he exclaimed with
gladsome innocence, " men praise me as their friend and benefactor! 0, what joy, to do good, unseen and in secret! How
happy are we, the invisible ministers of the good spirit! How
delightful our peaceful, quiet office!" Thus spake the friendly
angel of sleep.
The angel of death looked upon him in silent sorrowfulness,
antl a tear, such as immortals weep, stood in his large, dark eye.
" Alas!" said he, 1" that I cannot, like you, congratulate myself
on the joyful gratitude of men! The whole earth calls me itsenemy, and the spoiler of its joys!"  " O, my brother," replied
the angel of sleep, " will not the good, in the resurrection, also
recognize in thee a friend and benefactor, and gratefilllv bless
thlee?  Are we not brethren, and ministers of one fitll-er?"
Thus he spake, while the eye of the angel of death brightened
up, and the fraternal genii embraced each other still more
tenderly                                   F. A. KRlnvxMACalR.
LESSON CLXIII.
THE FIRST WANDERER.
CREATION'S HEIR! the first, the last,
That knew the world his own;
Yet stood he,'mid his kingdom vast,
A fugitive, o'erthrown!.Faded and frail his glorious form,
And changed his soul within,
While Fear and Sorrow, 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 stray;
Alas! he knew them sent to keep
His guilty foot away.
Then, reckless, turned- he to his own,
The world before him spread;
But Nature's was an altered tone,And breathed rebuke and dread:
Fierce thunder-peal, and rocking gale,
Answered the storm-swept sea,
While crashing forests joined the wail;
And all said, " Cursed for thee."
This, spoke the lion's prowling roar,
And this, the victim's cry;
This, written in defenseless gore,
Forever met his eye:
34733
There is a land 1I of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven [1 o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns II dispense serener light,
And milder moons 11 imparadise the night;
Oh, thou shalt find, II howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land - thy country iI and that spot - thy home.
In lines like the following, three cesural pauses are proper.
The first and last are very slight, indeed, scarcely perceptible,
and are sometimes called demi-cesuras.
True ease [ in writing 11 comes from art, I not chance,
As those i move easiest, 11 who have learned I to dance.'Tis not I enough II no harshness ] gives offense,
The sound j must seem II an echo t to the sense:
Soft I is the strain 11 when Zephyr I gently blows,
And. the smooth stream HI in smoother [ numbers flows,
But when j loud surges 11 lash I the sounding shore,
The hoarse I rough verse 11 should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax I strives II some rock's i vast weight to throw,
The line ] too labors, II and the words i move slow.
Not so I when swift TI Camilla I scours the plain,
Flies J o'er th' unbending corn, If and skims I along the main.
Questions. - How many kinds of pauses are used in poetry? WVhich of them are
common to both poetry and prose? Which is used in poetry alone? WVhat is the
object of this latter kind? Where is a slight pause generally proper? What is its
object? What other pause in poetry is used? What is it called? Point it out in
the examples. What caution is given with regard to its use? When there are
three, what are the first and last called?
SECTION VII.
MODULATION.
1. Pitcl and Conmpass.
IF any one will notice closely a sentence as uttered in private conversation, he will observe, that scarcely two successive words are pronounced in exactly the same tone. At the
same time, however, there is a certain pitch or key, which
seems, on the whole, to prevail.  This governing note, or key
note, as it may be called, is that, upon which the voice most
frequently dwells, to which it usually returns when wearied,
and  upon which a sentence generally commences, and veryAnd not alone each sterner power
Proclaimed just Heaven's decree,
The fiaded 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.'T was 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;
While Care, and Pain, and Sorrow show
The same dark secret-Sin. Miss M. J. JEwsBuRr.
LESSON CLXIV.
PROPHETIC DESCRIPTION OF CHRIST.
BEHOLD, my servant shall deal prudently,
He shall be exalted and extolled, and be very high.
As many were astonished at thee,
(His visage was so marred more than any man,
And his form more than the sons of men,)
So shall he sprinkle many nations;
The kings shall shut their mouths At him:
For that which hath not been told them shall they see:
And that which they had not heard shall they consider.
Who hath believed our report?
And to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?
For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant,
And as a root out of dry ground:
He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see hmn,
There is no beauty that we should desire him.
348He is despised and rejected of men;
A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief:
And we hid, as it were, our faces from him;
He was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely, he hath borne our griefs,
And carried otur sorrows:
Yet we did esteem him stricken,
Smitten of God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions,
He was bruised for our iniquities:
l'he chastisement of our peace was upon him,
And with his stripes we are healed.
All we, like sheep, have gone astray;
We have turned, every one to his own way;
And the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.
He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,
Yet he opened not his mouth:
He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter,
And as a sheep before her shearers is dumb,
So he opened not his mouth.
He was taken from prison and from judgment,
And who shall declare his generation?
For he was cut off out of the land of the living:
For the transgression of my people was he stricken.
And he made his grave with the wicked,
And with the rich in his death;
Though he had done no violence,
Neither was any deceit in his. muth.
Yet it hath pleased the Lord to bruise him,
He hath put him to grief.
When thou shalt make'his soul an offering for sin,
He shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days,
And the pleasure of the Lord shall prosper in his hand.
lie shall see of the travail of his soul,and shall be satisfied;
By his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many;
For he shall bear their iniquities.
Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great,
And he shall divide the spoil with the strong;
Because he hath poured out his soul unto death:
And he was numbered with the transgressors;
And he bare the sin of many,
And made intercession for the transgressors.       ISAIAm.
349LESSON CLXV.
TRIUMPH OF TIIHE GOSPEL.
ARISE! shine! for thy light is come,
And the Glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.
For, behold! the darkness shall cover the earth,
And gross darkness the people:
But the Lord shall arise upon thee,
And his glory shall be seen upon thee.
And the Gentiles shlall come to thy light,
And kings to the brightness of thy rising.
Lift up thine eyes round about, and see!
All they gather themselves together, they come to thee:
Thy sons shall come from far,
And thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side.
Then thou shalt see, and flow together,
And thine heart shall fear, and be enlarged;
Because the abundance of the sea shall be converted unto thee,
The forces of the Gentiles shall come unto thee.
Who are these that fly as a cloud.
And as the doves to their windows?
Surely, the isles shall wait for me,
And the ships of Tarshish first,
To bring thy sons from far,
Their silver and their gold with them,
Unto the name of the Lord thy God,
And to the Holy One of Israel, because he hath glorified thee.
And the sons of strangers shall build up thy walls,
And their kings shall minister unto thee:
For in my wrath I smote thee,
But in my favor have I had mercy on thee.
Therefore thy gates shall be open continually;
They shall not be shut, day nor night;
That men may bring unto thee the forces of thle Gentiles,
And that their kings may be brought.
For the nation and kingdom,
That will not serve thee, shall perish;
Yea, those nations shall be utterly wasted.
Thou shalt know, that 1, the Lord, am thy Savior;
And thy Redeemer the Mighty One of Jacob.
For brass, I will bring gold,
350And for iron, I will bring silver,
Andl for wood, brass,
And for stones, iron:
I will also make thy officers, peace,
And thine exactors, riohteousness.
Violence shall no more be heard in thy land,
Wasting nor destruction within thy borders;
But thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation,
And thy gates, Praise.
The sun shall be no more thy light by day,
Neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee;
But the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light,
And thy God, thy glory.
Thy sun shall no more go down,
Neither shall thy moon withdraw itself;
For the Lord shall be thine everlasting light,
And the days of thy mourning shall be ended.
Thy people. also, shall be all righteous;
They shall inherit the land forever,
The branch of my planting,
The work of my hands, that I may be glorified.
A little one shall become a thousand,
And a small one,a strong nation:
I, the Lord, will hasten it in his time.     ISAIAH.
LESSON CLXVI.
TRIUMPH  OF HOPE.
UNFADING Hope! whenlife's last embers burn,
WThen soul to soul, and dust to dust return,
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour;
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly.
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye?
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day:
Then, then, the triumph, and the trance bogin!
And all the phenix spirit burns within!
Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untraveled by the sun!
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.'T is Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!
Daughter of faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb:
Melt, and dispel, ye specter-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er; the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last raptture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,'I'he noon of heaven, undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion's hill!  CAMPBELL.
LESSON CLXVII.
MEMORY AND HOPE.
IHOPE iS the leading-string of youth; memory the staff of
age.  Yet, for a long time they were at variance, and scarcely
ever associated together. Memory was almnost always grave,
nay, sad and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose,
amid rocks and waterfalls; and whenever she raised her eyes
from the ground, it was only to look back over her shoulder
352Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with sparkling eyes,
and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired
by his gay and sprightly buoyancy.  Wherever lie went, he
diffused gladness and joy around him; the eyes of the young
sparkled brighter than ever at his approach; old age, as it cast
its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed inspired
with new vigor; the flowers looked more gay, the grass more
green, the birds sung more cheerily, and all nature seemed to
sympathize in his gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but
Hope partook of immortality.
One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproached
Hope with being a deceiver. She charged him with deluding
mankind with visionary, impracticable schemes, and exciting
expectations that led only to disappointment and regret; with
being the ignisfatuus of youth, and the scourge of old age.
But Hope cast back upon her the charge of deceit, and maintained that the pictures of the past were as much exaggerated
by Memory, as were the anticipations of Hope. He declared
that she looked at objects at a great distance in the past, he in
the future, and that this distance magnified every thing. 1" Let
us make the circuit of the world," said he, "and try the experiment."  Memory reluctantly consented, and they went their
way together.
The.first person they met was a schoolboy, lounging lazily
along, and stopping every moment to gaze around, as if unwilling to proceed on his way. By and by, he sat down, and burst
into tears. "Whither so fast, my good lad?" asked Hope,
jeeringly. "I am going to school," replied the lad, "to study,
when I would rather, a thousand times, be at play; and sit on a
bench with a book in my hand, while I long to be sporting in
the fields. But never mind, I shall be a man soon, and then I
shall be as free as the air."  Saying this, he skipped away
merrily in the hope of soon being a man. "It is thus you
play upon the inexperience of youth," said Memory, reproachfully.
Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slowly and
with a melancholy air, behind a party of gay young men and
maidens, who walked arm in arm with each other, and were
flirting and exchanging all those little harmless courtesies, which
nature prompts on such occasions. They were all gayly dressed
30
353in silks and ribbons; but the little girl had on a simple frock, a
lhomely apron, and clumsy, thick-soled shoes.  "Why do you
not join yonder group," asked Hope, "and partal;e in their
gayety, my pretty little girl?" "Alas!" replied she, I" they tallke
no notice of me. They call me a child.  But I shall soon be
a woman, and then I shall be so happy!"  Inspired by this
hope, she quickened her pace, and soon was; seen dancing
along merrily with the rest.
In this manner they wended their way, from nation to nation,
and clime to clime, until they had made the circuit of the universe.  Wherever they came, they found the human race,
who at this time were all young, (it being not many years
since the first creation of mankind,)- repining- at the presenlt,
and looking forward to a riper age for happiness. All anticipated some future good, and Memory had scarce any thing to
do but cast looks of reproach at her young companion.  "Let
us return hoime,'' said she, "to that delightful spot where I
first drew my breath. I long to repose among its beautiful bowers; to listen to the brooks that murmured a thousand times
more musically; to the birds that sung a thousand times more
sweetly; and to the echoes that were softer, than ally I have
since heard. Ah! there is nothing on earth so enchanting as
the scenes of my early youth!"  Hope indulged himself in a
sly, significant smile, and they proceeded on their return home.
As they journeyed but slowly, many years elapsed ere they
approached the spot from which they had departed. It so happened one day, that they met an old man,bending under the weight
of years, and walking with trembling steps, leaning on his staff.
Memory at once recognized him as the youth they had seen
going to school, on their first onset in the tour of the world.
As they came nearer, the old man reclined on his staff, and
looking at Hope, who, being immortal, was still a blithe, young
boy, sighed, as if his heart was breaking.  "What aileth thee,
old man?" asked the youth.  "What aileth me?" he replied,
in a feeble, faltering voice.  "What should ail me, but old age?
I have outlived my health and strength; I have survived all
that was near and dear; I have seen all that I loved, or that
loved me, struck down to the earth like (lead leaves in autumn,
and now I stand like an old tree, withering, alone in the world,
without roots, without branches, and without verdure. I have
3 -0only just enough of sensation to know that I am miserable, and
the recollection of the happiness of my youthful days, when,
careless and full of blissful anticipations, I was a laughing,
merry boy, only adds to the miseries I now endure.'
"Behold!" said Memory, " the consequence of thy deceptions," and she looked reproachfully at her companion. "Behold!" replied' Hope, "the deception practiced by thyself.
Thou persuadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dost
thou remember the boy we met when we first set out together,
who was weeping on his way to school, and sighed to be a
man?"  Memory cast down her eyes, and was silent.
A little way onward they came to a miserable cottage, at the
door of which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and shaking
with palsy. She sat all alone, her head resting on her bosom,
and, as the pair approached, vainly tried to raise it up to look
at them. "Good-morrow, old lady, and all happiness to you,"
cried Hope, gayly, and the old woman thought it was a long
time since she had heard such a cheering salutation. " Happiness!" said she, in a voice that quivered with weakness and
infirmity. "Happiness! I have not known it since I was a
little girl, without care or sorrow. 0, I remember those delightful days, when I thought of nothing but the present moment, nor cared for the future or the past. When I laughed,
and played, and sung, from morning till night, and envied no
one, and wished to be no other than I was. But those happy
times are passed, never to return. 0, could I but once more
return to the days of my childhood!" The old woman sunk
back on her seat, and the tears flowed from her hollow eyes.
Memory again reproached her companion, but he only asked
her if she recollected the little girl they had met a long time
ago, who was so miserable because she was so young?
Memory knew it well enough, and said'not another word.
They now approached their home, and Memory was on
tiptoe, with the thought of once more enjoying the unequaled
beaulties of those scenes from which she had been so long
separated. But, some how or other, it seemed that they were
sadly changed. Neither the grass was so green, the flowers so
swveet and lovely, nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes
answer, nor the birds sing half so enchantingly, as she remembered them  in time past.  "Alas!" she exclaimed,'"how
355356              YOUNG LADIES' READER.
changed is every thing!  I alone am  the same."  "Every
thing is the same, and thou alone art changed," answered
Hope. "Thou hast deceived thyself in the past, just as much
as I deceive others in the future."
"What are you disputing about?" asked an old man,
whom they had not observed before, though he was standing
close by them. " I have lived almost four-score and ten years,
and my experience may, perhaps, enable me to decide between
you." They told him the occasion of their disagreement, and
related the history of their journey round the earth. The old
man smiled, and, for a few moments, sat buried in thought.
He then said to them:,, I, too, have lived to see all the hopes
of my youth turn into shadows, clouds, and darkness, and vanish into nothing.  I, too, have survived my fortune, my
friends, my children; the hilarity of youth, and the blessing of
health." "And dost thou not despair?" said Memory. "No,
I have still one hope left me."  "And what is that?"  "The
hope of heaven!"
Memory turned toward Hope, threw herself into his arms,
which opened to receive her, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed:
"Forgive me, I have done thee injustice. Let us never again
separate from each other."  "With all my heart," said Hope,
and they continued forever after to travel together, hand in
hand, through the world.                    J. K. PAULDING.
LESSON CLXVIII.
(Elliptical.)
BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION.
IN the days of knight-errantry and paganism, one of the
old British princes set up a statue to the goddess of Victory,
in a point where four roads met together. In the right hand
she held a spear, and her left hand (  i; -.. ) upon a shield;
the outside of this shield was of gold, and-the (.    )
of silver.  On the former was inscribed, in the old British
language, "To the goddess ever favorable;" and on the other,
"For four victories obtained successively over the Picts and
other (... ) of the northern islands."357
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 tle_m-had seen it before, they stopped to
read the  (..  A), and observe the excellence of its
workmanship.
After (,. ) it for some time,," This golden shield,"
says the black knight--" Golden shield!"  cried the white
knight, who was as strictly (..     ) the opposite side,
"why, if I have my eyes, it is silver."  "cI know nothing of
your eyes," replied the black knight; "but, if ever I saw a
(;~..... ) shield in my life, this is one."' Yes," returned
the white knight, smiling,' it is very (          ), indeed,
that they should expose a shield of gold in so public a place as
this!  For my part, I wonder even a (.. ) 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 above three years."
The black knight could not bear the smile with which this
was (.. -), and grew  so warm  in the (..  ),
that it soon ended in a challenge. They both, therefore, turned
their horses, and rode back so far as -to have sufficient space
for their career; then, fixing their spea4  in their rests, they
flew at each other with the (      _..  _...  fury and impetuosity.  Thp shock was so rude, and the blow on each side so
( *~ ~.~-  ), 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 traveling that way, found them  in
this (.     ).  The Druids were the physicians of those
times, as well as the priests.  He had a sovereign balsam
about him, which he had composed himself; for he was very
(.~.~,-;.) in all the plants that grew in the fields or in the
forests.  He stanched 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 (... ), he began to
inquire into the occasion of their quarrel.  "Why, this man,"
cried the black knight, "will have, it that yonder shield is
silver." "Aind he will have it," replied the white knight,
"that it is gold." And then they told him all the (...
of the affair.frequently enlds, while, at the same time, there is a considerable play of the voice above and below it.
This note may be high or low.  It varies in different individuals, and at different times in the same individual, being
governed by the nature of the subject, and the emotions of the
speaker. The range of the voice above and below this note, is
called its compass.  WVhen the speaker is animated, this range
is great; but upon abstract subjects, and with a dull, lifeless
speaker, it is small. If, in reading or speaking, too high a
note be chosen, the lungs will soon become wearied; if too low
a pitch be selected, there is danger of indistinctness of utterance; and, in either case, there is less room for variety of tone,
than if one be taken between the two extremes.
On this point, let the following rule be observed.
R U L E I..  The reader or speaker should choose that pitch,
on which he can feel himself most at ease, and above and
below which, he may have most room for variation.
Having chosen the proper key note, he should beware of
confining himself to it.  This constitutes nzonotony, one of the
greatest faults in elocution.  One very important instrument
for giving expression and life to thought, is thus lost, and the
hearer soon becomes wearied and disgusted.
There is another fault of nearly equal magnitude, and of
very frequent occurrence. This consists in varying the tones
without any rule or guide. In cases of this kind, there seems
to be a desire to cultivate variety of tone, without a knowledge
of the principles upon which it should be done. Sometimes,
also, there is a kind of regular variation, but still not connected
with the sense.  A sentence is commenced with vehenience
and in a high tone, and the voice gradually sinks, word by
word, until, the breath being spent, and the lungs exhausted, it
dies away, at the close, in a whisper.
The habit of sing-song, so common in reading poetry, as it
is a variation of tone without reference to the sense, is a species
of the fault above mentioned.
If the reader or speaker is guided by the sense, and if he
gives the emphasis, irfiection, and expression, required by the
meaninz, these faults will speedily disappear.
34
MODULATION." Ah!" said the Druid with a sigh, " you are both of you, my
brethren, in the right, and both of you in the wr9v g. Had either
of you given himself time to look at the (.l. ) sile of
the shield, as well as that which first presented itself to view,
all this passion and bloodshed might have been ( /  r'..( ".).
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 (  ~'J; -? ),
for the future, till you have fairly considered both sides of the
question."                                       BEAUMONT.
LESSON CLXIX.
A LEAF FROM THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS.IT being very much the custom, as I am informed, even
for obscure individuals to furnish some account of themselves,
for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be deemed
impertinent for calling your attention to a few particulars of
my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of any very extraordinary incidents; but having had, during the course of a long
life, much leisure and opportunity for observation, and being
naturally of a rejiecting cast, I thought it might be in my power
to offer some remarks that may not be wholly unprofitable to
your readers.
My earliest recollection is that of the work-shop of a carver
and gilder, where I remained for many months, leaning with my
face to the wall; and, having never known any livelier scene,
I was very well contented with my quiet condition. The first
object that I remember to have arrested my attention, was
what I now believe must have been a large spider, which, after
a vast deal of scampering about, began, very deliberately, to
weave a curious web all over my face. This afforded me
great amusement, and, not then knowing what far lovelier
objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resent the indignity.
At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune,
I felt myself suddenly removed from -my station; and iimediately afterward, underwent a curious operation, which, at
358
YOUNG LADIES' READER.the time, gave me considerable apprehensions for my safety.
These were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding myself arrayed in a broad, black frame, handsomely carved and gilt; for,
you will please to observe that the period, of which I am now
speaking, was upward of fourscore years ago. This process
being finished, I was presently placed in the shop window,
with my face to the street, which was one of the most public
in the city.  Here my attention was, at first, distracted by the
constant succession of objects that passed before me. But it
was not long before I began to remark the considerable degree
of attention I myself excited.; and how much I was distinguished in this respect, from the other articles, my neighbors,
in the shop window.
I observed, that passengers, who appeared to be posting
away upon urgent business, would often turn and give me
a friendly glance as they passed.  But I was particularly
gratified to observe, that, while the old, the shabby, and the
wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the young, the gay,
and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment; and
that these good-looking people always seemed the best pleased
with me; which I attributed to their superior discernment.  I
well remember one young lady, who used to pass my master's
shop regularly every morning, in her way to school, and who
never omitted to turn her head to look at me as she went by;
so that, at last, we became well acquainted with each other. I
must confess, that at this period of my life, I was in great
danger of becoming insufferably vain, from the regards that
were then paid me; and, perhaps, I am not the only individual,
who has formed mistaken notions of the attentions he receives
in society.
My vanity, however, received a considerable check from
one circumstance. Nearly all the goods by which I was sur
rounded in the shop window,--though, many of them, mucl
more homely in their structure, and humble in their destin,
tions,-were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the mortiihcation of seeing one after another bargained for and sent away,
while I remained, month after month, without a purchaser. At
last, however, a gentleman and lady from the country, who had
been standing some time in the street, inspecting, and, as I
perceived, conversing about me, walked into the shop; and,
359after some altercation with my master, agreed to purchase me;
upon which I was packed up, and sent off. I was very curious, you may suppose, upon arrivino at my new quarters, to
see what kind of life I was likely to lead.  I remained, however, some time, unmolested in my packing-case, and veryflat
I felt there.
Upon being unpacked, I found myself in the hall of a
large, lone house in the country. My master and mistress, I
soon learned, were new married people, just settinlg up housekeeping; and I was intended to decorate their best parlor, to
which I was presently conveyed, and, after some little discussion between them  in fixing my longitude and latitude, I was
hung up opposite the fire-place, in an angle of ten degrees from
the wall, according to the fashion of those times. And there I
hung, year after year, almost in perpetual solitude. My master
and mistress were sober, regular, old-fashioned people.  They
saw no company, except at fair-time and Christmas-day; on
which occasions, only, they occupied the best parlor.  My
countenance used to brighten up, when I saw the annual fire
kindled in that ample grate, and when a cheerful circle of
country cousins assembled round it.  At those times I always
got a little notice from  the young folks; but, those festivities
over, I was condemned to another, half year of complete loneliness.
How familiar to my recollection, at -this hour, is that large,
old-fashioned parlor!  I can remember, as well as if I had
seen them--but yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson
damask chair-covers and window-curtains; and those curiously
carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one of the
stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate, the rich
China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece, and the pattern of
the paper hangings, which consisted alternately of a parrot, a
poppy, and a shepherdess; a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess.
The room being so little used, the window-shutters were
rarely opened; but there were three holes cut in each, in the
shape of a heart, through which, day after day, and year after
year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sunbeams, streaming
across the dark parlor. I should mention, however, that I seldom missed a short visit from  my master and mistress on a
Sunday morning, when they came down stairs ready dressed
360for church. I can remember how my mistress used to trot in
upon her high-heeled shoes; unfold a leaf of one of the shutters; then come and standclstraight before me; then turn half
round to the right and left; never failing to see if the corner
of her well-starched handkerchief was pinned exactly in the
middle. I think I can see her now, in her favorite dove-colored lustring, (which she wore every Sunday in every summer,
for seven years, at the least,) and her long, full ruffles, and
worked apron. Then followed my good master, who, though
his visit was somewhat shorter, never failed to come and -settle
his Sunday wig before me.
Time rolled away, and my master and mistress, with all
that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influence.
When I first knew them, they were a young, blooming couple
as you would wish to see; but I gradually perceived an alteration. My mistress began to stoop a little; and my master got
a cough, which troubled him, more or less, to the end of his
days. At first, and for many years, my mistress' foot upon the
stairs was light and nimble, and she would come in as blithe
and as brisk as a lark; but, at last, it was a slow, heavy step;
and even my master's began to totter. And, in these respects,
every thing else kept pace with them.  The crimson damask,
that I remembered so fresh and bright, was now faded and
worn; the dark polished mahogany was, in some places, worm
eaten; the parrot's gay plumage on the walls grew dull; and I
myself, though long unconscious of it, partook of the universal
decay.
The dissipated taste I acquired upon my first introduction to
society, had, long since, subsided; and the quiet, somber life I
led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change, which I
witnessed in all things around me, caused me to reflect much
on their vanity; and when, upon the occasions before-mentioned, I used to see the gay, blooming faces of the young, saluting
me with so much complacence, I would fain have admonished
them of the alteration they must soon undergo, and have told
them how certainly their bloom, also, must fade away as a
flower. But, alas! you know, looking-glasses can only reflect.
JANF, TAYLOR.
31
YOUNG ILADIES' READER.
361LESSON CLXX.
THE FIRST GRAY HAIR.
THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face, ay, lovely even now;
Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care.
Why steals that tear across her cheek? She sees her first gray hlair.
Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace:
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face;
Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gayly trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.
The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than years,
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears;
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confessed,
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that canpot rest.
But she hath been a happy wife: the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth;
A sense of slight, of loneliness, hath never banished sleep:
tIer life hath been a cloudless one: then wherefore doth she weep?
She looked upon her raven locks, what thoughts did they recall.
Oh! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for ball;
They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learned to
check,
With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.
She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there;
She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch
That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much
And now she sees her first gray hair! oh, deem it not a crime
For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of time!
She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,
And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.'T is not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane;
Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again,
It cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret,
The spring for ever gone, the summer sun so nearly set
362Ah, lady! heed the monitor! thy mirror tells thee truth;
Assume the matron's folded vail, resign the wreath of youth:
Go, bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair:'T wele well would all learn wisdom who behold the first gray hair.
T. H. BAYLY.
LESSON CLXXI.
THE OLD WEDDING  RING.
[The device-two hearts united.
The motto--" Dear love of mine, my heart is thine,']
I LIKE that ring, that ancient ring,
Of massive form, of virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old.
I like it, for it wafts me back,
Far, far along the stream of time,
To other men, and other days,
The men and days of deeds sublime.
But most I like it, as it tells
The tale of well requited love;
How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdained to rove;
How warmly he his suit pfeferred,
Though she unpitying, long denied,
Till, softened and subdued, at last,
He won his fair and blooming bride;
How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours;
How then the white-robed maiden train
Strewed their glad way with freshest flowers;
And how, before the holy man
They stood in all their youthful pride,
And spoke those words, and vowed those vows
Which bind the husband to his bride.
All this it tells; the plighted truth,
The gift of every earthly thing,
T'he hand in hand, the heart in heart;
For this I like that ancient ring.
363I like its old and quaint device;
Two blended hearts; though time may wear them,
No mortal change, no mortal chance,
Till death, shall e'er in sunder tear them.
Year after year,'neath sun and storm,
Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God,
In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,
These two the world's rough pathway trod.
Age might impair their youthful fires,
Their strength might fail,'mid life's bleak weather,
Still, hand in hand, they traveled on;
True hearts! they slumber now together.
I like its simple poesy too;
" Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!"
Thine, when the dark storm howls along,
As when the cloudless sunbeams shine:
"This heart is thine, mine own dear love!"
Thine, and thine only, and forever;
Thine, till the springs of life shall fail;
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.
Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Pledge of devoted faithfulness,
Of heartfelt, holy love, the token;
What varied feelings round it cling!
For these, I like that ancient ring.  G. W. DOAl]E.
LESSON CLXXII.
HOME AND  LOVE.
Rienzi. CLAUDIA-nay, start not! Thou art sad to-day;
I found thee sitting idly,'mid thy maids;
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied
Quick tongue and nimble finger. Mute, and pale
As marble, those unseeing eyes were fixed
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent
As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought,
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought,
Htad knocked at thy young, giddy brain.
364Claudia. Nay, father,
Mock not thine own poor Claudia.
Rie. Claudia used
To bear a merry heart with that clear voice,
Prattling, and that light, busy foot, astir
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee
That ever wrought in hive.
Cla. Oh! mine old home!
Rie. What ails thee, lady-bird?
Cla. Mine own dear home!
Father, I love not this new state; these halls,
Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids, -
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!
My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle,
Woven round-the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;
My pretty, snow-white doves; my kindest nurse;
And old Camillo. Oh! mine own dear home!
Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse.
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,
Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars: a whole province
Laid in a garden if thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power. Ask orient gems,
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds,
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers to flit
Around thy stately bower; and, at thy wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo?
Thou shalt have nobler servants; emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! Not a bachelor
In Christendom but would right proudly kneel
To my fair daughter.
Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!
Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet!
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,
And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them,
VWhose was the shadow on the sunny wall?  
And if, at eventide they heard not oft
A tuneful mandolin, and then, a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelmed the quivering instrument; and then,
A world of whispers, mixed with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken as divided strains
Of nightingales.
365Cla. Oh, father! father! [runs to him, andfalls upon his neck.]
Rie. Well!
Dost love him, Claudia 3
Cla. Father!
Rie. Dost thou love
Young Angelo?  Yes?  Said'st thou yes?  That heart,'rhat throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil,
I cannot hear thy words. He is returned
To Rome; he left thee on mine errand, dear one;
And now, is there no casement, myrtle-wreathed,
No cedar-in our courts, to shade to-night
The lover's song t
Cla. Oh, father! father!
Rie. Now,
Back to thy maidens, with a lightened heart,
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate
From out an eagle's nest.
Cia. Alas! alas!
I tremble at the hight. Whene'er I think
Of the hot barons,- of the fickle people,
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.
Rie. Tremble. let them tremble.
I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorned,
Endured, protected. Sweet, go dream of love!
I am their master, Claudia.                MIss MITFORD.
LESSON CL-XXIII.
CLAUDIA PLEADING FOR HER HUSBAND.
Claudia. [Without.]  Father! father!
Rienzi. Guard the door!
Be sure ye give not way,
Cla. [Without.] Father!
Rie. To see
Her looks! her tears!
Enter Claudia hastily.
Cla. Who dares to stop me?  Father!
[Rushes into the arms of Rienzi.
366
YOUNG LADIES' READER.YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Elie. I bade ye guard the entrance.
Cla. Against me?
Ye must have men and gates of steel, to bar
Claudia from her dear father. Where is he.
They said he was with you--he-thou know'st
Whom I would say. I heard you loud. I thought
I heard you; but perchance, the dizzying throb
Of my poor temples-Where is he! I see
No corse-if he were dead-Oh, no, no, no!
Thou couldst not, wouldst not!-say, he lives!
Rie. As yet
He lives.
Cla. Oh! blessings on thy heart, dear father!
Blessings on thy kind heart! When shall I see him.
Is he in prison? Fear hath made me weak,
And wordless as a child. - Oh! send for him.
Thou hast pardoned him; didst thou not say but now
Thou hadst pardoned him?
lRie. No.
Cla. Oh, thou hast! thou hast!
This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold
When I have craved some girlish boon, a bird,
A flower, a moonlight walk; but now I ask thee
Life, more than life. Thou hast pardoned him.
Rie. My Claudia!
Cla. Ay! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word
Was father! These are the same hands that clung
Around thy knees, a tottering babe; the lips
That, ere they had learned speech, would smile, and seek
To meet thee with an infant's kiss; these eyes
Thou hast called so like my mother's, eyes that never
Looked on thee, but with looks of love. Oh, pardon!
Nay, father, speak not yet; thy brows are knit
Into a sternness. Pr'ythee speak not yet!
Rie. This traitorCla. Call him as thou wilt, but pardon!
Oh, pardon!
Rie. He defies me.
Cla. See, I kneel.
And he shall kneel, shall kiss thy feet; wilt pardon?
Rie. Mine own dear Claudia.
Cla. Pardon!
Rie. Raise thee up;
Rest on my bosom; let thy beating heart
Lie upon mine; so shall the mutual pang
3672. Quality or Expression.
The tones of the voice should vary, also, in quality or
expression, according to the nature of the subject.  We notice,
very plainly, a difference between the soft, insinuating tones of
persuasion; the full, strong voice of command and decision;
the harsh, irregular, and sometimes grating explosion of the
sounds of passion; the plaintive notes of sorrow and pity;
and the equable and unimpassioned flow of words in argumentative style. In dialogue, common sense teaches, that the
manner and tones of the supposed speaker should be imitated.
In all varieties of style, this is equally proper, for the reader is
but repeating the language of another, and the full meaning of
this cannot be conveyed, unless uttered with that expression
which we may suppose the author would have given to it, or in
other words, which the subject itself demands.
The following direction, upon this point, is worthy of attention.
R u L E I I. - The tones of the voice should always correspond with the nature of the subject.
If the following extracts are all read in the same tone and
manner, and then read again with the expression appropriate to
each, the importance of this point cannot fail to be, at once,
perceived.
"Come back! come back!." he cries with grief,," Across the stormy water,
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
But thou, Oh Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
Still 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.
Brackelbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clarence. 0, I have passed a miserable night,
Sa full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
35Be stilled. Oh! that thy father's soul could bear
This grief for thee, my sweet one! Oh, forgiveCla. Forgive thee *what?'T is so the headsman speaks
To his poor victim, ere he strikes. Do fathers
Ma-ke widows-of their children 1 send them down
To the cold grave, heart-broken? Tell me not
Of fathers-'I have none!  All else that breathes,
Hath known that natural love; the wolf is kind
To her vile cubs; the little wren hath care
For each, small, young one of her brood; and thouThe word that widowed, orphaned me! Henceforth
My home shall be his grave; and yet thou canst notFather! [Rushing into Rienzi's arms.]
Rie.  Ay!  Dost call me father once again, my Claudia,
Mine own sweet child!
Cla. Oh, father, pardon him!
Oh pardon, pardon!'T is my life I ask
In his. Our lives, dear father  
Rie. Ho, Camillo!
Where loiters he  -                        [Enter Camillo.
Camillo, take my ring;
Fly to the captain of the guard, Alberti;
Bid him release Lord Angelo.
Cla. Now bless thee,
Bless thee, my father!
Rie. Fly, Camillo, fly!
Why loiterest thou l
Cam. The ring.
[Rienzi gives the ring.to Camillo-Exit Camillo.
MISS MITFOR).
LESSON CLXXIV.
O-N 4PPARITIONS.
AT a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the ruins
of an old abbey, there is-a long walk of aged elms, which are
shot up so very high, that, when one passes under them, the
rooks and crows, that rest upon the tops of them, seem to be
cawing in another region. I am very much delighted with
this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of natural prayer
to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole creation,
368and who, in the beautiful language of the Psalms, feedeth the
youlng ravens that call upon him. I like this retirement the
better, because of an ill report it lies under of being haunted;
for which reason (as I have been told in the family) no
living creature ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good
friend the butler desired me, with a very grave face, not to venture myself in it after sunset, for that one of the footmen had
been almost frightened out of his wits by a spirit that appeared
to him in the shape of a black horse without a head; to which
he added, that, about a month ago, one of the maids, coming
home late that way with a pail of milk upon her head, heard
such a rustling among the bushes, that she let it fall.
I was taking a walk in this place last night between the
hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the
most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to appear in. The
ruins of the abbey are scattered up and down on every side,
and half covered with ivy and elder-bushes, the harbors of
several solitary birds, which seldom make their appearance till
the dusk of the evening. The place was formerly a churchyard, and has still several marks in it of graves. and burying
places. There is such an echo among the old ruins and vaults,
that, if you stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you hear
the sound repeated. At the same time, the walk of elms, and
the croaking of the ravens which from time to time are heard
from the tops of them, seem exceeding solemn and venerable.
These objects naturally raise seriousness and attention; and
when night hightens the awfulness of the place, and pours
out her supernumerary horrors upon every thing in it, I do
not at all wonder that weak minds fill it with specters and
apparitions.
Mr. Locke, in his chapter on the Association of Ideas, has
some very curious remarks to show how, by the prejudice of
education, one idea often introduces into the mind a whole set,
that bear no resemblance to one another in the nature of things.
Among several examples of this kind, he produces the following instance. " The ideas of goblins and spirits have really
no more to do with darkness than light: yet, let but a foolish
maid inculcate these often on the mind of a child, and raise
them there together, possibly he will never be able to separate
them again so long as he lives; but darkness will ever after369ward bring with it those frightful ideas, and they will be so
joined, that he can no more bear the one than the other."
As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of the
evening conspired with so many other occasions of terror, I
observed a cow grazing not far from me, which an imagination,
that was apt to startle, might easily have construed, into a black
horse without a head;- and I dare say the poor footman lost his
wits upon such a trivial occasion.
My friend, Sir Roger, has often told me, with a great deal
of mirth, that, at his first coming to his estate, he found three
parts of his house altogether useless; that the best room in it
had the reputation of being haunted, and by that means was
lodked up; that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so
that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at
night; that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up,
because there went a story in the family that a butler had formerly hanged himself in it; and that his mother, who lived to
a great age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which
either her husband, a son, or daughter had died. The knight,
seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of
his mother, ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and
exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room, one after
another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had so
long reigned in his family.                        ADDISON.
LESSON CLXXV.
ANECDOTE S- OF CHILDREN.
I REMEMBER a little boy who was a lexicographer from his
birth, a language-master, and a philosopher. From the hour
he was able to ask for a piece of bread and butter, he never
hesitated for a word,- not he! If one would not serve, another
would, with a little twisting and turning. He assured me one
day, when I was holding him by the hand rather tighter than
he wished, (he was but just able to speak at the time,) that I
should choke his hand; at another, he came to me, all out of
370treath, to announce, that a mall was below shaving the wall.
Upon due inquiry, it turned out that he was only whitewashing.  But how should he know the difference between
white-wvash and lather, a big brush and a little one?  Show
me, if you can, a prettier example of synthesis or generalization, or a more beautiful adaptation of old words to new
purposes.
I have heard another complain of a school-fellow for winking at him with his lip; and he took the affront very much to
heart, I assure you, and would not be pacified till the matter
was cleared up.  Other children talk about the bones in
peaches; osteologists are they: and others, when they have
the toothache, aver that it burns them. Of such is the empire
of poetry. I have heard another give a public challenge in
these words, to every child that came near, as she sat upon the
door-step, with a pile of tamarind-stones, nut-shells, and pebbles lying before her.  "Ah, I've got many-er than you!"
That child was a better grammarian than Lindley Murray.
And her wealth, in what was it unlike the hoarded and useless
wealth of millions?
Never shall I forget another incident which occurred in my
presence between two boys.  One was trying to jump over a
wheel-barrow.  Another was going by; he stopped, and after
considering a moment, spoke, "I'11 tell you what you can't
do," said he. "Well, what is it?"  "You can't jump down
your own throat." "Well, you can't."  " Can't I, though?"
The simplicity of "Well, you can't," and the roguishness of
"Can't I, though?" tickled me prodigiously.  They reminded
me of sparring I had seen elsewhere, I should not like to say
where, having a great respect for the temples of justice and
the halls of legislation.
"I say't is white-oak."  " I say't is red-oak."  "Well, I
say't is white-oak."  "I tell you't isn't white-oak."  Here
they had joined issue for the first time. "' I say't is." "I say't is n't." "I'11 bet you ten thousand dollars of it." "Well,
I'll bet you ten ten thousand dollars." Such were the very
words of a conversation I have just heard between two
children, the elder six, the other about five. Were not these
miniature men?  Stockbrokers and theologians?
"Well, my lad, you've been to meeting, hey! "  "Yes,
371Sir."  "And who preached for you?"  "Mr. P-."   "AAh!
and what did he say?"  "I can't remember, Sir, he put me
out so."  "Put you out?" "Yes, Sir; he kept lookin' at my
new clothes all meetin' time!"  That child must have been a
close observer.  Will any body tell me, that he did not know
what some people go to meeting for?
It was but yesterday that I passed a fat, little girl, with
large, hazel eyes, sitting by herself in a gateway, with her feet
stretching straight out into the street. She was holding a book
in one hand, and, with a bit of stick in the other, was pointing
to the letters. - "What's that?" cried she, in a sweet, chirping
voice, h"ey! look on!  What's that, I say?  F.  No--oo-oh!" shaking her little head with the air of a schoolmistress, who has made up her mind not to be trifled with.
But children haive other characters.  At times they are
creatures to be afraid of. Every case I give, is a fact within
mly own observation.  There are children, and I have had to
do with them, whose very eyes were terrible; children, who,
after years of watchful and anxious discipline, were as indomitable as the young of the wild beast, dropped in the wilderness, crafty, and treacherous, and cruel. And others I have
known, who, if they live, mnust have dominion over the multitude, being evidently of them, that, from the foundations of the
world, have been always thundering at the gates of power.
Parents! Fathers! Mothers! if it be true that, "just as the
twig is bent the tree is inclined," how much have you to
answer for! If "men are but children of a larger growth,"
watch'your children forever, by day and by night! pray for
them forever, by night and by day! and not as children, but as
men of a smaller growth; as men with most of the evil passions, and with all the evil propensities, that go'to make man
terrible to his fellow-men.                     JoHN NEAL.
LESSON CLXXVI.
THE UNCALLED AVENGER.
TH-E return of the victorious Russian army, which had conquered Finland, was attended with a circumstance which, it is
3'72true, has, at all times, been usual in the train of large armies,
but which naturally took place to a much greater extent in
these high northern latitudes, where the hand of man has so
imperfectly subdued  the  original savageness of the soil.
Whole droves of famished bears and wolves followed the
troops, on their return to the south, to feed on the chance prey
afforded by the carcasses of the artillery and baggage horses
that dropped on the road. In consequence of this, the province of Esthonia, to which several regiments directed their
march, was so overrun with these animals, as greatly to endanger the safety of travelers.
In a single circle of the government, no less than forty
persons, of different ages, were enumerated, who had been
devoured, during the winter, by these ravenous beasts.  It
became hazardous to venture alone and unarmed, into the
uninhabited parts of the country. Nevertheless, an Esthonian
country woman boldly undertook a journey to a distant relation, not only without any male companion, but with three
children, the youngest of which was still an infant. A light
sledge, drawn by one horse, received the little party; the way
was narrow, but well beaten; the snow, on each side, deep
and impassable; and to turn back, without danger of sticking
fast, was not to be thought of.
The first half of the journey was passed without accident.
The road now ran along the skirts of a pine forest, when the
traveler suddenly heard a suspicious noise behind her.
Casting back a look of alarm, she saw a troop of wolves trotting along the road, the fiumber of which her fears prevented
her from estimating. To escape by flight is her first thought;
and, with unsparing whip, she urges into a gallop the horse,
which itself snuffs the danger. Soon, two of the strongest
and most hungry of the beasts appear at her side, and seem
disposed to stop the way.  Though their intention seems to
be only to attack the horse, yet the safety both of the mother
and of the children, depends on the preservation of the animal.
The danger raises its value; it seems entitled to claim for its
preservation an extraordinary sacrifice.
As the mariner throws overboard his richest treasures, to
appease the raging waves, so here has necessity reached a
hight, at which the emotions of the heart are dumb before the
37ddark commands of instinct; the latter alone suffers the unhappy woman to act in this distress.  She seizes her second
child, whose bodily infirmities have often made it an object of
anxious care, whose cry, even now, offends her ear, and
threatens to whet the appetite of the blood-thirsty monsters;
she seizes it with an -involuntary motion, and, before the
mother is conscious of what she is doing, it is cast out,-and
-enough of the horrid tale!
The last cry of the victim still sounded in her ear, when
she discovered that the troop, which had remained some
minutes behind, again pressed closely on the sledge.  The
anguish of her soul increases, for again the murder-breathing
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 I not? You will not throw me into the snow,
like the bawler."  "And yet! and yet!" cried the wretched
woman, in the wild tumult of despair; "thou art good, but
God is merciful!  Away!"   The dreadful deed was done.
To escape the furies that raged within her, the woman exerted
herself, with powerless lash, to accelerate the gallop of the
exhausted horse.
With the thick and gloomy forest before and bellind her,
and the nearer and nearer tramping of her ravenous pursuers,
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 upon her shoulders, and the wide-open,
bloody jaws of an enormous wolf, hung over her head.  It is
the moo-st ravenous beast of the troop, which, having partly
missed its leap at the sledge, is dragged along witll it, in vain
seeking, with its hinder legs, for a resting place, to enable it to
get wholly on the frail vehicle. The weight of the body of the
monster draws the woman backward; 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, stunned, senseless, she drops the reins, and continues her journey, ignorant and careless whether or not she
is delivered from her pursuers.
374Meantime, the forest grows thinner, and an insulated farmhouse, to which a side road leads, appears at a moderate distance.  The horse, left to itself, follows this new path: it
enters through an open gate; panting and foaming it stands
still; and, amid a circle of persons, who crowd round with
good-natured 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 thrasher, the barn,--the
eldest son of the family, with his ax in his hand, the wood
which he had just cleft,-to assist the unfortunate woman; and,
with a mixture of curiosity and pity, to learn, by a hundred
inquiries, the circumstances of her singular appearance. Refreshed by whatever can be procured at the moment, the
stranger gradually recovers the power of speech, and the ability
to give an intelligible account of the dreadful trial which she has
undergone.
The insensibility, with which fear and distress had steeled
her 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 conflicting 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 command: the overpowering emotions of his heart, advanced before -the rest; it
was the young man with the ax: his cheeks were pale
with affright; his wildly-rolling eyes flashed ill-omened fire.
" What!" he exclaimed, "three children? thy own children?
the sickly innocent, the imploring boy, the infant 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
skull of the wretched woman, who falls dead at his feet.  The
perpetrator then calmly wipes the blood from the murderous ax,
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
375wanted the sanction of the emperor. Alexander caused all the
circumstances of this crime, so extraordinary in the motives 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 God-like privilege of mercy, by commuting the sentence passed on the criminal, into a condemnation
to labor, not very severe. A- Nonous
LESSON CLXXVII.
THE  M ANIAC.'
STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe!
She is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what,PI'  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't will 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;'T is gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold! bitter cold! no warmth! no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
* It is said, that a gentleman in England, in order to gain possession of his wife's
property, confined her in a mad-house, under pretence of insanity, until she became
really a maniac.
376YOUNG LADIES' READER.                    377'T is 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 burns my head;
But't is not mad; no,'t is not mad.
Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
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 mad.
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 gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?  
[ will be free! unbar the door!
I am not mad; I am not mad.
Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries?
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 woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain,-I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon;-for, lo you!--while I speakMark 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! -PIm mad! I'm mad!
M. G. LErrs.
32MODULATION.
That, as I am a Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though't were to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.
Then came wandering by
A shadow, like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud:
"Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence  
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury:
S&ize on hin, furies, take him to your torments!"
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And, "This to me?" he said,
" An'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
E'en in thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or neaJ,
Lord Angus, thou liast lied!"
In our attempt to imitate nature it is important to avoid affectation, for, to this fault, even perfect monotony is preferable.
3. Improvenmel t of the Voice.
To improve the voice in the particulars which have been
named, practice  is necessary.  To increase its compass or
range of notes, commence, for example, with the lowest pitch
the voice can comfortably sound, and repeat whole paragraphs
and pages upon that key.  Then rise one note higher, and
practice on that, in the same way, then another note, and so on,
until the highest pitch of the V'oice is reached.   The strength
of the voice may be increased in the same way, by practicing
with different degrees of loudness, from a whisper to full rotundity, taking care to keep the voice on the samne key.  The
same note in music may be sounded loudl or soft.   So, also, a
sentence may be pronounced on the same pitch with different
degrees of loudness.  Having practiced with different degrees
of loudness on one key, make the same experiment on another,LESSON CLXXVIII.
DARKNESS.
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went; and came, and 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 tlhey 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
To 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,
They 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
Their chins upon their clinched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again,
With curses, cast them down upon the dust,
And gnashed their teeth and howled.
The wild birds shrieked,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And 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,
378Did glut himself again; a meal was bought
With blood, and each sat sullenly apart,
Gorging hinself 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 tomnbless, as their flesh.
The meager by the meager 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 and perpetual moan,
And a quick, desolate cry, licking thehand
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,
WVhere 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 lifted 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 writtenfiend.
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,
And nothing stir-red within their silent depths;
Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped,
They slept on the abyss without a surge.
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave;
The moon, their mistress, had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perished. Darkness had no need
Of aid from them. She was the universe.   BynRO.
379LESSON CLXXIX.
A WORLD WITHOUT WATER
I HAD a dream in the dead of night,
A dream of agony;
I thought the world stood in affright,
Beneath the hot and parching light
Of an unclouded sky;
I thought there had fallen no cooling rain
For months upon the feverish plain,
And that all the springs were dry.
And I was standing on a hill,
And looking all around;
I know not how it was, but still
Strength in my limbs was found,
As if with a spell of three-fold life,
MIy destinies were bound.
Beneath me was a far-spread heath,
Where once had risen a spring,
Looking as bright as a silver wreath
In its graceful wandering;
But now the sultry glance of the sun,
And the glare of the dark, blue sky,
Had checked its course, no more to run
In light waves wandering by.
And further on was a stately wood,
With its tall trees rising high;
But now like autumn wrecks they stood
Beneath a summer sky:
And every leaf, though dead, did keep
Its station in mockery;
For there was not one breath to sweep
The leaves from each perishing tree;
And there they hung, dead, motionless;
They hung there day by day,
As though death were too busy with other things
To sweep their corpses away.
Oh, terrible it was to think
Of human creatures then!
How they did seek in vain for drink
In every vale and glen;
380YOUNG LADIES' READER.
And how the scorched foot did shrink
As it touched the slippery plain:
And some had gathered beneath the trees
In hope of finding shade;
But, alas! there was not a single breeze
Astir in any glade!
The cities were forsaken,
For their marble wells were spent;
And the walls gave back the scorching glare
Of that hot firmament:
But the corses of those who died were strewn
In the street, as dead leaves lay,
And dry they withered, and withered alone;
They felt no foul decay.
Night came. The fiery sun sank down,
And the people's hope grew strong:
It Wvas a night without a moon,
It was a night in the depth of June,
And there swept a wind along;'T was almost cool.. and then they thought
Some blessed dew it would have brought.
Vain was the hope! there was no cloud
In the clear, dark, blue Heaven;
But, bright and beautiful, the crowd
Of stars looked through the even.
And women sat them down to weep
Over their hopeless pain;
And men had visions dark and deep,
Clouding the dizzy brain;
And children sobbed themselves to sleep,
And never woke again..
The morning came; not as it comes
Softly'mid rose and dew;
Not with those cool and fresh perfumes
That the weariest heart renew;
But the sun sprang up, as if eager to see
What next his power could do.
A mother held her child to her breast,
And kissed it tenderly,
And then she saw her infant smile:
What could that soft smile be?
381382                YOUNG LADIES' READER.
A tear had sprung with a sudden start,
To her hot, feverish eye;
It had fallen upon that faint child's lip,
That was so parched and dry.
I looked upon the mighty sea;
O, what a sight it was!
All its waves were gone, save two or three,
That lay, like burning glass,
Within the caves of those deep rocks
Where no human foot could pass.
And in the very midst, a ship
Lay in the slime and sand;
With all its sailors perishing,
Even in sight of land;
Oh, wat4r had been a welcome sight
To that pale, dying band!
Oh, what a sight was the bed of the sea!
The bed where he had slept,
Or tossed and tumbled restlessly,
And all his treasures kept
For ages; he was gone; and all
His rocky pillows shown,
With their clustering shells, and sea-weed pall,
And the rich gems round them thrown.
And the monsters of the deep lay dead,
With many a human form,
That there had found a quiet bed,
Away from the raging storm;
And the fishes, sodden in the sun,
Were strewn by thousands round;
And a myriad things, long lost and won,
Were there, unsought for, found.
I turned away from earth and sea,
And looked on the burning sky,
But no drop fell, like an angel's tear,
The founts of heaven were dry:
The birds had perished every one;
Not a cloud was in the air;
And desolate seemed the very sun,
He looked so lonely there.And I began to feel the pang,
The agony of thirst;
I had a scorching, swelling pain,
As if my heart would burst.
My tongue seemed parched; I tried to speak;
The spell that instant broke;
And, starting at my own wild shriek,
In mercy I awoke.          Miss M. A. BROWNE.
LESSON CLXXX.
CALH  AT SEA.
DOWN dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,'T was sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck; no breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink:
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: alas!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.
383And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.
At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a mist;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged, and tacked, and veered.
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood;
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!            COLERIDGE.
LESSON CLXXXI.
QUALITIES OF A WELL-REGULATED MIND.
A PROPER discipline and regulation of the mind, require:
1st. The cultivation of a habit of steady and continuous
attention; or of properly directing the mind to any subject
which is before it, so as fully to contemplate its elements and
relations. This is necessary for the due exercise of every
other mental process, and is the foundation of all improvement
384of character, both intellectual and moral.  We frequently have
occasion to remark, how often sophistical opinions and various
distortions of character may be traced to errors in this first act
of the niind, or to a misdirection and want of clue regulation
of the attention. There is, indeed, every reason to believe,
that the diversities in the power of judging, in different individuals, are much less than we are apt to imagine; and that
the remarkable differences observed in the act of judging, are
rather to be ascribed to the manner in which the mind is previously directed to the facts, on which the judgment is afterward to be exercised. It is related of Sir Isaac Newton, that,
when he was questioned respecting the mental qualities which
formed the peculiarity of his character, he referred it entirely
to the power which he had acquired of continuous attention.
2d. A careful regulation and control of the succession of
our thoughts.  This remarkable faculty is very much under
the influence of cultivation; and on the power so acquired
depends the important habit of regular and connected thinking.
It is primarily a voluntary act; and in the exercise of it in different individuals there are the most remarkable differences.
In some, the thoughts are allowed to wander at large without
any regulation, or are devoted only to frivolous and transient
objects; while othlers habitually exercise over them a stern
control, directing them to subjects of real importance, and
prosecuting these in a regular and connected manner. This
important habit gains strength by exercise; and nothing, certainly, has a greater influence in giving tone and consistency to
the whole character.  It may not, indeed, be going too far to
assert, that our condition, in the scale both of moral and intellectual beings, is in a great measure determined by the control
which we have acquired over the succession of our thoughts,
and by the subjects on which they are habitually exercised.
3d. The cultivation of an active, inquiring state of mind,
which seeks for information from every source that comes
within its reach, whether in reading, conversation, or personal
observation. With this state of mental activity ought to be
closely connected attention to the authenticity of facts so received; avoiding the two extremes of credulity and skepticism.
4th. The habit of correct association; that is, connectilg
facts in the mind according to their true relations, and to the
385manner in which they tend to illustrate each other. This is
one of the principal means of improving the memory; particularly of the kind of memory which is an essential quality of
a cultivated mind; namely, that which is founded not upon
incidental connections, but on true and important relations.
Nearly allied to this is the habit of reflection, or of tracing carefully the relations of facts, and the conclusions and principles
which arise out of them.  It is in this manner, that the
philosophical mind often traces remarkable relations, and'
deduces important conclusions; while to the common understanding the facts appear to be very remote or entirely
unconnected.
5th. A careful selection of the subjects to which the mind
ought to be directed. These are, in some respects, different in
different persons, according to their situations in life; but there
are certain objects of attention which are peculiarly adapted to
each individual, and there are some which are equally interesting to all. In regard to the latter, an appropriate degree of
attention is the part of every wise man; in regard to the former, a proper selection is the foundation of excellence. One
individual may waste his powers in that desultory application
of them which leads to an imperfect acquaintance with a variety
of subjects; while another allows his life to steal over him in
listless inactivity, or application to trifling pursuits.
For rising to eminence in any intellectual pursuit, there is
not a rule of more essential importance, than that of doing one
thing at a time; avoiding distracting and desultory occupations;
and keeping a leading object habitually before the mind, as one
in which it can at all times find an interesting resource when
necessary avocations allow the thoughts to recur to it. If along
with this habit there be cultivated the practice of constantly
writing such views as arise, we perhaps describe that state of
mental disciplinle by which talents of a very moderate ordei
may be applied in a conspicuous and useful manner to any subject to which they are devoted.  Such writing need not be
made at first with any great attention to method, but merely
put aside for future consideration; and in this manner the dif
ferent departments of a subject will develop and arrange them
selves as they advance, in a manner equally pleasing and'wonderful.
3866th. A due regulation and proper control of the imagination; that is, restrictingits range to objects which harmonize
with truth, and are adapted to the real state of things with
which the individual is or may be connected. We can easily
see how much the character is influenced by this exercise of
the mind; that it may be turned to purposes of the greatest
moment, both in the pursuits of science and in the cultivation
of benevolence and virtue; but that, on the other hand, it may
be so employed as to debase both the moral and intellectual
character.
7th. The cultivation of calm and correct judgment, applicable alike to the formation of opinions and the regulation of
conduct.  This is founded upon the habit of directing the
attention distinctly and steadily to all the facts and considerations bearing upon a subject; and it consists in contemplating
them in their true relations, and assigning to each the degree of
importance of which it is worthy. This mental habit tends to
guard us against forming conclusions, either with listless inattention to the views by which we ought to be influenced, or
with attention directed to some of these, while we neglect
others of equal or greater importance. It is, therefore, opposed
to the influence of prejudice and passion, to the formation of
sophistical opinions, to party spirit, and to every propensity
which leads to the adoption of principles on any other ground
than calm and candid examination, guided by sincere desire to
discover.the truth.                           ABERCROMBIE.
LESSON CLXXXII.
IMMORTALITY.
Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love?
And doth death cancel the great bond, that holds
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts, that know no bounds,
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought,
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb.
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms
Of uncreated light have visited, and lived?
387and then on another, and so on. It will be found, that the voice
is capable of being changed and improved by exercise and
practice to a much greater degree than is generally supposed.
Questions.--What is meant by the key note? Is this the same at all times, and
in all individuals? What- circumstances cause it to differ? What is meant by
compass of voice? Under what circumstances is this range great? When is it
small? If too high a key note be selected, what is the consequence? If the note
be too low, what danger is there? What is the rule on this subject? What is
monotony? What are the evils arising from this fault'! What other faults of tone
are mentioned? What manner of reading poetry is mentioned? How are these
faults to be corrected? What is said with regard to varying the tones in quality or
expression? What is said of the reading of dialogues, &c.? Repeat the second
Rule? What must be guarded against in attempts to imitate nature? How may
the voice be improved in compass? How, in strength?
0(  For the purpose of illustrating more fully the preceding Directions
for Reading, a few ExxRcisEs are appended, in which the inflections are
marked.
On Lying.
I really know nothing more criminal', more mean', and more
ridiculous', than lying'. It is the production either of malice',
cowardice', or vanity'; and generally misses of its aim' in every
one  of these  views'; for lies are always detected' sooner or
later'. If I tell a malicious lie, in order to affect any man's
fortune or character', I may indeed injure him  for some time';
but I shall be sure' to be the greatest sufferer at last'; for as
soon as I am detected', (and detected I most certainly shall' be,)
I am blasted for the infamous attempt'; and whatever is said
afterward  to  the disadvantage of that person', however true',
passes for calumny'.
If I lie or equivocate', (for it is the same thing',) in order to
excuse myself for something that I have said or done', and to
avoid the danger or the shame that I apprehend' from it, I discover, at once, my fear', as well as my falsehood'; and only
increase', instead of avoiding' the danger and the shame'; I show
myself to be the lowest' and meanest' of mankind', and am sure
to be always treated' as such.
Remember, as long as you live', that nothing but strict truth
call carry you through the world', with either your conscience
or your honor unwounded'. It is not only your duty', but your
interest': as a proof of which you may always observe', that
the greatest fools' are the greatest liars'. For my own' part, I
judge, by every man's truth', of his degree of understanding,
EXERCISES.
37Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne,
Which One, with' gentle hand, the vail of flesh
Lifting, that hung'twixt man and it, revealed
In glory. throne, before which, even now,
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down,
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed I
Souls, that know Thee by a mysterious sense,
Thou awful, unseen Presence, are they quenched,
Or burn they on, hid from o.ur mortal eyes
By that brigrht day which ends not; as the sun
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars?
And with our frames do perish all our loves?
Do those that took their root, and put forth buds,
And their soft 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 give speech,
And make it send forth winning 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?
0 listen, man!
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 seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.
O listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in
From all the air.'T is in the gentle moonlight;'T is floating'mid 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
388By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying bear it; and, as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.         R. H. DANA.
LESSON  CLXXXIII.
ON DECISION  OF CHARACTER.
ONE signal advantage possessed by a mind of this character
is, that its passions are not wasted.  The whole amount of
passion of which any mind, with important transactions before
it, is capable, is not more than enough to supply interest and
energy to its practical exertions; and, therefore, as little as possible of this sacred fire should be expended in a way that does
not augment the force of action.  But nothing can less contribute to vigor of effort, than protracted anxious fluctuation;
intermixed with resolutions decided and revoked, while yet
nothing causes a greater expense of feeling.  The heart is
fretted and exhausted by being subjected to an alternation of
contrary excitements, with the ultimate, mortifying consciousness of their contributing to no end.
The long-wavering deliberation, whether to perform  some
bold action of difficult virtue, has often cost more to feeling
than the action itself, or a series of such actions, would have
cost; with the great disadvantage, too, of being relieved by
none of that invigoration which, to the man in action, would
have sprung from the spirit of the action itself, and have renovated the ardor which it was expending.  A person of decisive
character, by consuming as little passion as possible in dubious
musings and abortive resolutions, can secure its utmost value
and use, by throwing it all into effective operation.
Anotlher advantage of this character is, that it exempts from
a great deal of interference and persecution, to which an irresolute man is subjected.  Weakness, in every form, temlpts arrogance; and a maii  may be allowed to wish for a kind of
character with which stupidity and impertinence may not
make so free.  WVhen a firm, decisive spirit is recognized, it is
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
389curious to see how the space clears around a man, and leaves
him room and freedom. The disposition to interrogate, dictate,
or banter, preserves a respectful and politic distance, judging it
not unwise to keep the peace with a person of so much energy.
A conviction that he understands and that he wills with extraordinary force, silences the conceit that intended to perplex or
instruct him, and intimidates the malice that was disposed to
attack him.  There is a feeling, as in respect to fate, that the
decrees of so inflexible a spirit must be right, or that, at least,
they will be accomplished.
Not only will he secure the freedom of acting for himself,
but he will obtain also, by degrees, the coincidence of those
in whose company he is to transact the business of life.  If
the manners of such a man are free from arrogance, and he
can qualify his firmness with a moderate degree of insinuation;
and if his measures have partly lost the appearance of being
the dictates of his will, under the wider and softer sanction of
some experience that they are reasonable; both competition
and fear will be laid to sleep, and his will may acquire an unresisted ascendency over many who will be pleased to fall into
the mechanism of a system, which they find makes them more
successful and happy than they could have been amid the
anxiety of adjusting plans and expedients of their own, and
the consequences of often adjusting them ill. I have known
several parents, both fathers and mothers, whose management
of their families has answered this description; and has displayed a striking example of the facile complacency with
which a number of persons, of different ages and dispositions,
will yield to the decisions of a firm mind, acting on an equitable and enlightened system.
The last resource of this character is hard, inflexible pertinacity, on which it may be allowed to rest its strength, after
finding it can be effectual in none of its milder forms. I
remember admiring an instance of this kind, in a firm, sagacious, and very estimable old man, whom I well knew, and
who is now dead. Being on a jury, in a trial of life and
death, he was completely satisfied of the innocence of the
prisoner. The other eleven were of the opposite opinion. But
he was resolved the man should not be condemned; and, as
the first effort for preventing it, very properly made applicaYOUNG LADIES' READER.
390tion to the minds of his associates, spending several hours in
laboring to convince them. But he found he made no impression, while he was exhausting the strength which was to be
reserved for another mode of operation.  He then calmly told
them, it should now be a trial who could endure confinement
and famine the longest, and that they might be quite assured
he would sooner die than release them at the expense of the
prisoner's life. In this situation they spent about twenty-four
hours, when, at length, all acceded to his verdict of acquittal.
JOHiN FOSTER
LESSON CLXXXIV.
CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON.
THE person of Washington was commanding, graceful, and
fitly proportioned; his stature six feet, his chest broad and full,
his limbs long and somewhat slender, but well shaped and
muscular.  His features were regular and symmetrical, his
eyes of a light blue color, and his whole countenance, in
its quiet state, was grave, placid, and benignant.  When alone,
or not engaged in conversation, he appeared sedate and thoughtful; but when his attention was excited, his eye kindled
quickly, and his face beamed with animation and intelligence.
He was not fluent in speech, but what he said was apposite,
and listened to with the more interest as being known to come
from the heart. He seldom attempted sallies of wit or humor,
but no man received more pleasure from an exhibition of them
by others; and, although contented in seclusion, he sought his
chief happiness in society, and participated with delight in all
its rational and innocent amusements. Without austerity on
the one hand, or an appearance of condescending familiarity on
the other, he was affable, courteous, and cheerful; but it has
often been remarked, that there was a dignity in his person and
manner not easy to be defined, which impressed every one that
saw him for the first time, with an instinctive deference and
awe. This may have arisen, in part, from a conviction of his
superiority, as well as from the effect produced by his external
form and deportment.
391The character of his mind was unfolded in the public and
private acts of his life; and the proofs of his greatness are seen
almost as much in the one as in the other.  The same qualities
which raised him to the ascendency he possessed over the will
of a nation, as the commander of armies and chief magistrate,
caused him to be loved and respected as an individual.  Wisdom, judgment, prudence, and firmness, were his predominant
traits.  No man ever saw more clearly the relative importance
of things and actions, or divested himself more entirely of the
bias of personal interest, partiality, and prejudice, in discriminating between the true and the false, the right and the wrong,
in all questions and subjects that were presented to him. He
deliberated slowly, but decided surely; and, when his decision
was once formed, he seldom reversed it, and never relaxed
from the execution of a measure till it was completed. Courage, physical and moral, was a part of his nature; and, whether
in battle, or in the midst of popular excitement, he was fearless
of danger, and regardless of consequences to himself.
His ambition was of that noble kind, which aims to excel in
whatever it undertakes, and to acquire a power over the hearts
of men by promoting their happiness and winning their affections.  Sensitive to the approbation of others, and solicitous to
deserve it, he made no concession to gain their applause, either
by flattering their vanity, or yielding to their caprices. Cautious
without timidity, bold without rashness, cool in counsel, deliberate, but firm in action, clear in foresight, patient under reverses,
steady, persevering, and self-possessed, lie met and conquered
every obstacle that obstructed his path to honor, renown, and
success.  More confident in the uprightness of his intention,
than in his resources, he sought knowledge and advice from
other men. He chose his counselors with unerring sagacity;
and his quick perception of the soundness of an opinion, and
of the strong points in an argument, enabled him to draw to his
aid the best fruits of their talents, and the light of their collected
wisdom.
His moral qualities were in perfect harmony with those of
his intellect.  Duty was the ruling principle of his conduct;
and the rare endowments of his understanding were not more
constantly tasked to devise the best methods of effecting an
object, than they were to guard the sanctity of conscience.
392No instance can be adduced, in which he was actuated by a
sinister motive, or endeavored to attain an end by unworthy
means.  Truth, integrity, and justice, were deeply rooted in
his mind; and nothing could rouse his indignation so soon, or
so utterly destroy his confidence, as the discovery of the want
of these virtues in any one whom he had trusted. Weaknesses,
follies, indiscretions, he could forgive; but subterfuge and dishonesty he never forgot, rarely pardoned.
He was candid and sincere, true to his friends, and faithful to
all, neither practicing dissimulation, descending to artifice, nor
holding out expectations which he did not intend should be
realized. His passions were strong, and sometimes they broke
out with vehemence; but he had the power of checking them
in an instant. Perhaps self-control was the most remarkable
trait of his character.  It was, in part, the effect of discipline;
yet he seenis by nature to have possessed this power to a
degree which has been denied to other men.
A christian in faith and practice, he was habitually devout.
His reverence for religion is seen in his example, his public
communications, and his private writings.  He uniformly
ascribed his successes to the beneficent agency of the Supreme
Being. Charitable and humane, he was liberal to the poor,
and kind to those in distress. As a husband, son, and brotlier,
he was tender and affectionate. Without vanity, ostentation,
oI pride, he never spoke of himself or his actions, unless required by circumstances which concerned the public interests.
As he was free from envy, so he had the good fortune
to escape the envy of others, by standing on an elevation
which none could hlope to attain.  If he had one passion
more powerful than another, it was love of his country.
The purity and ardor of his patriotism  were commensurate
with the greatness of its object.  Love of country in him
was invested with the sacred obligation of a duty; and from
the faithful discharge of this duty he never swerved for a
moment, either in thought or deed, through the whole period
of his eventful career.
Such are some of the traits in the character of Washington,
which have acquired for him the love and veneration of mankind.  If they are not marked with the brilliancy, extravagance, and eccentricity, which, in other men, have excited the
393astonishment of the world, so neither are they tarnished by
the follies, nor disgraced by the crimes of those men. It is
the happy combination of rare talents and qualities, the harmonious union of the intellectual and moral powers, rather
than the dazzling splendor of any one trait, which constitute
the grandeur of his character. If the title of great man ought
to be reserved for him who cannot be charged with an indiscretion or a vice; who spent his life in establishling the independence, the glory, and durable prosperity of his country;
who succeeded in all that he undertook; and whose successes
were never won at the expense of honor, justice, integrity, or
by the sacrifice of a single principle,-this title will not be
denied to WASHINGTON.                              J. SPARKS.
LESSON CLXXXV.
THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.
[On laying the corner-stone of a monument to her memory.]
LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed,
And pearled with dews. She bade bright Summer bring
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet
Down at thy feet, and stormry Winter speak
Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come
To do thee homage, mother of our chief!
Fit homage, such as honoreth him who pays.
Methinks we see thee, as in olden time,
Simple in garb, majestic and serene,
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance, in truth
Inflexible, and, with a Spartan zeal
Repressing vice, and making folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth; to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave,
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away,
Building no temple in her children's hearts.
Save to the vanity and pride of life
394Which she had worshiped. For the might that clothed
His " Country's Father," for the glorious deeds
That make Moutnt Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine
For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due.
Who,'mid his elements of being, wrought,
We know not: Heaven can tell.
Rise, sculptured pile!
And show a race unborn who rests below;
And say to mothers, what a holy charge
Is theirs; with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow
Good seed before the world hath sown her tares;
Nor in their toil decline; that angel bands
May put the sickle in, and reap for God,
And gather to his garner.
Ye, who stand,
With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise,
Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief;
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son;
What though no high ambition prompts to rear
A second WVashington; or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears
Of deathless gratitude: yet may you raise
A monument above the stars; a soul
Led by your teachings and your prayers to God.
MRs. SIGOURgEY.
LESSON CLXXXVI
NEW  ENGLAND.
LAND of the forest and the rock,
Of dark blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock,
My own green land forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave,
The freeman's home, the martyr's grave,
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
395YOUNG LADIES' READER.
The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wvanfdering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love;
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-armed trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing:
Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead,
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,
Nor feel resentment like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
0! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy,
And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green, luxuriant ivy climb;
And nearer to the risinor sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are openinrg, one by one,
Like stars upon tile twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the bioad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand hright-lhued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak, and mountain-pine
More welcome than the banian's shade!
And every free, blue stream of thine
396Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
J. G. WHITTIER.
LESSON CLXXXVII.
T1IE WESTERN HUNTER.
Ay, this is freedom! These pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke;
The fragrant wind,- that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plow unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert-and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass:
Wherever breeze of Heaven may blow,
Or beam of Heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures measureless as air,
The bison is my noble game;
T'he bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.
Mine are the river fowl that scream
From the long line of waving sedge;
The hear that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brindled catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way!
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades:
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
Where never seythehas swept the glades.
397()n the Analvytic and Inductive methods of Instruction: with numerous
practical exercises.  Designed for Common Schools and Academies.  By
JosFPoa RAY, M. D., Professor of Mathematics in Woodward College
Complete in one volume 12mo., 240 pages.
THIS work has been prepared expressly f),r the Eclectic Educational Series, and
is the result of much labor and investigation. It is hoped that it will be found as
meritorious in its department, as the highly popular Arithmetics by the same author,
have already been pronounced by the educational public.
Gratifying evidence of its adaptation to the wants of Teachers and Pupils is found
in the fact that the first edition is already entirely exhausted, though it is but a few
weeks since its issue.
The follosring extract from the Preface will explain the plan of the work:
"The object has been to furnish an elementary treatise, commencing with the first
principles, and leading the pupil by gradual and easy steps, to a kenowledge of the
elements of the science. The design has been to present these in a brief, clear, and
scientific manner, so that the pupil should not be taught merely to perform a certain
routine of exercises mechanically, but to understand the why and the wherefore of
every step. For this purpose every rule is demonstrated, and every principle analyzed, in order that the mind of the pupil may be disciplined and strengthened, so as
to prepare him, either for pursuing the study of Mathematics intelligently, or more
successfully attending to any pursuit in life.'" Some Teachers may object that this work is too simple, and too easily understood.
A leading object has been to make the pupil feel that he is not operating on unmeaning
symbols, by means of arbitrary rules; that Algebra is both a rational and a practical
subject, and that he can rely upon his reasoning and the results of his operations, with
the same confidence as in Arithmetic. For this purpose he is furnished, at almost
every step, with the mealls of testing the accuracy of the principles on which the rules
are founded, and of the results which they produce.
"Throughout the work the aim has been to combine the clear, explanatory methods of
the French mathematicians, with the practical exercises of the English and German, so
that the pupil should acquire both a practical and theoretical knowledge of the subject."
The intention to render the works comprised in the Eclectic Series the cheapest
School Books extant, has not been lost sight of in fixing the price of RAY's Algebra.
From D. S. BuRsov, Principal of Waynesville Academy.
RAY'S.ALGEzRA, Part First, is a work' sui generis,' and more than any treatise
with which I am acquainted, is calculated to make the study of Algebra popular, and
will, I hope, by rendering the subject plain and intelligible, be the means of introducing this beautiful branch of mathematics into our common schools. Some may object
to its simplicity; but, in my opinion, this is a most desirable feature. In most treatises
on Algebra there is a lamentable want of clearness-in many, even a mystifying of
the subiect, the authors seeming to think that students generally have judgments al
ripe as their own. Hence a distaste on the part of pupils for this study. Prolixity oa
the one hand, and a dimly shadowing forth of principles, on the other, should be care
fully guarded against by authors. This golden medium is, in my opinion, more nearli
attained, both in Ray's Arithmetics, and in this treatise on Algebra, than in any worlk
of similar design with which I am acquainted. I give the bool my unreserved com
mendation, and shall introdtuce it into our Academy.      D. S. BURSON.Charity.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels',
and have not charity', I am become as sounding brass', or a tinkling cymbal'. And though I have the gifts of prophecy', and
understand all mysteries', and all knowledge'; and though I
have all faith', so that I could remove mountains', and have not
charity', I am nothing'. And though I bestow all my goods
to feed the poor', and though I give my body to be burned', and
have not charity', it profiteth me nothing'.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind'; charity envieth' not;
charity vaunteth' not itself, is not puffed up'; doth not behave
itself unseemly', seeketh not her own', is not easily provoked',
thinketh no evil'; rejoiceth not in iniquity', but rejoiceth in the
truth'; beareth' all things, believeth' all things', hopeth' all things
endureth' all things. Charity never faileth': but whether there
be prophecies,' they shall fail'; whether there be tongues,' they
shall cease'; whether there be knowledge', it shall vanish away'
For we know' in part, and we prophesy' in part. But when
that which is perfect' is come', that which is in part' shall be
done away'.
Questions.
What, then, was Caesar's object'?  Do we select extortioners', to enforce the law of equity'? Do we make choice of
profligates', to guard the morals of society'? I will not press'
the answer. I need' not press the answer. The premises of
my argument render it unnecessary.   What would content'
you?  Talent'?  No'.  Enterprise'? No'.  Courage'? No'
Reputation'?  No'.  Virtue'?  No'.  The men whom  you
would select, should possess, not one', but all' of these.
Alas', poor Yorick'! I knew him well', Horatio', a fellow
of infinite jest', of most excellent fancy'. He hath borne me
on his back', a thousand times'; and now', how abhorred in my
imagination is this skull'! My gorge rises' at it.  Here hung
those lips that I have kissed', I know not how oft'. Where are
your gibes', now?  Your gambols'? your songs'? your flashes
of merriment', that were wont to set the table in a roar'? Not
one', now, to mock your grinning'? quite chop-fallen'? Now
90
OC)
EXERCISES.Alone, the fire, when frost winds sear
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle's sound,
And trains of smoke that heavenward tower,
And streaming flames that sweep the plain,
Fierce, as if kindled to devour
Earth to the well-springs of the main.
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew.
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue,
Bright clustbrs tempt me as I pass.
Broad are these streams; my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods; I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
[ hunt till day's last glimmer dies
O'er woody vale and grassy hight;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes,
That welcome my return at night.  W. C. BRYANT.
LESSON CLXXXVIII.
THE SAVOYARD S RETURN.
O, YONDER is the well known spot,
My dear, my long-lost, native home;
O, welcome is yon little cot,
Where I shall rest, no more to roam!
0, I have traveled far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.
398YOUNG LADIES' READER.                  399
Of distant climes the false report
Allured me from my native land,
It-bade me rove, my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
T'he chamois skipping o'er the hights,
The plain, adorned with many a flock,
And, oh, a thousand more delights
That grace yon dear, beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.
Now safe returned, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall wile away the winter's eve.
O, I have wandered far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried
And sung and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.  H. K. WHITE.
LESSON CLXXXIX.
THE UMBRELLA.
[This is a lecture of Mrs. Caudle to her husband for having loaned an
umbrella. His part in the conversation is left to be inferred from her occasional repetition of his words.]
BAH! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What
were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be
sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could
spoil! Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the
sort to take cold.  Besides, he'd have better taken cold, than
taken our umbrella.  Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle?
I say, do you liear the rain?  Do you hlear it against the windows? Nonsense: you don't impose upon me; you can't
be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say?
Oh! you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to
last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house.
Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don't insult me;he return the umbrella? Any body would think you were born
yesterday. As if any body ever did return an umbrella!
There: do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and dogs!
and for six weeks; always six weeks; and no umbrella! I
should like to know how the children are to go to school tomlorrow. They sha'n't go through such weather; I am determined. No; they shall stop at home and never learn anything,
(the blessed creatures!) sooner than go and get wet! And
when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for
knowing nothing; whom, indeed, but their father?  People
who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.
But I know why you lent the umbrella: oh, yes, I know
very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow:
you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you
hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to
hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir; if
it comes down in buckets full, I'll go all the more. No; and
I'll not have a cab!  Where do you think the money's to
come from? You've got nice, high notions at that club of
yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen-pence, at least; sixteen-pence! two-and-eight-pence; for there's back  again.
Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for'em;
for I'm  sure you can't, if you go on- as you do, throwing
away your property, and beggaring your children, buying
umbrellas!
Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle?  I say, do you hear it?
But I don't care; I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and
what's more I'll walk every step of the way; and you
know that will give me my death.  Don't call me a foolish
woman;'tis you that's the foolish man. You know I can't
wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me
a cold: it always does: but what do you care for that?
Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare
say I shall; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be.  I hope
there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again.
I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death: yes, and that's
what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!
Nice clothes I get, too, tramping through weather like this.
My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear'em then?  Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear'em.  No, sir;
400I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or any body else.
Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step over the threshold;
indeed, I might as well be a slave at once: better, I should
say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a
lady. Ohi! that rain! if it isn't enough to break in the windows. Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-morrow! How
I am to go to mother's, I'm  sure I can't tell, but if I die, I'll
do it. No, sir; I'll not borrow an umbrella: no; and you
sha'n't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another
umbrella, I'll throw it in the street.
Ha! And it was only last week I had a new nozzle put on
that umbrella. I'm  sure if I'd known as much as I do now,
it might have gone without one. Paying for new nozzles for
other people to laugh at you! Oh!'tis all very well for you.
You've no thought of your poor, patient wife, and your own
dear children; you think of nothing but lending umbrellas!
Men, indeed! call themselves lords of the creation! pretty
lords, when they can't even-take care of an umbrella!
I know that walk to-morrow.will be the death of me, but
that's what you want: then you may go to your club, and do
as you like; and then, nicely my poor, dear children will be
used; but then, sir, then you'll be happy.  Oh! don't tell
me! I know you will: else you'd never have lent the umbrella! You have to go on Thursday about that summons;
and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed: you don't go without the umbrella.  You may lose the debt for what I care;'tis not so bad as spoiling your clothes; better lose it; people
deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas!
And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's
without the umbrella. Oh! don't tell me that I said I wouldl
go; that's nothing to do with it: nothing at all.. She'll think
I'm neglecting her; and the little money we're to have, we
sha'n't have at all: because we've no umbrella. The children too! (dear things!) they'll be sopping wet; for they
sha'n't stay at home; they sha'n't lose their learning;'t is all
their father will leave them, I'm  sure.  But they shall go to
school. Don't tell me they shouldn't; (you are so aggravating,
Caudle, you'd spoil the temper of an angel;) they shall go to
school; mark that; and if tley get their deaths of cold,'tis
not my fault; I didn't lend the umbrella.    AoNTMo.ous.
34
401LESSON CXC.
EFFECTS OF UNIVERSAL FALSEHOOD.
LET US consider, for a little, some of the effects which
would inevitably follow, were the law  of truth universa!ly
violated. In this case, a scene of horror and confusion would
ensue, of which it is difficult for the mind to form any distinct
conception.  It is obvious, in the first place, that rational
beings could never improve in knowledge, beyond the range
of the sensitive objects that happened to be placed within the
sphere of their personal observation; for by far the greater
part of our knowledge is derived from the communications of
others, and from the stimulus to intellectual exertion which
such communications produce.
Let us suppose a human being trained up, from infancy,
in a wilderness, by a bear or a wolf, as history records to
have been the case of several individuals in the forests of
France, Germany, and Lithuania, what knowledge could
such a being acquire beyond that of a brute?  He might distinguish a horse from a cow, and a man from a dog, and know
that such objects as trees, shrubs, grass, flowers, and water,
existed around him; but knowledge, strictly so called, and the
proper exercise of his rational faculties, he could not acquire,
so long as he remained detached from other rational beings.
Such would be our situation, were falsehood universal among
men.  We could acquire a knowledge of nothing but what
was obvious to our senses, in the objects with which we were
surrounded.  We could not know whether the earth were
twenty miles, or twenty thousand miles, in extent, and whether
oceans, seas, rivers, and ranges of mountains, existed on its
surface, unless we had made the tour of it in person, and with
our own eyes, surveyed the various objects it contains.
Of course, we should remain in absolute ignorance of the
existence and the attributes of' God, of the moral relations of
intelligent beings to their Creator, and to one another, and of
the realities of a future state.  For it is only, or chiefly,
through the medium of testimony, combined with the evidenlce
of our senses, that we acquire a knowledge of such truths and
objects.
402In the next place, all confidence among intelligent beings
would be completely destroyed. Disappointment would invariably attend every purpose and resolution, and every scheme we
wished to execute, if it depended, in the least degree, upon
the direction or assistance of others. We should not dare to
taste an article of food which we might receive from another,
lest it should contain poison; nor could we ever construct a
house, to shelter us from the storm, unless our own physical
powers were adequate to the work. Were we living in Edinburgh, we could never go to Musselburgh and Dalkeith, if we
were previously iginorant of the situation of those places; or
were we residing in London, it would be impossible for us
ever to find our way to Hommerton or Hampstead, unless,
after a thousand attempts, chance should happen to direct us;
and when we might arrive at either of these villages, we should
still be in as much uncertainty as ever, whether it was the
place to which we intended to direct our steps.
Confidence being destroyed, there could be no friendship, no
union of hearts, no affectionate intercourse, no social converse,
no consolation or comfort in the hour of distress, no hopes of
deliverance in the midst of danger, and no prospect of the
least enjoyment fiom any being around us. In such a case,
the mind would feel itself as in a wilderness, even when surrounded by fellow-intelligences; and, wherever it roamed over
the vast expanse of nature, or among the mass of living beings
around it, it would meet with no affectionate interchange of
feelings and sentiments, and no object on which it could rest
for solace and enjoyment. Every one would feel as if he
were placed in the midst of an infinite void, and as if he were
the only being residing in the universe. We should flee from
the society of men, as we would do from a lion or a tiger
when rushing -on his prey; and hide ourselves in dens, and
forests, and caverns of the earth, till death should put a period
to a cheerless and mliserable existence.
All social intercourse and relations would cease; families
could not possibly exist, nor any affectionate intercourse
between the sexes; for truth, and the confidence which is
founded upon it, are implied in all the intercourse of husbands
and wives, of brothers and sisters, and of parents and children;
and consequently the human race, dropping into the grave,
403one after another, like the leaves of autumn, without any successors, would, in a short time, be extirpated from the earth.
In such a state, kindness and affection wvould never be exercised; trade and commerce, buying and selling, social compacts and agreements would be annihilated; science, literature,
and the arts, could not exist; and consequently universities,
colleges, churches, academies, schools, and every other seminary of instruction, would be unknown. No villages, towns,
nor cities, would be built; no fields cultivated; no orchards,
vineyards, nor gardens planted; no intercourse would exist
between different regions of the globe; and nothing but one
dreary, barren waste would be presented to the eye, throughout the whole expanse of nature.                       DIcK
LESSON CXCI.
THE WARRIOR.
A GALLANT form is passing by;
The plume bends o'er his lordly brQw;
A thousand tongues have raised on high
His song of triumph now:
Young knees are bending round his way,
And age makes bare his locks of gray.
Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile,
White hands have waved the conqueror on,
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 frenzy 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,
404YOUNG LADIES' READER.                    40
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.
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 worshiping
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 wreathe
Your chaplets round his brow.
Nay, call his darkest deeds sublime,
And smile assent to giant crime 1
Forbid it, Heaven! A voice hath gone
In mildness and in meekness forth,
Hushing, before its silvery tone,
The stormy things of earth,
And whispering sweetly through the gloom
An earnest of the peace to come.       AXoNYMOUs.
LESSON CXCII.
THE DUEL.
SHZ said she-was alone within the world:
How could she-but be sad!
She whispered something of a lad,
With eyes of blue, and light hair sweetly curled;
But the grave had the child!
And yet his voice she heard,YOUNG LADIES' READER.
When at the lattice, calm and mild,
The mother in the twilight saw the vine-leaves stirred.'" Mother," it seemed to say,
"I love thee;
When thou dost by the side of thy lone pillow pray,
My spirit writes the words above thee;
Mother! I watch o'er thee; I love thee!"
Where was the husband of that widowed thing.
That seraph's earthly sire?
A soldier dares a soldier's fire:
The murderous ball brought death upon its wing;
Beneath a foreign sky
He fell, in sunny Spain;
The wife, in silence, saw him die,
But the fond boy's blue eyes gave drops like sunny rain.
" Mother!" the poor lad cried,
"He's dying!
We are close by thee, father; at thy bleeding side;
Dost thou not hear thy Arthur crying?
Mother! his lips are closed; he's dying!"
It was a stormy time, where the man fell;
And the youth shrunk and pined;
Consumption's worm his pulse entwined;
"Prepare his shroud," rang out the convent-bell,
Yet through his pain he smiled,
To soothe a parent's grief;
Sad soul! she could not be beguiled;
She saw the bud would leave the guardian leaf!
"Mother!" he faintly said,
" Come near me!
Kiss me; and let me in my father's grave be laid;
I've prayed that I might still be near thee;
Mother! I'11 come again and cheer thee."
EDw ARJDS.
LESSON CXCIII.
THE FESTAL BOARD.
COME to the festal board to-night,
For bright-eyed beauty will be there,
Her coral lips in nectar steeped,
And garlanded her hair.
406Come to the festal board to-night,
For there the joyous laugh of youth,
Will ring those silvery peals, which speak
Of bosoms pure, and stainless truth.
Come to the festal board to-night,
For friendship, there, with stronger chain,
Devoted hearts already bound
For good or ill, will bind again.
I went.
Nature and art their stores out-poured;
Joy beamed in every kindling glance;
Love, friendship, youth, and beauty, smiled:
What could that evening's bliss enhance 1
We parted.
And years have flown; but where are now
The guests, who round that table met.
Rises their sun as gloriously
As on the banquet's eve it set.
How holds the chain which friendship wove?
It broke; and, soon, the hearts it bound
Were widely sundered; and for peace,
Envy, and strife, and blood, were found.
The merriest laugh which then was heard
Has changed its tones to maniac screams;
As half-quenched memory kindles up
Glimmerings of guilt in feverish dreams.
And where is she, whose diamond eyes
Golconda's purest gems outshone?
Whose roseate lips of Eden breathed?
Say, where is she, the beauteous one?
Beneath yon willow's drooping shade,
With eyes now dim, and lips all pale,
She sleeps in peace. Read on her urn,'"Y broken heart."  This tells her tale.
And where is he, that tower of strength,
Whose fate wi-th hers, for life was joined.
How beats his heart, once honor's throne?
How high has soared his daring mind?
407get you to my lady's chamber, and tellt her, if she paint an
inch thick', yet to this favor will she come at last'.
Hour of Prayer.
CHILD, amid the flowers at play,,
While the red light fades awayr;
Mother', with thine earnest eye',
Ever following silently';
Father', by the breeze at eve'
Call'd thy harvest work to leave';
Pray'! - Ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee'.
Traveler', in the stranger's land',
Far from thine own household band';
Mourner', haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone';
Captive', in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell';
Sailor,, on the darkening sea';
Lift the heart, and bend the knee'.
Warrior', that from battle won',
Breathest now at set of sun';
Woman', o'er the lowly slain',
Weeping on his burial. plain';
Ye that triumph', ye that sigh',
Kindred by one holy tie';
Heaven's first star alike ye see,
Lift the heart', and bend the knee'.
Shyloek to e]ntonio.
Seignor Antonio', many a time', and oft',
In the Rialto, you have rated me
About my moneys', and my usances':
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug';
For sufferance'- is the badge of all our tribe'.
You called me' - misbeliever', - cut-throat dog',
And sPIT' - upon my Jewish gabardine';
And all for use of that which is my own'.
Well', then', it now' appears you need my help'.
Go to, then', you come to me', and you say',
"1 Shylock', we would have moneys'." Yoi say so,
Yoli, that (lid void your rheum upon my beard',Go to the dungeon's gloom to-night:
His wasted form, lhis aching head,
And all that now remains of him,
Lies, shuddering, on a felon's bed.
Ask you of all these woes the cause?
The festal board, the enticing bowl,
More often came, and reason fled,
And maddened passions spurned control.
Learn wisdom then. The frequent feast
Avoid; for there, with stealthy tread,
Temptation walks, to lure you on,
Till death, at last, the banquet spread.
And shun, oh, shun the enchanted cup!
Though now its draught like joy appears,
Ere long it will be fanned by sighs,
And sadly mixed with blood and tears.
AYo.NYrous.
LESSON CXCIV.
SABBATH MORNING.
THAT is not likely to be a profitable Sabbath which is commenced without some suitable recollection, some sincere desire
to improve and to sanctify it.  Our first waking thoughts
should be thus consecrated; should thus take possession of
the mind, and pre-occupy it; otherwise those of a worldly
kind will soon flow  in; so that if we " do not our own
works," we shall 1"think our own thoughts," which is as
great a sin in the sight of God. The Sabbath dawns not on
ourselves alone, but also on the millions of our favored land;
inviting all to forget the six days, in wlhich they have labored,
and done their work, and to reinember this, and keep it holy.
Alas! to multitudes how vain the summons!  It is melancholy to reflect on the thousands who welcome it only as a
day of indulgence, idleness, or amusement.  The Sabbath sun,
which ought to arouse them betimes to its sacred duties, does
but witness their longer indulgence.
How  many, who "rise early and sit up late," on other
408'YOUNG LADIES' READER.
days, to attend diligently to their worldly affairs, when they
awake and recollect that it is Sunday, resolve to have "a little
more sleep, a little more folding of the hands to sleep!" And
when at last they arise, if they do not allow themselves to
engage in the business of other days, they do but fill up the
heavy hours in the meanest indulgences; in the preparation or
enjoyment of a luxurious meal, in the most trifling occupations,
or in absolute idleness. Others rise early, indeed, but it is only
in order to lengthen their holiday. How many such are thus
preparing to profane the Sabbath!  How are the roads and
fields, in almost every part of our beautiful country, disfigured
by these unhallowed visitants! How are our streets thronged
with Sabbath-breakers! The doors of the:houses of God are
thrown wide open, and they would be welcome as well as
others. "Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?"  In vain
is the affectionate invitation! They pass on, resolved to have
their pleasure at whatever price.
But there is a brighter view of Sunday morning, to which it
is refreshing to turn.  How many are there, who have' said of
it,,"Early will I seek thee," and who, from  their various and
distant-dwellings, have been, at the same hour, seeking, in
their closets, a blessing on the welcome Sabbath!  Their
united supplications, uttered in various accents, and rising from
the lowly cottage, the darksome hovel, as well as from abodes
of comfort and affluence, ascendd together, as ani acceptable
morning sacrifice to the throne of grace. Again: see from the
streets and lanes, from the courts and alleys of our crowded
cities, from the hamlets and villages, from the highways and
hedges, what numbers of decent children now issue forth to
their respective Sunday Schools! Howmany little feet are, at
the same moment, pacing the streets on this blessed errand!
What an innumerable multitude would they form, could the
whole of them be assembled on some vast plain before our
view!'
The crowded streets of a large city, on a Sunday morning,
may also afford another observation which should excite our
liveliest gratitude.  To see multitudes, of every different
denomination, quietly proceeding, in open day, unmolested and
unquestioned, to their respective places of worship, is a beau
tiful evidence of the religious privileges we enjoy. Every
35
409man  may now sit under his own vine; and, whoever might
wish to do it, none dares to make him afraid. And now the
voice of prayer and of praise is heard in our land. What
numberless voices unite in that universal chorus, which
ascends, like a cloud of incense, to the heavens! This, then,
is another animating reflection for Sunday morning.  But
there are many who are absent from these solemnities, not
from choice, but necessity.  Sunday morning has a peculiar
aspect in a sick chamber.  Those now on the bed of languishing, who have hitherto neglected their Sabbaths, view it
with peculiar emotions, feel its value, and resolve, if they are
restored to health, to improve these precious seasons in future;
while the true christian, from his sick bed, hails its cheerful
beams, and hopes for a Sabbath of rest and profit, even there.
Let us now look at our own hearts, and make a practical
reflection. This Sabbath sun, that shines on the millions of
the human race, beams also on us; "on me," let every reader
say; and to me the question is, how shall I employ it?  I
may not be one of the open Sabbath-breakers of the land; but
am I not one of the countless multitude, who, while in form
they " keep a holy day," yet secretly say, "What a weariness
it is! When will it be over?" If so, reader, no longer, we
beseech you, waste your time in pitying or despising the poor
Indian and Hindoo, who have no Sabbath. No longer censure
the pleasure-taking Sabbath-breaker. Let your charity begin at
home, and remember, that if your Sabbaths are misimproved,
you are in a far more alarming situation than.the untaught
savage, "who knows not his Lord's will!"  Recollect, also,
that the period is hastening, when the angel of Death shall
swear concerning you, that "Time," and its Sabbaths, "shall
be no longer."                               JANE T:ATLOR.
LESSON CXCV.
THE SABBATH.
How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed
The plowboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
410The scythelies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear; the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on you unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While, from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalmns, the simple song of praise.
With dovelike wings, peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold
And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree;
But on this day, imbosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves-he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God; not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face, and upward, earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
411In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and, while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
J. GRAHAMnE.
LESSON CXCVI.
CONSOLATION OF RELIGION.
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, nor wealth, nor pleasure, begs no more
Than heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Skeptics! 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
Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arms she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she hlas never mounted high to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall
Upon 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.
412And 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 its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
rTo her and all she loved while here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee.
There is the health which lasts through all eternity.
J. G. PERCIVAL.
LESSON CXCVII.
T1ME S LAST VISIT.
[There is a Persian legend, representing Time, before commencing his "NC,v
Year's Flight," warning those whlo are to die during thle coming season, of their
inevitable fate."]  
THE night was a cold and stormy one,
And the year was running low,
When Time threw his traveling mantle on,
As he was about to go:
And he cast on his glass a rueful look;
"The sands will be out," he said,
(Seizing his memorandum book,)
"And these visits must be made:
But it does little good the fools to warn;
I almost lose my labors;
They think the last visit I make to them
Is always meant for their neighbors.
Last year my duty was faithfuilly done;
I traversed the city through,
Revealing to every devoted one,
I had come for a final adieu:
Why, they treated my warning as Nicholas treats
The groans of the dying Poles:
Or thought't was to save (how this avarice cheats!)
Their money, not their souls,
That my hint of a speedy departure was given,
Though I bade them farewell like a lover;
And how few there were who prepared for heaven!
I can easily reckon them over.
413And first to a BANKER'S house I hied,
Though I knew he was often surly,
But these Rothchilds, one must humor their pride;
So I hastened to warn him early.
I found him within, at a sumptuous feast,
An Apician sauce was before him,
And its flavor he praised to each smiling guest;'Tis DEATH!' thus-my warning came o'er him.
Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee!
I was off like a twinkle of light,
And he ate at that dinner enough for three,
And he died of a spasm that night.
I hurried away to a DOCTOR, then,
Though I knew I might spare my pains,
That he thought of disease as the end of men,
And of death as the doctor's gains;'My patient must die,' he was maundering on;
As he glanced a fee-bill o'er,'And his money will go to his graceless son,
My bill might be somewhat more;
For the youth will ne'er take the trouble to note
That I've charged five visits a day.'
So he figured away, while I laughed in his ear,'REMEMBER MY VISITS TO PAY!'
I told an OLD MAN it was time he should go,
And he was too deaf to hear:
I called,at the play,on a dashing BEAU,
And he was too gay to fear:
I paused in a MERCHANT'S counting-room,
And a dunce was I to stop,
Scarce would he have heeded the crash of doom,
While reckoning his leger up.' THERE IS ONE DEMAND,' I began to say,
He burst with a hurried breath,' Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay;'
I left him to settle with death!
I stopped at a POOR MAN'S humble shed,
And thought't would delight him so,
For I knewv he had often wished he was dead;
But he flatly refused to go:
And 0, the wild agony of his eye,
As he begged me one year to give!
414Saying't was too bad for a man to die
Who had struggled so hard to live;
That his wife must beg, and his children starve:
I whispered of charity;
He raised his eye with a look of despair;'T is a broken reed,' sighed he.
I had fared so ill with the lords of earth,
Of the earth they had proved indeed,
That I turned to the sex of gentler birth,
Hoping more kindly to speed!
On the beautiful BELL.E I made a call;
A milliner's girl stqod by,
She brought a new dress for the New Year's ball;
I breathed a sepulchral sigh,
And the rich, red flowers looked ghastly white;'How odd!' cried the beauty, in sorrow;' These do not become me at all to-night,
But bring me some brighter to-morrow.'
And then-but why continue the list,
So fraught with chagrin to me:
Who likes to remember the times he has missed,
When recounting his archery l
I called, in fine, on the old and the young,
Fair, ugly, and sober, and gay,
The chorus the same to the tune they all sung;
They would not be hurried away.
There were many who hated the world, to be sure,
And called Time an old, villainous cheat,
But Heaven was so distant, so bright, and so pure;
They had no inclination to see't.
WORMS OF THE DUST! I murmured in wrath,
As I entered a stately dome,
And, following the clue of niy fated path,
Repaired to a nursery room;
The children were sleeping like nestled birds,
And SHE, the sweet mother dove,
With a face too happy to paint by words,
Was choosing her gifts of love
For the New Year's morn; I touched her cheek,
She knew the deadly thrill,
And raising her eyes with a smile so meek;' My Father,'t is thy will.'Yes, WOMAN should always be ready to go,
She has nothing on earth but LovE;
A dowry that bears little value below,
But'tis priceless, transferred above:
O, lavish it not on my brightest joys,'T is folly,'t is worse than vain;
I never bestow them except as toys,
I mean to resume again.
Even now I shall gather a thousand fair things,
I gave when this year was new,
And the hopes for the NEXT, that I shake from my wings,
Will prove as deceitful too.    MRS. S. J. HALE.
LESSON CXCVIII.
THE LITTLE BROOK AND THE STAR.
ONCE upon a time, in the leafy covert of a wild, woody
dingle, there lived (for it was, indeed, a thing of life) a certain
little brook, that might have been the happiest creature in the
world, if it had but known when it was well off, and been content with the station assigned to it by an unerring Providence.
But in that knowledge and that content, consists the true secret
of happiness; and the silly little brook never found out the
mystery, until it was too late to profit by it.
I cannot say, positively, from what source the little brook
came; but it appeared to well out from beneath the hollow
root of an old thorn; and, collecting together its pellucid waters,
so as to form a small pool, within that knotty reservoir, it
swelled imperceptibly over its irregular margin, and slipped
away, unheard, almost unseen, among mossy stones and entangling branches.  No emerald was ever so green: never was
velvet so soft, as the beautifuil moss which encircled that tiny
lake: and it was gemmed and embroidered, too, by all flowers
that love the shade; pale primroses and nodding violets; anemones, with their fair, down-cast heads; and starry clusters of
forget-me-not, looking lovingly, with their pale, tender eyes,
into the bosom of their native rill.
The hawthorn's branches were interwoven above, with those
of a holly; and a woodbine, climbing up. the stem of one tree,
416flung across to the other its flexible arms, knotting together
the mingled foliage, with its rich clusters and elegant festoons,
like a fair sister, growing up under the guardianship of two
beloved brothers, and, by her endearing witchery, drawing
together, in closer union, their already united hearts. Never
was little brook so delightfully situated; for its existence,
though secluded, was neither monotonous nor solitary.  A
thousand trifling incidents (trifling, but not uninteresting,) were
perpetually varying the scene; and innumerable living creatures, the gentlest and loveliest of the silvan tribes, familiarly
haunted its retreat.
Beautiful, there, was every season with its changes.  In
the year's fresh morning, delicious May or ripening June, if a
light breeze but stirred in the hawthorn tops, down on the
dimpling water came a shower of milky blossoms, loading the
air with fragrance as they fell.  Then, came the squirrel with
his mirthful antics. Then, rustling through fern and brushwood, stole the timid hare, half startled, as she slaked her thirst
at the still fountain, by the liquid reflection of her own large,
lustrous eyes.  There was no lack of music round about.  A
song-thrush had his domicil hard by; and, even at night, his
mellow voice was heard, contending with a nightingale, in
scarce unequal rivalry.  And other vocalists, innumerable,
awoke those woodland echoes. Sweetest of all, the low,
tremulous call of the ring-dove floated, at intervals, through
the shivering foliage,-the very soul of sound and tenderness.
In winter, the glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly,
flung down their rich reflections on the little pool, then visited
through the leafless boughs with a gleam of more perfect daylight; and a red-breast, which had built its nest, and reared its
young among the twisted roots of that old tree, still hovered
about his summer bower, still quenched his thirst at the little
brook, still sought his food on its mossy banks; and, tuning
his small pipe, when every other feathered throat, but his own,
was mute, took up the eternal hymn of gratitude, which began
with the birth-day of Nature, and shall only cease with her
expiring breath.  So, every season brought but changes of
pleasantness to that happy little brook: and happier still it was,
or might have been, in one sweet and tender companionship,
to which passing time and revolving seasons brought no change.
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
417And foot' me, as you spurn a stranger ciiu
Over your threshold'.  Mlney is your suit.
What should I say to you'? Should I not say,
Hath a do'g- mney? - is it possible',
A cUR - can lend three thousand ducats'? or',
Shall I bend low', and in a bondman's key',
With bated breath', and whispering humbleness',
Say this'?
" Fair sir'! you spit' on me, on Wednesday last';
You spurned' me, such a day'; another time'
You called me' - dog': and for these - coiirtesies,
I'll lend you thus much -moneys'."
Justice.
Rienzi. This is justice',
Pure justice', not revenge'! Mark well', my lords'!
Pure', equal' justice'. Martin Ursini'
Had open trial', is guilty', is condemned',
And he sh;ill die!
Colonna. Yet listen to us -
Rienzi. Lords',
If ye could range before me all the peers',
Prelates', and potentates' of Christendom',
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee',
And emperors' crouching at my feet, to sue
For this great robber', still I should be blind
As Justice'.  But this very day', a wife',
One infant hanging at her breast', and two',
Scarce bigger', first-born twins of misery',
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle rein
To beg her husband's life'; condemned to die'
For some vile petty theft', some paltry scudi':
And', whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared',
Shaking, his crest', and plunging to get free',
There, mid the dangerous coil, unmoved she stood,
Pleading' in piercing words, the very cry
Of nature'! And, when I at last said no'For I said no' to her'- she flung herself'
And those poor innocent babes' between the stones
And my hot Arab's hoofs'. We saved them all',
Thank Heaven', we saved them all'! but I said no'
To that sad woman mid her shrieks'. Ye dare' not
Ask for mSrcy n5w!
40True it was, no unintercepted sunshine ever glittered on its
shaded waters; but, just above the spot where they were
gathered into that fairy fount, a small opening in the overarching foliage admitted, by day, a glimpse of the blue sky; and,
by night, the mild, pale ray of a bright fixed-star, which looked
down into the stilly water, with such tender radiance as beams
froln the eyes we love best, when they rest upon us with an
earnest gaze of serious tenderness.  Forever, and forever,
when night came, the beautiful star still gazed upon its earthborn love, which seemed, if a wandering air but skimmed its
surface, to stir, as if with life, in responsive intercourse with
its bright visitant.
Some malicious whispers went abroad, indeed, that the
enamored gaze of that radiant eye was not always exclusively
fixed on the little brook; that it had its oblique glances for
other favorites. But, I take it, those rumors were altogether
libelous, mere rural gossip, scandalous tittle-tattle, got up between two old, gray, mousing owls, who went prowling about
and prying into their neighbor's concerns, when they ought to
have been in their beds, at home. However that may bethough I warrant the kind creatures were too conscientious to
leave the little brook in ignorance of their candid conjecturesit did not care one fig about the matter, utterly disregarding
every syllable they said. This would have been highly creditable to the little brook, if its light mode of dismissing the
subject had not been partly owing to the engrossing influence
of certain new-fangled notions and desires, which, in an unhappy
hour, had insinuated themselves into its hitherto untroubled
bosom.
Alas!. that elementary, as well-as human natures, should be
liable to moral infirmity! But that they are, was strongly
exemplified in the instance of our luckless little brook. You
must know, that, notwithstanding the leafy recess, in which it
was so snugly located, was, to all inward appearance, sequestered as in the heart of a vast forest, in point of fact, it only
skirted the edge of an extensive plain, in one part of which
lay a large pond, to which herds of kine and oxen came down
to drink, morfiing and evening, and wherein they might be seen
standing motionless for hours together, during the sultry summer noon; when the waveless water, glowing like a fiery
418YOUNG LADIES' READER.                   419
mirror under the meridian blaze, reflected, with magical effect,
the huge forms and varied coloring of the congregated cattle,
as well as those of a flock of stately, milk-white geese, accustomed to swim upon its bosom.
Now, it so chanced, that from  the nook of which we have
spoken, encircled as it was by leafy walls, there opened, precisely in the direction of the plain and the pond, a cunning
little peep-hole, which must have been perforated by the demon
of mischief, and which no eye would ever have spied out, save
that of a lynx, or an idle person.  Alas! our little brook was
an idle person. She had nothing in the world to do from morning to night, and that is the root of all evil.  So, though she
might have found useful occupation, (every body can, if they
seelr it in right earnest,) she spent her whole time in peering
and prying about, till, one unlucky day, what should she hit
upon, but that identical peep-hole, through which, as through a
telescope, she discovered with unspeakable amazement the great
pond, all glowing in the noon-day sun; the herds of cattle and
the flocks of geese, so brilliantly redoubled on its broad mirror.
"My stars!" ejaculated the little brook, (little thought she
at that moment of the one faithful star.)  "My stars! what
can all this be? It looks something like me, only a thousand
times as big.  What can be shining so upon it? and what can
those great creatures be? Not hares, sure, though they have
legs and tails; but such tails! And those other white things,
that float about, they cannot be birds, for they have no legs,
and yet they seem to have feathers and wings. What a life of
ignorance have I led, huddled up in this poor, little, dull place,
visited only by a few, mean, humdrum  creatures, and never
suspectirng that the world contained finer things and grander
company!"
Till this unfortunate discovery, the little brook had been
well enough satisfied with her condition, contented with the
society of the beautiful and gentle creatures which frequented
her retreat, and with the tender admiration of her own "bright,
unchanging star." But now there was an end to all content,
and no end to garrulous discontent and endless curiosity. The
latter, she soon found means to satisfy, for the sky-lark brought
her flaming accounts of the sun, at whose court he preteinded
to be a frequent visiter; and the water-wagtail was dispatchedto ascertain the precise nature of those other mysterious objects,
so bewildering to the limited faculties of the curious little brook.
Back came the messenger, mopping,' and mowing,* and
wagging his tail with the most fantastic airs of conceited importance. " Well, what is it!" quoth my lady brook.,, Water,
upon my veracity," quoth Master Wagtail, "monstrous piece
of water, five hundred thousand million times as big as your
ladyship."  "And what makes it so bright and glowing,
instead of my dull color?" quoth my lady.  ";The sun, that
shines full upon it," rejoins the envoy.,"Oh! that glorious
globe, the sky-lark talks of. How delightful it must be to
enjoy his notice! But what are those fine creatures with legs,
and those others with wings and no legs?"  "Oh! those are
cows, and oxen, and geese; but you cannot possibly comprehend their natures, never having seen any thing larger than a
hare or wood-pigeon."'"How  now, Master Malapert!"
quoth my lady, nettled to the quick at his impertinence. But
her curiosity was not half satiated; so she was fain to gulp
down her own insulted dignity, and went on questioning and
cross-questioning, till she was ready to bubble over with spite
and envy at Master Wagltail's marvelous relations.  Poor
thing! she did not know what allowance to make for travelers' stories.                                  ANOXYMOUs.
LESSON CXCIX.
THE S AME,---CO N CLUD E D.
THENCEFORWARD, the little brook perfectly loathed her owin
peaceful, unobtrusive lot. She would have shrunk away, had
it been possible, from the poor, innocent creatures, who had so
long enlivened her pleasant solitude.  And, worst of all, most
unpardonable of all, she sickened at the sight of her benignant
star, which continued to look down upon her as fondly -and
kindly as ever, still happily unconscious of her heartless
estrangement.  Well, she went on fretting and repining, from
day to day, till dame Nature, -fairly tired out witli her wayward
humor, resolved to punish her, as she deserved, by grantinlg
Malking wry faces.
420her heart's desire.  One summer morning, came two sturdy
woodmen, armed with saws, axes, and bill-hook. To work they
went, lopping, hewing, and clearing, and before night-fall, there
lay the little brook, exposed to the broad canopy of heaven,
revealed in all its littleness, and effectually relieved froin the
intrusion of those insignificant creatures, which had been scared
from their old familiar haunt, by that day's ruthless execution.
" Well!" quoth the little brook,, this is something like life!
What a fine world this is! A little chilly though, and I feel, I
don't know how, quite dazzled and confounded. But to-morrow, when that great, red orb comes over-head again, I shall
be warm and comfortable enough, no doubt; and then, I dare
say, some of those fine, great creatures will come and visit
me; and who knows but I may grow as big as that great pond,
in time, now that I enjoy the same advantages." Down went
the sun; up rose the moon; out shone innumerable hosts of
sparkling orbs, and among them, that "bright, particular star"
looked out, pre-eminent in luster.  Doubtless, its pure and
radiant eye dwelt, with tender sorrow, on the altered condition
of its beloved little brook.  But that volatile and inconstant
creature, quite intoxicated- with her change of fortune, and
with the fancied admiration of the twinkling myriads she
beheld, danced and dimpled, in the true spirit of flirtation,
with every glittering spark, till she was quite bewildered
among the multitude of her adorers, and welcomed the gray
hour of dawn, without having vouchsafed so much as one
glance of recognition at her old, unalienated friend.
Down went the moon and stars; up rose the sun, and
higher and higher he mounted in the cloudless heaven, and
keener waxed the impatience of the ambitious little brook.
Never did court beauty so eagerly anticipate her first presentation to the eye ofl-majesty. And, at last, arrived the hour of
fruition. Bright over-head careered the radiant orb; down
darted his fervid, fiery beams vertically upon the center of the
little brook, penetrating its shallow waters to the very pebbles
beneath.  At first, it was so awed and agitated, and overpowered by the condescending notice of majesty, fancying, (as
small folks are apt to fancy,) that it had attracted peculiar observation, that it was hardly sensible of the unusual degree of
warmth, which began to pervade its elementary system: but,
421presently, when the fermentation of its wits had a little subsided, it began to wonder how much hotter it should grow,
still assuring itself that the sensation, though very novel, was
exceedingly delightful.
But, at length, such an accession of fever came on, that the
self-delusion was no longer practicable, and it began to hiss, as
if set over a gr6at furnace. Oh, what would the little brook
have given now for only one bough of the holly or the hawthorn, to intercept those intolerable rays! or for the gentle
winnowing of the black-bird's wing, or even the poor robin's,
to fan its glowing bosom! But those protecting boughs lay
scattered around; those small, shy creatures had sought out a
distant refuge, and my lady brook had nothing left but to
endure what she could not alter. "And after all," quoth she,
"'t is only for a little while; by and by, when his majesty only
looks sidewise at me, I shall be less overcome with his royal
favor, and in time, no doubt, be able to sustain his full gaze,
without any of these unbecoming flutters, all owing to my
rustic education and the confined life I have hitherto led."
Well, " his majesty" withdrew westward as usual, and my
lady brook began to subside into a comfortable degree of temperature, and to gaze about her again, with restored complacency.  What was her exultation, when she beheld the whole
train of geese waddling toward her from the great pond, taking
that way homeward out of sheer curiosity, as I suppose. As
the goodly comlpany drew nearer and nearer, our brook admnired the stateliness of their carriage, and persuaded herself, it
was eminently graceful, " for undoubtedly, they are persons of
distinguished rank," quoth she; "and how much finer voices
they must have, than those little, vulgar fowls, whose twittering
used to make me so nervous."  Just then, the whole flock set
up such a gabbling and screeching, as they passed close by,
that the little brook well nigh leaped out of her reservoir, with
horror and amazement; and to complete her consternation, one
fat, old, dowager goose, straggling awkwardly out of the line
of march, plumped right down into the middle of the pool,
flouncing and floundering about at a terrible rate, filling its
whole circumference with her ungainly person, and scrambling
out again with an unfeeling precipitation, which cruelly disordered the unhappy victim of her barbarous outrage.
422. Hardly were they out of sight, those awkward and unmannerly creatures; hardly had the poor little brook begun to
breathe, after that terrible visitation, when all her powers of
self-possession were called for, by the abrupt approach of
another and more prodigious personage. A huge ox, goaded
by the intolerable stinging of a gad-fly, broke away from his
fellows of the herd, and from his cool station in the great pond,
and came galloping down, in his blind agony, lashing the air
with his tail, and making the vale echo with his furious bellowing.  To the woods just beyond the new cleared spot, he
took his frantic course, and, the little brook lying in his way,
he splashed into-it and out of it without ceremony, or probably
so much as heeding the hapless object, subjected to his ruffian
treatment.  That one splash pretty nearly. annihilated the
miserable little brook. The huge fore-hoofs forced themselves
into its mossy bank; the hind ones, with a single extricating
plunge, pounded bank and brook together into a muddy hole;
and the tail, with one insolent whisk, spattered half the black
mass over the surrounding herbage.
And now, what was wanting to complete the ruin and degradation of the unhappy little brook? A thick, black puddle
was all that remained of the once pellucid pool. Poor little
brook! if it had erred greatly, was it not greatly humbled?
Night came again; but darkness was on the face of the unhappy
brook, and well for it, that it was total darkness; for in that
state of conscious degradation, how could it have sustained the
searching gaze of its pure, forsaken star? Long, dark, and
companionless was the first night of misery, and when morning
dawned, though the turbid water had regained a degree of transparency, it had shrunk away to a tenth part of its former " fair
proportions," so much had it lost by evaporation in that fierce
solar alembic; so much from  absorption in the loosened and
choking soil of its once firm  and beautiful margin; and so
much by dispersion, from the wasteful havoc of its destructive
invaders.
Again, the great sun looked down upon it; again, the vertical
beams drank fiercely of its shrunken water; and when evening
came, no more remained of the poor little brook, than just so
many drops as filled the hollow of one of those large pebbles
which had paved its unsullied basin, in the day of its bright423ness and beauty. But never, in the season of its brightest
plenitude, was the water of the little brook so clear, so perfectly clear and pure, as that last portion, which lay, like a
liquid gem, in the small concave of that polished stone. It had
been filtered from every grosser particle, refined by rough discipline, purified by adversity, even from those lees of vanity
and light-mindedness, which had adulterated its sparkling waters in their prosperous state.  Just as the last sunbeam was
withdrawing its amber light from that small pool, the old,
familiar robin hopped on the edge of the hollow pebble, and
dipping his beak once and again in the diminished fount, which
had slaked his thirst so often and so long, drooped his russet
wings with a slight, quivering motion, and broke forth into a
short, sweet gush of parting song, before he winged his way
forever from his expiring benefactress.
Twilight had melted into night--dark night; for neither moon
nor stars were visible through the dark clouds that canopied
the earth. In darkness and silence lay the little brook; forgotten it seemed, even by its benignant star, as though its last
drops were exhaled into nothingness; its languishing existence
already struck out of the list of created things. Time had
been, whien such apparent neglect would have excited its
highest indignation; but now, it submitted humbly and resignedly to the deserved infliction.  And, after a little while, looking fixedly upward, it almost fancied that theforrm, if not the
radiance of the beloved star was faintly perceptible through
the intervening darkness.
The little brook was not deceived: cloud after cloud rolled
away from the central heaven, till, at last, the unchanging star
was plainly discernible through the -fleecy vapor which yet
obscured its perfect luster.  But, through that silvery vail, the
beautiful star looked intently on its repentant love; and there
was more of tenderness, of pity, and reconciliation in that dim,
trembling gaze, than if the pure, heavenly dweller had shone
out in perfect brightness on the frail, llumbled creature below.
Just then, a few large drops fell heavily from the disparting
cloud; and one, trembling for a moment with starry light, fell,
like a forgiving tear, into the bosom of the little pool.
Long, long and undisturbed (for no other eye looked out
from heaven that night) was the last mysterious communion of
424the reconciled friends. No doubt, that voiceless intercourse
was yet eloquent of hope and futurity; for, though all that
remained of the pure little brook was sure to be exhausted by
the next day's fiery trial, it would but change its visible form,
to become an imperishableessence: and who can tell whether
the elementary nature, so purged from earthly impurities, may
not have been received up into the sphere of its heavenly friend,
and indissolubly united with the celestial substance?'Awoxyrous.
LESSON CC.
THE SEASONS.
(Elliptical.)
WHO may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid,
In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed.
Her head is with a flowery garland crowned,
And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring around;
Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow;
Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow;
At sight of her the lambkins bound along,
And each glad warbler thrills his sweetest (.. );
Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled,
And all prepare their mossy (.   ) to build.
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this smiling fair.
Who from the south is this, with lingering tread
Advancing, in transparent garments clad.
Her breath is hot and sultry: now she loves
To seek the inmost shelter of the (..: );
The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams,
To (.. ) the heat that preys upon her limbs..
From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly;
At her approach their currents quickly (.    ).
Berries and every acid fruit-she sips,
To allay the fervor of her parching lips;
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice
She loves, which orchards plenteously (.     ).
T'he sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who sheers
The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears.
36
425At her approach, 0, be it mine to lie
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply;
Or with her let me (.>'. ) at early morn,
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn;
Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose,
And the bright star of evening mildly (...  ).
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this blooming fair.
Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Comes stealing on us l Sallow is his (     -.'. );
The grape's red blood distains his robes around;
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound;
His hair hatil just begun to fall away,
The auburn (... ) with the mournful (. -    ).
The ripe, brown nuts he scatters to the swain;
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train;
The gun is heard; the trembling partridge bleeds;
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds.
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf l Declare,
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens ( j......    ).
Who is he from the north that speeds his way.
Thick furs and wool (:,?') his warm array:
His cloak is closely folded; bald his head;
His beard of clear, sharp icicles is made.
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs;
With skate-bound feet the frozen lakes he (...-. -.
When he is by with breath so piercing cold,
No floweret dares its tender (.;: 1  ) unfold.
Naught can his powerful, freezing touch withstand;
And, should he smite you with his chilling (.:.  )
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast,
Or stand, like marble, breathless as he passed.
Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear?
Fast he approaches, and will soon be (...
Declare, I pray you, tell me, if you can,
The name and lineage of this aged man..
MRS. BAR BAULD.  
426LESSON CCI.
M'ORNING  IN SPRING.
How sweet the landscape! Morning twines
Her tresses round the brow of Day,
And bright mists, o'er the forest pines,
Like happy spirits, float away,
To revel on the mountain's crown,
Whence the glad stream comes shouting down,
Through woods and rocks, that hang on high,
Like clouds against the deep-blue sky.
The woven sounds of bird and stream
Are falling beautiful and deep
Upon the spirit, like a dream
Of music on the hour of sleep;
And gently from the dewy bowers
Soft murmurs, like the breath of flowers,
Are winding through the purple grove,
And blending with the notes of love.
The streams in veins of silver flow;
The sunrise gale o'er flower and tree
So lightly breathes, it scarce would blow
A fairy bark upon the sea;
It comes so fresh, so calm, so sweet,
It draws the heart from its retreat,
To mingle in the glories born
In the first holy light of morn.
A cloud is on the sky above;
And calmly, o'er the young year blue,'T is coming like a thing of love,
To gladden in the rising dew:
Its white waves with the sunlight blend,
And gentle spirits seem to bend
From its unrolling folds, to hear
The glad sounds of our joyous sphere.
The lake, unruffled by the breeze,
Smiles in its deep, unbroken rest,
As it were dreaming of the trees
And blossoms pictured on its breast;
Its depths are glowing, bright, and fair,
And the far skies seem hollowed there,
427YOUNG LADIES' READER.
LESSON I.
W I AT  IS EDUCAT  O N?
EDUCATION we consider as consisting in the formation of the
character; and a good education, in the preparation of man for
usefulness and happiness. It involves the right development,
and cultivation, and direction of all his powers, physical, intellectual, and moral. It implies instruction in all the branches
of knowledge which are necessary to useful and efficient
action in the sphere of the individual. But it must also include the physical training which is to render the body
capable of executing the purposes of the soul; the skill
which is requisite in order to apply our knowledge and strength
to the very best advantage; and, above all, the qnoral discipline by which the character and direction of our efforts is to
be decided. Each of these branches includes an extensive list
of particulars; and the means of education comprise all those
circumstances and influences by which the human character is
formed and modified.
In this view, education does not begin with the school; nor
does it terminate with the university. It is not confined to the
nursery, nor the family, nor the public institution. It begins
with the first moment of consciousness. Every being, every
object, every event, forms a part of it.  The first lessons are
given in the arms of the mother. The parent, by her looks
and movements, and the sun by its varying light, are educating
the eye.  The songs of the birds, and the whistling of the
wind, are cultivating the ear, no less truly than the voice of the
mother, or the instrument of music.  The air and the temperature of the room are fitting the body to enjoy or to suffer. The
food which is given him calls forth his appetite, and forms him
4                                          (41)YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Soft trembling as they felt the thrill
Of music echoed from the hill.
The living soul of beauty fills
The air with glorious visions: bright
They linger round the sunny bills,
And wander in the clear, blue light:
Off to the breathing heavens they go,
Along the earth they live and glow,
Shed o'er the lake their happy smiles,
And beckon to its glittering isles.
O, at this hour, when air and earth
Are gushing love, and joy, and light,
And songs of gladness, at the birth
Of all that's beautiful and bright,
Each heart beats high; each thought is blown
To flame; the spirit drinks the tone
Of brighter worlds, and melts away,
In visions of eternal day.          G. D. PRENTICE.
LESSON CCII.
AUGUST.
DUST on thy mantle! dust,
Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!
A tarnish, as of rust,
Dims thy late brilliant sheen;
And thy young glories,--leaf, and bud, and flower,Change cometh over them with every hour.
Thee hath the August sun
Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,
Scarce whispering in their pace,
The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.
Flame-like, the long mid-day!
With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred
The down upon the spray,
Where rests the panting bird,
428YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Dozing away the hot and -tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.
Seeds in the sultry air,
And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees!
E'en the tall pines, that rear
Their plumes to catch the breeze,
The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west,
Partake the general languor and deep rest.
Happy, as man may be,
Stretched on his back, in homely bean-vine bower,
While the voluptuous bee
Robs each surrounding flower
And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast,
The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.
Against the hazy sky
The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest.
Beneath them far, yet high
In the dim, distant west,
The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare,
Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air.
Soberly, in the shade,
Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox;
Or in the shoal stream wade,
Sheltered by jutting rocks:
The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush.
Tediously pass the hours,
And vegetation wilts, with blistered root,
And droop the thirsting flowers,
Where the slant sunbeams shoot:
But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line,
Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline.
Faster, along the plain,
Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge:
The kine are forth again,
The bird flits in the hedge.
Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun.
Welcome, mild eve! the sultry day is done.Pleasantly comest thou,
Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass;
And the curled corn-blades bow,
As the light breezes pass,
That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land.
So, to the thirsting soul,
Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love:
And the scathed heart, made whole,
Turneth in joy above,
To where the spirit freely may expand,
And rove untrammeled in that "better land."
W. D. GALLAGRER.
LESSON CCIII.
SUMMER EVENING.
THE summer day has closed, the sun is set:
Well have they done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out
In the red west. The green blade of the ground
Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig
Hlas spread its plaited tissues to the sun;
Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown,
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil
From bursting cells, and, in their graves, await
Their resurrection.
Insects from the pools
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still forever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood
Their prison-shells, or shoved them from their nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight.
In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages witli earthy walls,
In noisome- cells of the tumultuous town,
Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out,
430And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends.
That ne'er before were parted: it hath knit
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight
Iler faith, and trust her peace to him who long
Hath wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word,
That told the wedded one her peace was flown.
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! one glad day,
Is added now to childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and, as I lean
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit
By those who watch the dead, and those who tWvine
Flowers for the bride.                      W. C. BYitaNT.
LESSON C-CIV.
RAIN IN SUMMER.
fIow beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters upon the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane,
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river, down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man, from his chamber, looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again;
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
431YOUNG LADIES' READER.
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Engulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country on every side,
WMhere, far and wide,
Lilke a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain,
How welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil,
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless, beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin,
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees.
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air,
And from each ample fold
432Of the clouds about him rolled,
Scattering every where
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold,
That have not yet been wholly told;
Have not been wholly sung nor said;
For his thought, which never stops,
Follows the water drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground,
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven,
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the seer
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth;
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning for evermore,
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
H. W. LOGtFE LLOW
LESSON CCV.
AUTIJMN NOON.
ALL was so still that I could almost count
The tinklings of the falling leaves. At times,
Perchance, a nut was heard to drop, and thenAs if it had slipped from him as he struck
The meat-a squirrel's short and fretful bark.
q7
433Anon, a troop of noisy, roving jays,
Whisking their gaudy topknots, would surprise
And seize upon the top of some tall tree,
Shrieking, as if on purpose to enjoy
The consternation of the noontide stillness.
Roused by the din, the squirrel from his hole,
Like some grave justice bent to keep the peace,'I'hrust his gray pate, much wondering what it meant.
And squatted near me on a stone, there basked
A fly of larger breed and o'ergrown bulk,
In the warm sunshine, vain of his green coat
Of variable velvet, laced with gold,
That, ever and anon, would whisk about,
Vexing the stillness with his buzzing din,
As human fopling will do with his talk:
And o'er the mossy post of an old fence,
Lured from its crannies by the warmth, was spied
A swarm of gay motes waltzing to a tune
Of their own humming: quiet sounds, that serve
More deeply to impress us with a sense
Of silent loneliness and trackless ways.    GEO. HILL.
LESSON CCVI.
A WINTER SCENE.
PERHAPS there is nothing so peculiar in American meteorology, as the phenomenon which I alone, probably, of all the
imprisoned inhabitants of Skaneateles, attributed to a kind and
" special Providence."  Summer had come back, like Napoleon-from Elba, and astonished usurping Winter in the plenitude of apparent possession and security. No cloud foreboded
the change, as no alarm preceded the apparition of the' child
of destiny." We awoke on a February morning, with the
snow lying chin-deep on the earth, and it was June! The air
was soft and warm: the sky was clear and of the milky-cerulean of chrysoprase: the south wind stole back suddenly from
the tropics, and found his flowery mistress asleep, and insensible to his kisses, beneath her snowy mantle. The sunset
warmed back from its wintry purple to the golden tints of
heat; the stars burnt with a less vitreous sparkle; the meteors
434slid once more lambently down the sky; and the house-dove
sat on -the eaves, washing her breast in the snow water, and
thinking, like a neglected wife at a capricious return of her
truant's tenderness, that the sunshine would last forever.
The air waq now full of music. The water trickled under
the snow; and, as you looked around and saw no change
or motion in the white carpet -of the earth, it seemed as if a
myriad of small bells were ringing under ground: fairies, perhaps, started in mid-revel with the false alarm of summer, and
hurrying about with their silver anklets, to wake up the slumbering flowers. The mountain torrents were loosed, and rushed down upon the valleys like the children of the mist; and
the hoarse war-cry, swelling and falling upon the wind, maintained its perpetual undertone like an accompaniment of bassoons; and, occasionally, in a sudden lull of the breeze, you
would hear the click of the undermined snow-drifts dropping
upon the earth, as if the choristers of Spring were beating
time to the reviving anthem of nature.
The snow sunk, perhaps, a foot in a day; but it was only
perceptible to the eye where you could measure its wet mark
against a tree from which it had fallen away, or by the rock
from which theT dissolving bank shrunk and separated, as if
rocks and snow were as heartles's as ourselves, and threw off
their friends, too, in their extremity. The low-lying lake,
meantime, surrounded by melting mountains, received the
abandoned waters upon its frozen bosom, and spreading them
into a placid and shallow lagoon, separated by a crystal planc
from its own lower depths, gave them the repose denied in the
more elevated sphere in which lay their birthright. And thus
(oh, how full is nature of these gentle moralities!) and thus,
sometimes do the lowly, whose bosom, like the frozen lake, is
at first cold and unsympathetic to the rich and noble, still
receive them in adversity; and, when neighborhood and de
pendence have convinced them that they are made of the
same common element, as the lake melts its dividing and icy
plane, and mingles the strange waters with its own, do they
dissolve the unnatural barrier of prejudice, and take the
humbled wanderer to their bosom!
It was a night of extraordinary beauty. The full moon was
high in the heavens at midnight; and there had been a slight
435shower soon after sunset, which, with the clearing up wind, had
frozen thinly inlto a most fragile rime, and glazed with transparent crystal every thing open to the sky.  The distant forest
looked serried with metallic trees, dazzling, and unspeakably
gorgeous; and, as the night wind stirred through them, and
shook their crystal points in the moonlight, the aggregated
stars of heaven springing from their Maker's hand to the
spheres of their destiny, or the march of the host of the archangel Michael with their irradiate spear-points glittering in the
air, or the diamond beds of central earth thrust up to the sun
in some throe of the universe, would, each and all, have been
well bodied forth by such similitude.         N. P. WILLIS.
LESSON CCVII.
WINTER.
I DEEM thee not unlovely; though thou comest
With a stern visage. To the tuneless bird,
The tender floweret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man,
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry;
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart;
So that the hoarse stream passes by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
Man should rest
Thus from his feverish passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the tossed bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay,
To trim its shattered cordage, and repair
Its riven sails; so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Soured by the world's rough commerce, or impaired
By the wild wanderings of his summer's way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save.
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
436The ruddy boy
Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport,
And throwing off his skates, with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side.- Her tender hand
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and, with gentle voice,
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven
To bless the lad.
The timid infant learns
Better to love its father, longer sits
Upon his knee, and, with a velvet lip,
Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue
Hath' never spoken.
Come thou to life's feast,
With dove-eyed meekness and bland charity,
And thou shalt find even winter's rugged blast
The minstrel teacher of the well-tuned soul,
And, when the last drop of its cup is drained,
Arising with a song of praise, go up
To the eternal banquet.                 MRS. SIGOURNEY.
LESSON CCVIII.
IT SNOWS.
"IT snows!" cries the School-boy, " Hurrah!" and his shout
Is ringing through parlor and hall,
While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out,
And his play-mates have answered his call;
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy;
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow,
Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health, and the riches of nature, are theirs.
"It snows!" sighs the Imbecile, " Ah!" and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight:
While, from the pale aspect of nature in death
He turns to the blaze of his grate;
437to habits of temperance or sensuality. The clothing which he
wears begins to inspire the taste for simplicity, or the love of
finery.
In the progress of childhood, the daily and hourly treatment
he receives, the conduct he witnesses, and the language he
hears, in the family circle, in the company of domestics, in
the little society of his school-fellows and playmates, all exert
an influence upon him, no less decided, and often more powerful, than the instructions of the school, or the exhortations of the
parent, or the worship of the church; and all, therefore, make
an essential part of his education. As he advances into youth
and manhood, the number of educators who thus surround him,
and the variety of influences to which he is exposed, are greatly increased. Society at length begins to act upon him, and
he feels the force of public opinion. The church presents its
weekly school of instruction and discipline, which may exert
the most efficient and salutary influence; and the state employs
its power in directing and restraining, and thus educating the
man, by means of laws and institutions, whose operation ter
minates only in the grave.
But does education terminate here? Nature, reason, cast no
light upon the "valley of the shadow of death."  But revelation points us to a higher world, and enables us to discern,
through the cloud which rests upon the grave, that state, in
which those who have improved the privileges already enjoyed
on earth, shall be allowed higher and nobler means of advancement. There, the immediate perception of all that is excellent
and glorious in the Creator, and in the most exalted of the
rational creation, shall take the place of imperfect description.
There, that knowledge, which is here the result of painful
study, will be seen as intuitively as the visible objects which
now surround us; and there, the mind will no longer have to
struggle with those gross defects, that painful weakness of its
material organs, which now obscure its perceptions, and arrest
and retard its progress, in truth and excellence.
But such a state, such progress, it is now incapable even of
conceiving; and we can only rejoice in the distant glimmerings
of that light whose full glory, like the beams of some of those
orbs whose remoteness rediuces them to stars, would overpower
our minds. Nor can we suppose any termination to this glo.
42YOUNG LADIES' READER.
And nearer and nearer, his soft, cushioned chair
Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame;
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame;
Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live I
"It snows!" cries the Traveler, "Ho!" and the word
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
For bright through the tempest his own home appeared,
Ay, through leagues intervened he can see;
There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
And his wife with her babes at her knee;
Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
That those we love dearest are safe from its power!
"' It snows!" cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky!" and turns
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;
Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns,
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:
There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth,
Floating over each drear winter's day;
But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth,
Will melt like the snow-flakes away:
Turn, turn thee to HEeaven, fair maiden, for bliss;
That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this.
"It snows!" cries the Widow, " Oh God!" and her sighs
Have stifled the voice of her prayer;
Its burden ye'll read, in her tear-swollen eyes,
On her cheek sunk with fasting and care.'Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread,
But " He gives the young ravens their food,"
And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread,
And she lays on her last chip of wood.
Poor sufferer! that sorrow thy God only knows;'T is a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows!
MRs. S. J. HALE.LESSON CCIX.
THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
DURING my residence in the country,-I used frequently to
attend at the old village church, which stood in a neighborhood
filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and
silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations.
Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, its dark oaken
panneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years,
seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday,
too, in the country, is so holy in its repose, such a pensive
quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of
the soul gently springing up within us.
"Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!"
I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the
beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where
else; and, if not a more religious, I think I am a better man
on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven.
But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back
upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms
around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor,
decrepit, old woman, bending under the weight of years and
infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in
her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme,
was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been
awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village
poor, but sat alone, on the steps of the altar.
She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all
society; and to have nothing left her but the hope of heaven.
When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in
prayer, habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied
hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which
she evidently knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering
voice of that poor woman arose to Heaven far before the
439responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting
of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was
so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood
on a knoll, around which a stream made a beautiful bend, and
then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow
scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which
seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall, Gothio spire shot
up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally
wheeling about it. I was seated there, one still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They
had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of
the church-yard; where, from the number of nameless graves
around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were
huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave
was for the only son of a poor wid(ow.
While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank,
which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell
announced the approach of the funeral.  They were the
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do.
A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked
before, with an air of cold indifference.  There were no
mock Inourners in the trappings of affected woe; but there
was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It
was the aged mother of the deceased; the poor, old woman
whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was
supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train,
and some children of the village were running hand in hand,
now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze,
with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued
from the church porch, arrayed in -the surplice, with prayerbook in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a luere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuffled through,
therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. T'he well-fed
priest moved but a few steps from the church-door; his voice
could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the
440funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned
into such a frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave.  The coffin was placed on the
ground.  On it were inscribed the name and age of the
deceased; " George Somers, aged 26 years."   The poor
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her
withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could
perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive
motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her
son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart.
The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit
the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which
breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection:
directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking of
spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we
love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around
seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched reverie.  She
raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords, to lower the coffin
into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony
of grief. The poor woman who attended her, took her by the
arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper
something like consolation; "Nay, now; nay, now; do n't
take it so sorely to heart."  She could only shake her head,
and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the
cords seemed to agonize her; but'when, on some accidental
obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to
him, who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I
could see no more; my heart swelled into my throat; my
eyes filled with tears; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous
part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal
anguish; I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where
I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to
her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart
ached for her.  What, thought I, are the distresses of the
rich?  They have friends to soothe; pleasures to beguile; a
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
441world to divert and dissipate their griefs.  What are the sorrows of the young?'rheir growing'minds soon close above
the wound; their elastic spirits soon rise from beneath the
pressure; their green and ductile affections soon twine around
new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe; the sorrows of the aged, with
whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for
no after-growth of joy; the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of
her years; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the
impotence of consolation.                       w. IRVING.
LESSON CCX.
THE  SAME,--CONCLUDED.
IT was some time before I left the church-yard. On my
way homeward, I met the woman who had acted as comforter.
She was just returning from accompanying the mother to her
lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed.
The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from
childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages,
and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small
garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably,
and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who
had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age.  "Oh,
sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a likely lad, so
sweet tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful
to his parents! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church; for she was always fonder
of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's; and, poor
soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was
not in the country round."
Unfortunately, the son was temp.ted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of
the small craft that plied on a neighboring river.  He had not
442been long in this employ, when he was entrapped by a pressgang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of
his seizure, but beyond that, they could learn nothing. It was
the loss of their main prop.  The father, who was already
infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave.
The widow, left lonely, in her age and feebleness, could no
longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still, there
was a kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a
certain respect, as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no
one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many
happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she
lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature
were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little
garden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for
her.
It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door, which
faced the garden, suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and
seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around.  He was
dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale,
and bore the air of one broken down by sickness and hardships.
He saw her, and hastened toward her, but his steps were faint
and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed
like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant
and wandering eye. "Oh, my dear, dear mother! do n't you
know your son? your poor boy George?" It was, indeed, the
wreck of her once noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by
sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his
wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his
childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting,
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended. Still he
was alive! he was come home! he might yet live to comfort
and cherish her old age! Nature, however, was exhausted in
him; and if anything had been wanting to finish the work of
death, the desolation of his native cottage would have been
sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his
widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he
niever rose from it again.
443The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had
returned, crowded to see,him, offering every comfort and
assistance that their humble means afforded.  He was too
weak, however, to talk; he could only look his thanks. His
mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwilling
to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride
of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the
feelings of infancy.  Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondence; who that has pined
on a weary bed, in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land;
but has thought on the mother " that looked on his childhood,"
that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness?
Oh, there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to
a son, that transcends all the other affections of the heart! It
is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger,
nor wealkened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude.
She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will
surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in
his fame, and exult in his prosperity: if adversity overtake
him, he will be dearer to her by misfortune; if disgrace settle
upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and, if all
the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
Poor George Somers had known well what it was to be in
sickness, and have none to soothe; lonely and in prison, and
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his
sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She
would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept.
Sometimes he would start from  a feverish dream, and look
anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bending over
him; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and
fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died.
My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction,
was,to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however,
on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prolnpted
them to do every thing that the case admitted; and, as the poor
know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not
venture to intrude.  The next Sunday I was at the village
church; when, to my surprise, I saw the old -woman tottering
444down the aisle, to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar.
She had made an effort to put on something like mourning
for her son, and nothing could be more touching than this
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty. A black
ribbon, or so, a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more
such humble attempts were the only expression, by outward
signs, of that grief which passes show. When I looked around
upon the storied monuments; the stately hatchments; the cold,
marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently
over departed pride; and turned to this poor widow, bowed
down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up
the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt
that this living monument of real grief was worth them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted
themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few
steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after,
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left
the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that
she had quietly breathed her last, and gone to rejoin those she
loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends
are<never parted.                                w. IarINGo.
LESSON CCXI.
DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.
DING-DONG! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells;
Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,
" Swinging slow with sullen roar."
Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay!
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.
Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground!
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily foot it around.
AA55Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale,
The sentry ghost,
It keeps its post,
And soon, and soon our sports must fail:
But let us trip the nightly ground,
While the merry, merry bells ring round.
Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks:
See, see, the winding-sheet!
Our dance is done,
Our race is run,
And we must lie at the alder's feet!
Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells,
Swinging o'er the weltering wave!
And we must seek
Our deathbeds bleak,
Where the green sod grows upon the grave.
ThSe Goddess of Consumption.
Come, Melancholy, sister mine!
Cold the dews, and chill the night;
Come from thy dreary shrine!
The wan moon climbs the heavenly hight,
And underneath the sickly ray,
Troops of squalid specters play,
And the dying mortal's groan
Startles the Night on her dusky throne.
Come, come, sister mine!
Gliding on the pale moonshine:
We'll ride at ease,
On the tainted breeze,
And, oh! our sport will be divlnThe Goddess of Melancholy.
Sister, from my dark abode,
Where nests the raven, sits the toad,
Hither I come, at thy command:
Sister, sister, join thy hand!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
446Come, let us speed our way
Where the troops of specters play;
To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tombstones.
Come, let us speed away,
Lay our snares, and spread our tether!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish fobod for me:
And the grass shall wave
O'er many a grave
Where youth and beauty sleep together.
Consumption.
Come, let us speed our way!
Join our hands, and spread our tether!
I will furnish food for thee,
Thou shalt smooth the way for me;
And the grass shall wave
O'er many a grave
Where youth and beauty sleep together.
BMelancholy.
Hist! sister, hist! who comes here I
Oh! I know her by that tear,
By that blue eye's languid glare,
By her skin and by her hair;
She is mine,
And she is thine;
Now the deadliest draught prepare,
Consumption.
In the dismal night-air dressed,
I will creep into her breast!
Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,
And feed on the vital fire within.
Lover, do not trust her eyes:
When they sparkle most, she dies!
Mother, do not trust her breath:
Comfort she will breathe in death!
Father, do not strive to save her:
She is mine, and I must have her!
The coffin must be her bridal bed,
The winding-sheet must wrap her head,
447rious course. At every period of enlargement in the faculties,
the field of vision will be extended. Unlike the mountain
traveler, who sees 1" Alps on Alps arise," but knows that another day will bring him to the summit, where all will be beneath
him, we shall only learn at every step, with the more delightful
certainty, that the exhibitions of Infinite Wisdom and Infinite
Goodness present a field for unending occupation and untiring
enjoyment.
Education, then, in its largest sense, is not limited to time;
it is not confined to the narrow boundaries of existence which
we can discern.  We have said that its first lessons are given
in the mother's arms. The family is its primary school; the
series of public institutions is but the academy of this great
course. The world itself is the university, in which man is to
make his final preparation for the employments and pleasures
of that future, endless state, in comparison with which the
period of our residence on earth is less than the hours of
infancy in the life of a century; for that true life of the soul,
in which it first begins its free, its independent existence.
ANNALS OF EDUCATION.
LESSON II.
ON ELOCUTION  AND READING.
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 articulation, which is
the first requisite for good speaking. How rarely is it found
in perfection among our orators! "Words," says one, referring
to articulation, "should be delivered out from  the lips, as
beautiful coins, newly issued from the mint; deeply and accurately impressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by the proper
organs, distinct, in due succession, and of due weight." How
rarely do we hear a speaker, whose tongue, teeth, and lips, do
their office so perfectly, as, in any wise, to answer to this
beautiful description! And the common faults in articulation,
it should be remembered, take their rise from the very nursery.
But let us refer to other particulars.
Grace in eloquence-in the pulpit, at the bar-cannot be
separated from grace in the ordinary manners, in private life, in
43YOUNG LADIES' READER.
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,
For soon in the grave the maid must lie;
The worm it will riot
On heavenly diet,
When death has deflowered her eye.  H. K. WHITE.
LESSON. CCXII.
THE -DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods.
And meadows brown and sear.
H-eaped in the hollows of the grove
The withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren have flown,
And from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow
T'hrough all 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 l
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 wall-flower and the violet,
They perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died
Amid the summer's glow;
But on the hill, the golden rod,
And the aster in the wood,
448YOUNG LADIES' READER.
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 days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee
From out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smqky light
The waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers
Whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood
And by the stream 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:
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,
Should perish with the flowers.
LESSON CCXIII.
AUTUMN FLOWERS.
THOSE few, pale,autumn flowers,
How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!
38
W. C. BRYANT.
449And why l They are the last!
The last! the last! the last!
Oh! by that little word,
How many thoughts are stirred!
That sister of the past!
Pale flowers! pale, perishing flowers!
Ye're types of precious things:
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings;
Last hours with parting dear ones,
(That time the fastest spends,)
Last tears in silence shed,
Last words half uttered,
Last looks of dying friends.
Who would but fain compress
A life into a day?
The last day spent with one
Who, ere the morrow's sun,
Must leave us, and for aye!
Oh, precious, precious moments!
Pale flowers! ye're types of those;
The saddest! sweetest! dearest!
Because, like those, the nearest
To an eternal close.
Pale flowers! pale, perishing flowers!
I woo your gentle breath;
I leave the summer rose
For younger, blither brows:
Tell me of change and death.
Miss C. BOWLES.
LESSON CCXIV.
SPIRIT OF THE ROSE-BUSH.
The Moss-Rose.
THE angel that nurses the flowers, and sprinkles the dew
upon them in the stilly night, was slumbering, one spring day,
450YOUNG LADIES' READER.                 451
in the shadow of a rose-bush. When he awoke, with smiling
countenance, he said:  "Loveliest of my children, I thank
thee for thy reviving odor, and thy cooling shade. Couldst
thou yet pray for anything more, how cheerfully would I
grant it to thee!" "Adorn me then with some new grace," at
once entreated the spirit of the rose-bush; and the angel of
the flowers adorned the most beautiful of flowers with the
simple moss. Then stood it forth, in modest grace, the mossrose, the choicest of its kind.
Beautiful Lina, let alone the spangled attire and precious
stones, and follow the beck of maternal nature.
The Defense.
WHEN Nature, by her almighty creative breath, had formed
the loveliest of flowers, the rose, the spirit of the rose-bush
said to the angel of flowers:  "Wilt thou not grant also to the
noble bush a defense, which shall secure it from harm and evil?
Nature has given to the thorn-bush large and sharp prickles!"
"The thorn-bush," replied the angel of flowers,,belongs
not to the noble, but to the servants in the kingdom of creation. Its design is to protect the tender plants against irrational animals, and on that account nature gave to it the thorns.
Yet thy wish shall be fulfilled!" Thus he spake, and covered
the rose-bush with delicate prickles. Then said the spirit of
the rose:  "To what purpose are these slender thorns? they
will not defend the splendid flower."
The angel of flowers replied:  "They are intended only to
restrain the hand of the thoughtless child.  Resistance would
only more powerfully allure to mischief. That which is holy
and beautiful has its defense in itself: therefore nature gave to
it the most delicate defense, which only admonishes, but does
not wound; for with the beautiful must only the delicate be
associated."
So has she given to innocence, bashfulness and blushing.
F. A. KRUUMMACHER.LESSON CCXV.
THE PENITENT SON.
ERE the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and a
tall, fine-looking man entered, but with a lowering, dark
countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse.
Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck, by the melancholy, and
dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, and looked, with a
ghastly face, towards his father's death-bed. When the psalm
ceased, the father said with a solemn voice, "My son, thou
art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May the
remembrance of what shall happen in this room, win thee
from the error of thy ways. Thou art here to witness the
mercy of thy God and Savior, whom thou hast denied."
The minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with an
upbraiding countenance, on the young man, who had not
recovered his speech, and said, 1" William! for three years past
your shadow has not darkened the door of the house of God.
They who fear not the thunder, may tremble at the still, small
voice. Now is the hour for repentance, that your father's spirit
may carry up to heaven tidings of a contrite soul, saved from
the company of sinners."
The young man, with much effort, advanced to the bed-side,
and at last found voice to say, ", Father, I am not without the
affections of nature, and I hurried home as soon as I. heard
that the minister had been seen riding toward our house. I
hope that you will yet recover; and if ever I have made you
unhappy, I ask your forgiveness; for tllough I may not think
as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. Father, I may have been unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your
forgiveness."
" Come nearer to me, William; kneel down by the bedside, and let my hand find the head of my beloved sohi, for
blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born,
and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters
are lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet face
thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert
thou the joy, the pride, ay, too much the pride of my soul.
If thy heart has since been changed, God may inspire it again
with right thoughts. Could I die for thy sake! could I pur452chase thy salvation with the outpouring of my blood I but this
the Son of God has done for thee, who hast denied him! I
have sorely wept for thee, ay, William, when there was none
near me, even as David wept for Absalom; for thee, my son,
my son!"
A long, deep groan was the only reply; but the whole body
of the kneeling man, was convulsed; and it was easy to see
his suffering, his contrition, his remorse, and his despair.
The pastor said, with a sterner voice and austerer countenance
than were natural to him, "Know you whose hand is now
lying on your rebellious head?  But what signifies the word
father to him who has denied God, the father of us all?"
"Oh! press him not so hardly," said the weeping wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room, where she had
tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame; " spare, oh!
spare my husband! he has ever been kind to me:" and with
that she knelt down beside him, with her long, soft, white
arms mournfully and affectionately laid across his neck. " Go
thou, likewise, niy sweet, little Jamie," said the dying man,
" go even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father
and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at once."
The child did as that solemn voice commanded, and knelt
down somewhat timidly by his father's side; nor did that unhappy man decline encircling in his arms the child, too much
neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in spite of the
deadening and debasing influence of infidelity.  "Put the
Word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read
aloud to his dying father the 25th, 26th, and 27th verses of
the eleventh chapter of the gospel according to St. John."
The pastor went up to the kneelers, and with a voice of pity,
condolence, and pardon, said, " There was a time when none,
William, could read the scriptures better than couldst thou:
can it be that the son of my friend hath forgotten the lessons
of his youth?"
He had not forgotten them: there was no need for the repentant sinner to raise his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred
stream of the gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the
waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said,
"Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life; he
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;
453and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die.
Believest thou this? She saith unto Him, Yea, Lord; I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should
come into the world."-, That is not an unb6liever's voice,"
said the dying man, triumphantly;, nor, William, hast thou
an unbeliever's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou
hast now read, and thy father shall die happy!" "I do believe; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my
Father, who is in heaven."
The father seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new
life.  His faded eyes kindled; his pale cheek glowed; his
palsied hand seemed to wax strong; and his voice was clear
as that of manhood in its prime. I; Into thy hands, 0 God, I
commit my spirit." And so saying, he gently sunk back on
his pillow, and I heard a sigh. There was then a long, deep
silence; and the father, and mother, and child rose from their
knees.  The eyes of us all were turned towards the white,
placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest; and
without lamentations, save the lamentations of the resigned
soul, we stood around THE DEATH-BED OF THE FATHER.
J. WILSON.
LESSON CCXVI.
THE ADMONITION.
THE SCHQOL-BOY had been rambling all the day,
A careless, thoughtless idler, till the night
Came on, and warned him homeward: then he left
The meadows, where the morning had been passed,
Chasing the butterfly, and took the road
Toward the cottage where his mother dwelt;
He had her parting blessing, and she watched
Once more to breathe a welcome to her child,
Who sauntered lazily--ungrateful boy!
Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth;
And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown,
He passed within the wicket-gate, which led
Into the village church-yard: then he paused
And earnestly looked round; for o'er his head
454The gloomy cypress waved, and at his feet
Lay the last bed of many a villager.
But on again he pressed with quickened step,
"Whistling aloud to keep his courage up."
The bat came flapping by; the ancient church
Threw its deep shadows o'er the path he trod,
And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf;
For now he fancied that all shapeless forms
Came flitting by him, each with bony hand,
And motion as if threatening; while a weight
Unearthly pressed the sachel and the slate
He strove to keep within his grasp. The wind
Played with the feather that adorned his cap,
And seemed to whisper something horrible.
The clouds had gathered thickly round the moon;
But, now and then, her light shone gloriously
Upon the sculptured tombs and humble graves,
And, in a moment, all was dark again.
O'ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down,
And wildly gazed around him, till his eye
Fell on a stone, on which these warning words
Were carved:
" TIme! thou art flying rapidly,
But whither art thou flying i"
"To the grave, which yours will be;
I wait not for the dying.
In early youth you laughed at me,
And, laughing, passed life's morning;
But, in thine age, I laugh at thee;
Too late to give thee warning."
"DEATH! thy shadowy form I see,
The steps of Time pursuing:
Like him thou comest rapidly:
What deed must thou be doing."
"Mortal! my message is for thee:
Thy chain to earth is rended:
I bear thee to eternity:
Prepare! thy course is ended!"
Attentively the fainting boy perused
The warning lines; then grew more terrified,
455YOUNG LADIES' READER.
For, from the grave, there seemed to rise a voice,
Repeating them, and telling him of time
Misspent, of death approaching rapidly,
And of the dark eternity that followed.
His fears increased, till on the ground he lay,
Almost bereft of feeling and of sense.
And there his mother found him:
From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child,
Frightened to feel his clammy hands, and hear
The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came.'T was strange the influence which that fearful hour
Had o'er his future life; for, from that night,
He was a thoughtful, an industrious boy.
And still the memory of those warning words
Bids him REFLECT, now that he is- a man,
And writes these feeble lines that others may.
LESSON CCXVII.
THE THRICE CLOSED EYE.
T,HE eye was closed, and calm the breast;'T was sleep; the weary was at rest,
While fancy on her rainbow wings,
Ranged through a world of new made things,'Mid regions pure and visions bright,
Formed but to mock the waking sight.
For ah! how light does slumber sit
On sbrrow's brow! how quickly flit
From her pale throne, when envious care
Comes robed in clouds, and frowning, there!
Again; I saw the falling lid,
And from his sight the world was hid;
The lip was moved; the knee was bent:
The heavy-laden spirit went,
Bearing her burden from the dust
Up to her only rock of trust;
And, childlike, on her Fathe'Ps breast
Cast off the load, and found her rest!
And this was prayer;'t was faith and love
Communing with a God above!
456At length that eye was locked; the key
Had opened heaven;'t was Death;'t was he
Had sweetly quelled the mortal strife,
And to the saint, the gates of life
Unfolded. On the sleeper's brow
Lay the smooth seal of quiet, now,
Which none could break. The soul that here
Dwelt with eternal things so near,
Had burst her bonds, to soar on high,
And left to earth the thrice-closed eye!
MIss H. F. GOUILD.
LESSON CCXVIII.
LOOK ALOFT.
IN the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft!" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
VVith a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft!" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft!" to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft!" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where affection is ever in bloom.
And oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft!" and depart.
J. LAWRzWCZ.
457the social circle, in the family. It cannot well be superinduced
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
more consequence, by observing and correcting his daily manners, motions, and altitudes.
You can say, when he comes into your apartment, or presents you with something, a book or letter, in an awkward and
blundering manner, "6 Return, and enter this room again," or,
" Present me that book in a different manner," or, "Put yourself in a different attitude." You can explain to him the difference between thrusting or pushing out his hand and arm, in
straight lines and at acute angles, and moving them in flowing,
circular lines, and easy, graceful action.  He will readily understand you.  Nothing is more true than that 1" the motions of
children are originally graceful;" and it is by suffering them
to be perverted, 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 would.rather have a child, even of
the other sex, return to us from school a first-rate reader, than
a first-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 speakers.
We speak of perfection in this art; and it is something, we
must say in defense of our preference, which we have never
yet seen. Let the same pains be devoted to reading, as are
required to form an accomplished performer on an instrument;
let us have, as the ancients had,. the formers of the voice, the
music-masters of the reading voice; let us see years devoted
to this accomplishment, and then we should be prepared to
stand the comparison.
44LESSON CCXIX.
THE GARDEN  OF HOPE.
I WAS musing on the strange inclination which every man
feels to deceive himself, and considering the advantages and
dangers proceeding from this gay prospect of futurity, when,
falling asleep, I found myself suddenly placed in a garden,
of which my sight could descry no limits.  Every scene about
me was gay and gladsome, light with sunshine, and fragrant
with perfumes; the ground was painted with all the variety
of spring, and all the -choir of nature was singing in the
groves.
When I had recovered from the first raptures, with which
the confusion of pleasure had for a time entranced me, I began
to take a particular and deliberate view of this delightful region. I then perceived that I had yet higher gratifications to
expect, and that, at a small distance from me, there were
brighter flowers, clearer -fountains, and more lofty groves,
where the birds, which I yet heard but faintly, were exerting
all their power of melody. The trees about me were beautiful
with verdure, and fragrant with blossoms; but I was tempted
to leave them by the sight of ripe fruits, which seemed to hang
only to be plucked.  I therefore walked hastily forward, but
found, as I proceeded, that the colors of the field faded at my
approach, the fruit fell before I reached it, the birds flew still
singing before me, and, though I pressed onward with great
celerity, I was still in sight of pleasures of whiclh I could not
yet gain the possession, and which seemed to mock my diligence, and to retire as I advanced.
Though I was confounded with so many alternations of joy
and grief, I yet persisted to go forward, in hopes that these fugitivesdelights would, in time, be overtaken.  At length I saw an
innumerable multitude of every age and of both sexes, who
seemed all to partake of some general felicity; for every cheek
was flushed with confidence, and every eye sparkled with
eagerness; yet each appeared to have some particular and
secret pleasure, and very few were willing to communicate
tlleir intentions, or extend their concern beyond themselves.
Most of them seemed, by the rapidity of their motion, too
busy to gratify the curiosity of a stranger, and, therefore, IYOUNG LADIES' READER.                 459
was content for a while to gaze upon them, without interrupting them with troublesome inquiries.
But seeing a young man, gay and thoughtless, I resolved to
accost him, and was informed that I was in the garden of HOPE,
the daughter of DESIRE, and that all those, whom I saw thus
tumultuously bustling around me, were incited by the promises
of Hope,' and were hastening to seize the gifts which she held
in her hand. I turned my sight upward, and saw a: goddess
in the bloom of youth sitting on a throne. Around her lay all
the gifts of fortune, and all the blessings of life were spread
abroad to view. She had a perpetual gayety of aspect, and
every one imagined that her smile, which was impartial and
general, was directed to himself, and triumphed in his own
superiority to others, who had conceived the same confidence
from the same mistake.
I then mounted an eminence, from which I had a more extensive view of the whole place, and could with less perplexity
consider the different conduct of the crowds -that filled it.
From this station I observed that the entrance into the garden
of Hope was by two gates, one of which was kept by REASON,
and the other by FANCY. Reason was surly and scrupulous,
and' seldom turned the key without many interrogatories and
long hesitation. But Fancy was a kind and gentle portress.
She held her gate wide open, and welcomed all equally to the
district under her superintendence;- so that the passage was
crowded by all those. who either feared the examination of
Reason, or had been rejected by her.
From the gate of Reason there was a way to the throne of
Hope, by a craggy, slippery, and winding path, called the
Strait of Difculty, syhich those, who entered with permission of the guard, endeavored to climb. But, though they
surveyed the way very: carefully before they began to rise,
and marked out the several stages of their progress, they commonly found unexpected obstacles, and were often obliged to
stop  suddenly, where they imagined  the way plain  and
even. A thousand intricacies embarrassed them, a thousand
slips threw them back, and a thousand pitfalls impeded their
advance. So formidable were the danlgers, and so frequent the
miscarriages, that many returned from the first attempt, and
many fainted in the midst of the way, and only a very smallnumber were led up to the summit of hope, by tile hand of
Fortitude. Of these few, the greater part, when they had obtained the gift which Hope had promised them, regretted the
labor which it cost, and felt disappointment even in their success: the rest retired with their prize, and were led by Wisdom to the bowers of Content.
Turning then toward the gate of Fancy, I could find no
way to the seat of Hope; but, though she sat full in view, and
held out her gifts with an air of invitation, which filled every
heart with rapture, the mountain was, on that side, inaccessibly
steep, but so channeled and shaded, that none perceived the
impossibility of ascending it, but each imagined himself to
have discovered a way to which the rest were strangers.
Many expedients were indeed tried by this industrious tribe,
of whom some were making themselves wings, which others
were contriving to actuate by the perpetual motion. But, with
all their labor, and all their artifices, they never rose above
the ground, or quickly fell back, nor ever approached the
throne of Hope, but continued still to gaze at a distance, and
laughed at the slow progress of those whom they saw toiling
in the Strait of Difficulty.
Part of the favorites of Fancy, when they had entered the
garden, without making, like the rest, an attempt to climb the
mountain, turned immediately to the Vale of Idleness, a calm
and undisturbed retirement, from whence they could always
have Hope in prospect, and to which they pleased themselves
with believing that she intended speedily to descend. These
were indeed scorned by all the rest; but they seemed very
little affected by contempt, advice, or reproof, but were resolved to expect at ease the favor of the goddess. Among
this gay race I was wandering, and found them ready to answer
all my questions, and willing to communicate their mirth; but,
turning round, I saw two dreadful monsters entering the vale.
One of them I knew to be Age, and the other Want. Sport
and reveling were now at an end, and a universal shriek of
affright and distress burst out and awaked me.  DR. JOHNsox.
460461
LESSON CCXX.
THE  GLOVE  AND THE LION.
KING Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he
sighed:
And truly't was a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with
their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another;
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air:
Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than than there."
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame,
With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed
the same;
She thought, "the Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be,
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him, and
smiled,
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
" In faith," cried Francis, " rightly done!" and he rose from where
he sat;
"Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like th'  "
LEIGH  I-'T.
LESSON CCXXI.
JOHN GILPIN.
JOHN GmIPIN was a citizen of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he of famous London town.John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "Though wedded we have been,
These twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen:
To-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will,then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton all in a chaise and pair:
My sister and my sister's child, myself and children three,
Will fill tlle chaise; so you'must ride on horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear, therefore it shall be done.
I am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calendrer will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; and, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with -our own, which is both bright and clear."
John-Gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find,
That, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud;
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folk so
glad;
The stones did rattle underneath, as if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more.'T was long before the customers were suited to ttheir mind,
When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, "The wine is left
behind!"
"' Good lack!" quoth he; " yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise,
[n which I bear my trusty sword when I do exercise."
Now Mistress Gilpin, (careful soul!) had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that he loved, and keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true.
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
462Then over all, that he might be equipped: from top to toe,
His long, red cloak, well-brushed and neat, he manfully did throw
Now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed;
But finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat.
So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, but John he cried in vain;
That trot becanie a gallop soon, in spite of~ curb and rein.
So, stoopingo down, as needs he must, who cannot sit upright,
He'grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his
might.
His horse, who never in that sort had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; away went hat and wig;
He little dreamed, when he set out, of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung:
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out " VWell done!" as loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin; who but he? his fame soon spread around,
"He carries weight! he rides a race!'tis for a thousand pound!"
And still as fast as he drew near,'twas wonderful to view,
How in a trice the turnpike men their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down, his reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back were-shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, as they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle-necks still dangling at his wvaist.
Thus all through merry Islington these gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash 6f Edmionton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife from the balcony sp;icl
Her tender husband, wond'ring much to see how he did ride.
463"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! Here's the house," they all at once did
cry;
"The dinner waits, and we are tired:" said Gilpin, " So am I!"
But yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there;
For why?-his owner had a house full ten miles off, at Ware;
So, like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly; which brings me to the middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calendrer's his horse at last stood still.
The calendrer, amazed to see his neighbor in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him:
" What news. what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must
and shall;
Say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all!"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calendrer in merry guise he spoke:
" I came because your horse would come; and, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road."
The calendrer, right glad to find his friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word, but to the house went in:
Whence straight he came with hat and wig; a wig that flowed
behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit;
" My head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away, that hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware."
So, turning to his horse, he said, " I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your:;-pe6i    you  came here, you shall go back for
mine."       /
Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his h:rse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar,
And gall'bpe4: Winth all his might, as he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first, for why --they were too big.
464Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down
Into the country far away, she pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said, that drove them to the Bell,
"'T'his shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and
well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein;
But, not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry:
"Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!" not one of them was
mute;
And all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking, as before, that- Gilpin rode a race,
And so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down.
Now let us sing, Long live the King, and Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad, may I be there to see!
COWPER.
LESSON CCXXII.
THE  NEW  YEAR'S NIGHT.
ON new-year's night, an old man stood at his window, and
looked, with a glance of fearful despair, up to the immovable,
unfading heaven, and down upon the still, pure, white earth,
on which no one was now so joyless and sleepless as he. IIis
grave stood near him; it was covered only with the snows of
age, not with the verdure of youth; and he brought with him
out of a whole, rich life, nothing but errors, sins, and diseases;
a wasted body; a desolate soul; a heart full of poison; and
an old age full of repentance. The happy days of his early
youth passed before him, like a procession of specters, and
465466               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
brought back to him that lovely morning, when his father first
placed himn on the cross-way of life, where the right hand led
by the sunny paths of virtue, into a large and quiet land, full
of light and harvests; and the left plunged by the subterranean
walks of vice, into a black cave, full of distilling poison, of
hissing snakes, and of dark, sultry vapors.
Alas, the snakes were hanging upon his breast, and the
drops of poison on his tongue; and he now, at length, felt all
the horror of his situation.- Distracted, with unspeakable
grief, and with face up-turned to heaven, he cried, " My father!
give me back my youth.! 0, place me once again upon life's
cross-way, that I may choose aright."  But his father and his
youth were long since gone. He saw phantom-lights dancing
upon the marshes, and disappearing at the church-yard; and he
said, "These are my foolish days!"  He saw  a star shoot
from heaven, and glittering in its fall, vanish upon the earth.
"Behold an emblem of my career," said his bleeding heart, and
the serpent tooth of repentance digged deeper into his wounds.
His excited imagination showed him specters flying upon the
roof, and a skull, which had been left in the charnel-house,
gradually assumed his own features. In the midst of this confusion of objects, the music of the new-year flowed down from
the steeple, like distant church-melodies.  His heart began to
melt. He looked around the horizon, and over the wide earth,
and thought of the friends of his youth, who now, better and
happier than he, were the wise of the earth, prosperous men,
and the fathers of happy children; and he said, " Like you, I
also might slumber, with tearless eyes, through the long nights,
had I chosen aright in -the outset of my career. Ah, my father!
had I hearkened to thy instructions, I too might have been
happy."
In this feverish remembrance of his youthful days, the skull
bearing his features, seemed slowly to rise from the door of
the charnel-house. At length, by that superstition, which, in
the new-year's night, sees the shadow of the future, it became a living youth.  He could look no longer; he covered
his eyes; a thousand burning tears streamed down, and fell
upon the snow. In accents scarcely audible, he sighed disconsolately: "Oh, days of my youth, return, return!" And they
did return. It had only been a horrible dream. But, althoughhe was still a youth, his errors had been a reality.  And he
thanked God, that he, still young, was able to pause in the
legrading course of vice, and return to the sunny path which
teads to the lanld of harvests.                  RICHTER.
L-ESSON  C CXXIII.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
IN one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening
almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of
the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster
Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the
mournful magnificence of the'old pile; and, as I passed its
threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the region of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages.
I entered from  the inner court of Westminster school,
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, and pursued my walk to an, arched door, opening to the interior of the abbey.  On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted
with the vaults of the cloisters.  The eye gazes with wonder
at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches
springing from  them  to such an amazing hight; and man
wandering about their bases, shrinks into insignificance in comparison with his own handwork. It seems as if the awful
nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes
the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are
surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past
times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth
with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the
vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in
doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of
earth to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy;
and how many shapes, and -forms, and artifices are devised to
catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from for.
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
467It is, indeed, a most intellectual accomplishment. So is
music, too, in its perfection.  We do by no means undervalue
this noble and most delightful art, to which Socrates applied
himself even in his old age. But one recommendation of the
art of reading is, that it requires a constant exercise of mind.
It demands continual and close reflection 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 genius.               N. A. REvIEw.
LESSON   III.
ON FEMALE  INFLUENCE.
THE influence of cultivated female intellect upon the social
and religious welfare of mankind, cannot easily be overrated.
If civilization and Christianity have elevated woman in the
scale of being, she has a thousand fold repaid the debt. Heathenism alone has debased her, and the light of divine truth
will, without doubt, fully restore her to her original rank and
position. Indeed, it has already done this, as far as its principles
control opinion and action. As opportunity and public opinion
have permitted, she has herself stepped forward, and gently,
but firmly grasped the wand which waves over the circle of
her influence.  From this elevation, with the love of God in
her heart, and the accents of affection on her tongue, she is
destined to become the chief source of light and blessing to
our race.
Woman's mind has stamped its impress upon the choicest
treasures of modern literature.  How many characters have
been formed, and souls strengthened for honorable and lofty
action, by the sound wisdom and gentle attractiveness of Hannah
More, Jane Taylor, and Mrs. Barbauld! How many stricken
hearts have borne their sorrows with meek and gentle sufferance, inspirited by the sympathizing strains of Mrs. Hemans,
and Miss Landon! And how many have bounded with life,
and hope, and the love of nature's works, inspired by Mrs.
Hemans' more enlivening lays, and those of the gentle, purehearted Mary Howitt! How many have been made wise,
and pure, and affectionate, by the consecrated harp of Mrs.
45getfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired
to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration.
I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end
of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the Abbey. The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford
no striking theme for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison
have statues erected to their memories; but the greater part have
busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always
observed that the visitors to the Abbey remain longest about
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of the cold
curiosity or vague admiration, with which they gaze on the
splendid monuments of the great and heroic. They linger
about these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for
there is something of companionship between the author and
the reader.  Well may posterity be grateful to his memory;
for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of
thought, and golden veins of language.
I entered that part of the Abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings.  I wandered among what were once
chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house, renowned in history.  As the eye darts into these dusky cllambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies; some
kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon
tombs, with hands piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates, with crosiers and
miters; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in
state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet
where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we
were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being
had been suddenly transmuted into stone.
In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner, stands a monument which is one of the most renowned achievements of
modern art; but which, to me, appears horrible, rather than
sublime.  It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by RoubillPc,
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open
its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth.'The
468shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he lanches his
dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's
arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the
blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit.
We almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph, bursting from the distorted jaws of the specter. But why should
we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to
spread horrors around the tomb of those we love? The grave
should be surrounded by every thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead, or that might win the
living to virtue. It is the place, not of distrust and dismay,
but of sorrow and meditation.
Two small aisles on each side of one of the chapels present a
touching instance of the equality of the grave. In one is the
sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her
victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the
day, but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the
latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor.  The walls
of Elizabeth's sepulcher continually echo with the sighs of
sympathy, heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the place where Mary lies buried. The light
struggles dimly through windows, darkened by dust.  The
greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are
stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of
Mary is stretched upon the tomb, around which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem, the thistle. I
was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by
the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary.
The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the Abbey.
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest,
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the
choir. These paused for a time, and all was hushed. Suddenly, the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear,
falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling as it
were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and
grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp
do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful
harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent
sepulcher vocal! And now, they rise in triumphant acclama469tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and
piling sound on sound.  And now, they pause, and the soft
voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody;
they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to. play
about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven.  Again,
the pealing organ heaves its. thrilling thunders,, compressing air
into music, and rolling. it forth upon the soul,. What: longdrawn cadences! What solemn, sweeping concords! It grows
more and more',dense and powerful; it fills the vast pile, and
seems to jar the very walls; the ear is stunned; the senses
are overwhelmed. And now, it is winding up in full jubilee;
it is rising from earth to heaven; the very soul seems rapt
away, and floating upward on this swelling note of harmony!
I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire. The shadows of
evening were gradually thickening around me; the monuments
began, to cast adeeper and deeper gloom; and the distant clock
gave token of the slowly waning day. I rose, and retraced
my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the
cloisters, the door closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled
the whole building with echoes.  I endeavored to form some
arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already passing into indistinctness
and confusion.  What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of
sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of
oblivion,? It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his great and
shadowy palace; where he sits in state, mocking at the relies
of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the
monuments of princes.  How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his
pages.  We are too much engrossed by the story of the
present to think of the character and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be
speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of
yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be sup.
planted by, his successor of to-morrow.
What then is to insure this pile, which now towers above
me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time
must come, when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily,
470shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the
sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through
the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower;
when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine around the fallen columns;
anrd the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as
if in mockery of the dead.  Thus man passes away; his
name perishes from record and from recollection; his history
is a tale thatlis told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.
W. IRVING.
LESSON CCXXIV.
TO THE ROSEMARY.
SWEET-scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree;
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the rnarble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.
And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf-altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
H. K. WHITE.
LESSON CCXXV.
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
IT is a beautiful belief,
That ever round our head
Are hovering, on noiseless wing,
The spirits of the dead.
It is a beautiful belief,
When finished our career,
That it will be our destiny
To watch o'er others here;
To lend a moral to the flower,
Breathe wisdom on the wind,
To hold commune, at night's pure noon,
With the imprisoned mind;
To bid the erring cease to err,
The trembling be forgiven,
To bear away from ills of clay
The infant to its Heaven.
Ah, when delight was found in life,
And joy in every breath,
I cannot tell how terrible
The mystery of death.
But now, the past is bright to me,
And all the future clear,
For't is my faith, that after death
We still shall linger here.  J. H. PERII1's.
472LESSON CCXXVI.
LAMENT FOR MARY.
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be.
It never through my mind had passed
That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid:
And now I feel as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still my own;
But there I lay thee, in thy grave,
And I am all alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!        CHARLES WOLFE.
40
473LESSON CCXXVII.
NIGH T:.
NIGHT is the time for rest:
How sweet, when labors close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose!
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams,
The gay rotnance of life;
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far,
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plow the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
I'hat poets sang, or heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth!
Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings unto the homesick mind
All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours misspent,
To see, the specter of despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus'mid his slumbering host,
Startled by Ctesar's stalwort ghost.
474Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and, with expanding views,
Beyond the starry pole,
Descries, athwart the abyss of night,
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Savior oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away:
So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease;
Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends:--such death be mine!
J. MONTGOMER r.
LESSON CCXXVIII.
SLE EP.- DEATH.- ETERNITY.
Sleep.
SLEEP, gentle sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull, god, why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case or a common'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
475YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamors in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes.
Canst thou, 0 partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude;
And, in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances, and means to boot,
Deny it to a king t                        SHAKSPEARE.
The crowd are gone, the revelers at rest:
The courteous host, and all-approving guest,
Again to that accustomed couch must creep,
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep;
And man, o'erlabored with his being's strife;
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life.
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile,
Hate's working brain, and lulled ambition's wile;
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave,
And quenched existence crouches in a grave:
What better name may slumber's bed become.
Night's sepulcher, the universal home,
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine.
Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad, for a while, to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
BYRON.
Death.
Death is here, and death is there,
Death is busy every where,
All around, within, beneath,
Above, is death; and we are death.
Death has set his mark and seal
On all we are, and all we feel.
First our pleasures die, and then
Our hopes, and then our fears, and when
These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust, and we die too.   SHELLET.
When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone;
Like those of old, on that thrice-halUowed night,
476YOUNG LADIES' READER.                   477
Who sat and watched in raiment heavenly bright:
And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,
Says, pointing upward, that he is not here,
That he is risen.                            ROGERS.
Eternity.
What is eternity?  Can aught
Paint its duration to the thought.
Tell every beam the sun emits,
When in sublimest noon he sits;
Tell every light-winged mote that strays
Within his ample round of rays;
Tell all the leaves and all the buds,
That crown the gardens and the woods;
Tell all the spires of grass the meads
Produce, when spring propitious leads
The new-born year; tell all the drops
The night upon their bended tops
Sheds in soft silence, to display
Their beauties with the rising day;
Tell all the sand the ocean laves,
Tell all its changes, all its waves,
Or tell, with more laborious pains,
The drops its mighty mass contains.
Be this astonishing account
Augmented with the full amount
Of all the drops the clouds have shed,
Where'er their watery fleeces spread,
Through all time's long continued tour,
From Adam to the present hour;
Still short the sum: it cannot vie
With the more numerous years that lie
Imbosomed in eternity.      DR. THOMAS GIBBON8.
LESSON CCXXIX.
THE RESURRECTION.
MOREOVER, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I
preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherein
ye stand; by which also ye are saved, if ye keep in memory
what I preached unto you, unless ye have believed in vain.Sigourney! How often has the happy spirit flitted, in thought,
from twig to twig, to the bird-like song of Miss Gould! Thanks
to the spirit of the age, to the influence of Christian principle,
and to woman's own emancipated intellect, the list of such
names is rapidly swelling. The future happiness and prosperity
of our race will depend, in no small degree, upon the impulse
given to it by cultivated female intellect and heart.
The interests of education will hereafter be committed
chiefly to the hands of woman. In her maternal character,
this has always been more or less true. But the field of her
influence has not yet been fully disclosed. The eye has not
reached its boundaries. It will still be widening, until the
mother's teachings, and woman's affectionate, persevering, welldirected efforts, shall become, in the hands of God, a mighty
agent in the complete conversion of the world. For this task
her mental and social qualities peculiarly qualify her.  Her
discernment and acuteness fit her to guide the mental traveler;
her patience and endurance prepare her to bear with his waywardness; and her activity of mind and her affectionate disposition have formed her for that companionship with youth,
without which all teaching is but a heavy task to the forming
mind.
But still more important will be her influence upon the
heart. This is her peculiar home. It is also the only fountain of happiness. It is made so by the wise and immutable
laws of our being. God has formed us to be happy only in
loving and being loved, in the exercise of kindness and sympathy, in the interchange of good feeling and affectionate
remembrance, and in the cultivation of all those sister virtues,
which form the bright chain of love. It is woman's favored
lot to twine the shining braid, and make strong the tie that
binds man to his fellow man, and reaches even to his Godl
above.
Her active sympathy must insinuate itself into the selfishness of man's nature, root out the worldliness of his heart,
pacify the angry spirit, shame the turbulence of passion, and
point the troubled soul to the true source of happiness on earth,
and to an eternal home with the God of peace and love. Evil
habit and impure feeling will flee abashed from her presence.
Not that her influence will take the place of religious motive
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
46478               YOUNG LADIES' READER.
For I delivered unto you, first of all, that which I also received,
how that Christ died for our sins, according to the Scriptures;
and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day,
according to the Scriptures; and that he was seen of Cephas,
then of the twelve. After that he was seen of above five hundred brethren at once; of whom the greater part remain unto
this present, but some are fallen asleep.  After that, he was
seen of James; then of all the apostles.  And, last of all, he
was seen of me also, as of one born out of due time.
Now, if Christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how
say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead?
But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not
risen. And if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain,
and your faith is also vain. Yea, and we are found false witnesses of God: because we have testified of God that he
raised up Christ; whom he raised not up, if so be that the
dead rise not. For if the dead rise not, then is not Christ
raised.
And if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain, ye are yet in
your sins. Then they, also, which are fallen asleep in Christ,
are perished.  If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we
are of all men most miserable.  But now is Christ risen from
the dead, and become the first-fruits of them  that slept.  For
since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection
of the dead.  For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall
all be made alive.
But some man will say, how are the dead raised up? and
with what body do they come?  Thou fool! thatwhich thou
sowest is not quickened, except it die. -And that which thou
sowest, thou sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain,
it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain: but God
giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his
own body. So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in
corruption, it is raised in incorruption: it is sown in dishonor, it
is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power: it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.
There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body.  And
as we have borne the image of the earthly, we shall also bear
the image of the heavenly.Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit
the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption. Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not all sleep,
but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of
an eye, at the last trump; for the trumpet shall sound, and
the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal
must put on immortality.
So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and
this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought
to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in
victory.  0 death! where is thy sting? O grave! where is thy
victory?  The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is
the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory,
through ouLt Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work
of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in
vain in the Lord.                              CORINTHIANS.
LESSON CCXXX.
H E AVE N.
AND they suag arnew song, saying, Thou art worthy to take
the boo0k, and to open the seals'thereof; for thou wast slain,
and hast rde4emed us to GoJl Dy t   IbtJpod, out of every kindred, anh tongue, and people. anc nation; and hast made us
unto our God kings and priests; and we shall reign on the
earth.
And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round
about the throne, and the beasts, and the elders: and the
number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and'thousands of thousands: saying with a loud voice, Worthy is
the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing.
And every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth,
and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are
in them, heard I saying, Blessing, and honor, and glory, and
A.179 -power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the
Lamb forever and ever.
After this I beheld, and lo, a great multitude, which no man
could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and
tongues, stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed
with:Nvhite robes, and palms in their hands; and cried with a
loud voice, saying, Salvation to our God which sitteth upon
the throne, and unto the Lamb.
And all the angels stood round about the throne, and about
the elders, and the four beasts, and fell before the throne on
their faces, and worshiped God, saying, Amen: Blessing, and
glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honor, and power,
and might, be unto our God forever and ever, Amen.
And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are
these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came
they? And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said
unto me, Trhese are they which came out of great tribulation,
and have washed their robes, and made them white in the
blood of the Lamb. Therefore are thefyblefore the throne of
God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that
sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall
hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun
light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the
midst of the throne, shall feed them and shall lead them unto
livin  fountains of water: and God shall  ip  away all tears
from tieir eyes.                               REVELATION.
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-  
-I.1 -Iand power, but will greatly assist their operation. As she was
the first to disobey, so will she be the first to lead man back to
obedience and communion with his God.
What mulst be the character of that class, who are to exert
so great a power over our race? It is needless to say, that
there must be high purpose, firm resolve, educated mind, and
holy hearts. To accomplish this, her high destiny, woman
must be educated.  She must have a complete and perfect
training, a thorough and well adapted physical, intellectual, and
religious education.                             T. S. PINNEO.
LESSON  IV.
BETTER MOMENTS.
My mother's voice! how often creep
Its accents o'er my lonely hours!
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 comne stealing by,
And years, and sin, and manhood, flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.
The book of nature, and the print
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Give ay to me some lineament
Of what I have been taught to be.
My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drank up tears,
And there's a mildew in the lapse
Of a few miserable years;
But nature's book is even yet
With all 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,-a17THE HEMANS YOUNG LADIES' READER.
THE
H E MAN S READER
FOR
FEMALE SCHOOLS:
CONTANINWG
EXTRACTS IN PROSE AND POETRY,
SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS OF MrORE THAN
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY DIFFERENT AUTHOiS.
By T. S. PINNEO, A. M., M. D.
COMPILED FOR THE ECLECTIC SERIES.
PUBLISHERS:
AIEW YORK:--CLARK, AUSTIN, & SMITH.
CINCINNATI:-W. B. SMITH & CO.When all was beauty, then have I,
With friends on whom my love is fltmg,
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 pour'd 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 reveler from the dance;
And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching, upon wave and tree,
The subtile arrows from his quiver;
I say, a voice has thrilled me then,
Heard 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 grass my fevered brow,
And, pouring forth the earliest,
First prayer, with which I learned to bow,
Have felt my mother's spirit rush
Upon me, as in by-past years,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up-the gay, the wildAs humble as a very child.         N. P. WiLuas.'4849
LESSON V.
FEMALE HEROISM.
WHEN the tyranny anrd bigotry of the last James drove his
subjects to take up arms against him, one of the most formidable
enemies to his dangerous usurpations was Sir John Cochrane,
(ancestor of the present Earl of Dundonald,) who was one of
the most prominent actors in Argyle's rebellion. For ages, a
destructive doom seemed to have hung over the house of
Campbell, enveloping in a common ruin all who united their
fortunes to the cause of its chieftains.  The same doom
encompassed Sir John Cochrane. He was surrounded by the
king's troops. Long, deadly, and desperate was his resistance;
but, at length, overpowered by numbers, he was taken prisoner,
tried, and condemned to die upon a scaffold. He had but a
few days to live, and his jailer only waited the arrival of his
death-warrant, to lead him forth to execution. His family and
his friends had visited him in prison, and exchanged with him
the last, the long, the heart-yearning farewell. But there was
one who came not with the rest to receive his blessing; one
who was the pride of his eyes and of his house; even Ellen,
the daughter of his love.
Twilight was casting a deeper gloom over the gratings of his
prison-house, he was mourning for a last look of his favorite
child, and his head was pressed against the cold, damp walls of
his cell, to cool the feverish pulsations that shot through it like
stings of fire, when the door of his apartment turned slowly
on its unwilling hinges, and his keeper entered, followed by a
young and beautiful lady. Her person was tall and commanding; her eyes dark, bright, and tearless; but their very brightness spoke of sorrow, of sorrow too deep to be wept away;
and her raven tresses were parted over an open brow, clear and
pure as the polished marble. The unhappy captive raised his
head as they entered.
"My child! my own Ellen!" he exclaimed, and she fell
upon his bosom. " My father! my dear father i" sobbed the
miserable maiden, and she dashed away the tear that accompanied the words.  "Your interview must be short, very
short," said the jailer, as he turned and left them for a few
minutes together.," God help and comfort thee, my daughter!"
5added Sir John, while he held her to his breast, and printed a
kiss upon her brow; " I had feared that I should die without
bestowing my blessing on the head of my own child, and that
stung me more than death; but thou art come, my love, thou
art come! and the last blessing of thy wretched father -"
" Nay, forbear! forbear!" she exclaimed," not thy last blessing!
not thy last! My father shall not die!"
" Be calm, be calm, my child," returned he. "Would to
Heaven that I could comfort thee, my own! my own! But
there is no hope; within three days, and thou and all my little
ones will be-  " Fatherless, he would have said, but the
word died on his tongue.  "Three days?" repeated she,
raising her head from his breast, but eagerly pressing his hand,
" three days? then there is hope! my father shall live! Is not
my grandfather the friend of Father Petre, the confessor and
the master of the king? From him he shall beg the life of his
son, and my father shall not die."  "Nay, nay, my Ellen,"
returned he, " be not deceived; there is no hope; already my
doom is sealed; already the king has sealed the order for my
execution, and the messenger of death is now on the way."
"Yet my father shall not-shall not die!" she repeated
emphatically, and clasping her hands together.  " Heaven
speed a daughter's purpose!" she exclaimed, and turning to
her father, said calmly, "we part now, but we shall meet
again."  "6 What would my child?" inquired he, eagerly, and
gazing anxiously on her face. "Ask not now," she replied,
" my father, ask not now, but pray for me, and bless me-but
not with thy last blessing."   He again pressed her to his
heart, and wept upon her neck. In a few minutes the jailer
entered, and they were torn from the arms of each other.
On the evening of the second day after the interview we
have mentioned, a wayfaring man crossed the drawbridge at
Berwick from the north, and proceeding along Marygate, sat
down to rest upon a bench by the door of an hostelry, on the
south side of the street, nearly fronting where what was called
the "Main-guard" then stood. He did not enter the inn, for
it was above his apparent condition, being that which Oliver
Cromwell had made his head-quarters a few years before, and
where, at a somewhat earlier period, James the Sixth of Scot50land had taken up his residence, when on his way to enter on
the sovereignty of England.
The traveler wore a coarse jerkin, fastened round his body
by a leathern girdle, and over it a short cloak, composed of
equally plain materials. He was evidently a young man, but
his beaver was drawn down so as almost to conceal his features. In one hand he carried a small bundle, and in the other
a pilgrim's staff. Having called for a glass of wine, he took a
crust of bread from his bundle, and after resting for a few minutes, rose to depart. The shades of night were setting in, and
it threatened to be a night of storms. The heavens were
gathering black, the clouds rushing from the sea, sudden gusts
of wind were moaning along the streets, accompanied by heavy
drops of rain, and the face of the Tweed was troubled.
"Heaven help thee! if thou intendest to travel far in such
a night as this," said the sentinel at the English gate, as the
traveler passed him, and proceeded to cross the bridge. In a
few minutes he was upon the wide, desolate, and dreary moor
of Tweedmouth, which,for miles,presented a desert of furze,
fern, and stunted heath, with here and there a dingle covered
with thick brushwood. He slowly toiled over the steep hill,
braving the storm, which now raved with the wildest fury.
The rain fell in torrents, and the wind howled as a legion of famished wolves, hurling its doleful and angry echoes over the
heath.  Still the stranger pushed onward, until he had proceeded two or three miles from Berwick, when, as if unable
longer to brave the storm, he sought shelter among some crab
and bramble bushes by the wayside.
Nearly an hour had passed since he sought this imperfect
refuge, and the darkness of the night and the storm had increased together, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard,
hurriedly splashing along the road. The rider bent his head
to the blast. Suddenly his horse was grasped by the bridle:
the rider raised his head, and the stranger stood before him,
holding a pistol to his breast. " Dismount," cried the stranger, sternly. The horseman, benumbed, and stricken with
fear, made an effort to reach his arms, but in a moment the
hand of the robber, quitting the bridle, grasped the breast of the
rider, and dragged him to the ground. He fell heavily on his
face, and for several minutes remained senseless.  The stran51ger seized the leathern bag which contained the mail to the
north, and flinging it on his shoulder, rushed across the heath.
Early on the following morning the~inhabitants of Berwick
were seen hurrying in groups to the spot where the robbery
had been committed, and were scattered in every direction over
the moor, but no trace of the robber could be obtained.
Three days had passed, and Sir John Cochrane yet lived.
The mail which contained his death-warrant had been robbed,
and before another order for his execution could be given, the
intercession of his father, the Earl of Dundonald, with the
king's confessor, might be successful.  Ellen now became
almost his constant companion in prison, and spake to him
words of comfort. Nearly fourteen days had passed since the
robbery of the mail had been committed, and protracted hope
in the bosom of the prisoner, became more bitter than his first
despair. But even that hope, bitter as it was, perished. The
intercession of his father had been unsuccessful; and, a second
time, the bigoted and would-be despotic monarch had signed
the warrant for his death, and within little more than another
day that warrantwould reach his prison. " The will of Heaven
be done!" groaned the captive. " Amen!" responded Ellen,
with wild vehemence; "yet my father shall not die."
Again the rider with the mail had reached the moor of
Tweedmouth, and, a second time, he bore with him the doom
of Sir John Cochrane. He spurred his horse to his utmost
speed; he looked cautiously before, behind, and around him,
and in his right hand he carried a pistol, ready to defend himself. The moon shed a ghostly light across the heath, which
was only sufficient to render desolation dimly visible, and
it gave a spiritual embodiment to every shrub. He was turning the angle of a straggling copse, when his horse reared
at the report of a pistol, the fire of which seemed to dash
into its very eyes. At the same moment, his own pistol
flashed, and his horse rearing more violently, he was driven
from the saddle. In a moment the foot of the robber was
upon his breast, who bending over him, and brandishing a short
dagger in his hand, said, "Give me thine arms, or die!"  The
heart of the king's servant failed within him, and without
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
52YOUNG LADIES' READER.                  53
venturing to reply, he did as he was commanded. " Now go
thy way," said the robber, sternly, "but leave with me thy
horse, and leave with me the mail, lest a worse thing come
upon thee."  The man arose, and proceeded towards Berwick,
trembling; and the robber, mounting the horse which he had
left, rode rapidly across the heath."
Preparations were making for the execution of Sir John
Cochrane, and the officers of the law waited only for the
arrival of the mail with his second death-warrant, to lead him
forth to the scaffold, when the tidings arrived that the mail had
again been robbed. For yet fourteen days, and the life of the
prisoner would be again prolonged. He again fell on the neck
of his daughter, and wept, and said, "It is good; the hand of
Heaven is in this!" " Said I not," replied the maiden, and
for the first time she wept aloud, " that my father should not
die?"
The fourteen days were not yet passed, when the prison
doors flew open, and the Earl of Dundonald rushed to the
arms of his son. His intercession with the confessor had
been at length successful, and after twice signing the warrant
for the execution of Sir John, which had as often failed in
reaching its destination, the king had sealed his pardon.
He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own
house; his family were clinging around him, shedding tears
of joy, but Ellen, who during his imprisonment had suffered
more than them all, was again absent. They were marveling
with gratitude at the mysterious Providence that had twice
intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger craved
an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted, and the
robber entered; he was habited, as we have before described,
with the coarse cloak and coarser jerkin, but his bearing was
above his condition. On entering, he slightly touched his
beaver, but remained covered.
"When you have perused these," said he, taking two
papers from his bosom, "cast them into the fire." Sir John
glanced on them; started, and became pale; they were his
death-warrants.  "My deliverer!" he exclaimed, "how,
how shall I thank thee? how repay the savior of my life?
My father! my children! thank him for me." The old earlgrasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his
knees. He pressed his hand before his face, and burst into
tears.  " By what name," eagerly inquired Sir John, " shall
I thank my deliverer?" The stranger wept aloud, and raising
nis beaver, the raven tresses of Ellen Cochrane fell on the
coarse cloak.  "My child!" exclaimed the astonished and
enraptured father, " my own child! my savior! my own
Ellen!'
It is unnecessary to add more. The imagination of the
reader can supply the rest, and we may only add, that Ellen
Cochrane, whose heroism and noble affection we have here
briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the grandmother of the
late Sir John Stewart, of Allanbank, in Berwickshire, and
great, great grandmother of Mr. Coutts, the celebrated banker.
J. WILSON.
LESSON VI.
FIDELITY UNTO DEATH.
( Gertrude.)
The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on
the wheel, and was attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing moments, with the most heroic fidelity.
HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed,
All that she loved was there.
T'he night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above;
Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.
"And bid me not depart," she cried,
" My Rudolph! say not so!
This is no time to quit thy side,
Peace, peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for me to fear
When death is on thy brow?
The world! what means it? mine is here;
I will not leave thee now?
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
54YOUNG LADIES' READER.
"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss,
Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honored love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed Heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."
And were not these,high words to flow
From Woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe,
She bore her lofty part:
But oh! with such a freezing eye
With such a curdling cheek!
Love, love! of mortal agony,
Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!
The wind rose high, but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear;
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.
She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch, upon the lute chords low,
Had stilled his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses pressed,
As Joy and Hope ne'er knew.
Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed-one smile in deathAnd Ihis worn spirit passed.
While even as o'er a martyr's grave,
She knelt on that sad spot,
And weeping, blessed the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!     Mns. HEMrANs.
55LESSON VII.
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.
He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saintlike,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as.these have lived and died! H. W. LONsFELLow.
fo-  LESSON VIII.
THE PARTING  OF FRIENDS.
FRIEND after friend departs;
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end:
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying none were blest.
Beyond the flight of time,
Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime,
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections, transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.
There is a world above,
Where parting is unknown,
A whole eternity of love,
Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here,
Translated to that happier sphere.
Thus star by star declines,
Till all have passed away,
As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day;
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
They hide themselves in heaven's own light.
3. MONTGOMERT
LESSON IX.
ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.
(Reverie.)
So the dreams depart,
So the fading phantoms flee,
And the sharp reality,
NAow must act its part.
LITTLE Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream side, on the grass;
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
67ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year Eighteen Hundred
and Forty-seven, BY WINTHROP B. SMITH, in the Clerk's Office of the
District Court of the LTnited States for the District of Ohio.She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow;
Now she holds them nakedly,
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone;
And the smile she softly useth,
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooseth,
For her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smile
Chooseth,-" I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds:
He shall love me without guile,
And to him I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds.
"And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath;
And the lute he plays upon,
Shliall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
"And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure,
And the mane shall swim the wind,
And the hoofs along the sod,
Shall flash onward in a pleasure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
" But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes on my face,
He will say,' 0 Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in;
And I kneel here for thy grace.'
"Then, ay, then, he shall kneel low,
With the red-roan steed anear him,
VVhich shall seem to understand,
Till I answer,' Rise and go i
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'
68YOUNG LADIES' READER.
"Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say.
Nathless, maiden-brave,' Farewell,'
I will utter and dissemble,' Light to-morrow with to-day.'
"; Then he will ride through the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong,
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
"Three times shall a young foot-page
Swim the stream, and climb the mountain,
And kneel down beside my feet;'Lo! my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity's counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?'
" And the first time, I will send
A white rose-bud for a guerdon;
And the second time, a glove;
But the third time, I may bend
From my pride, and answer,' Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.'
"Then the young foot-page will run,
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee.' I am a duke's eldest son,
Thousand serfs do call me master,
But, 0 Love! I love but thee.'
" He will kiss nie on the mouth
Then; and lead me as a lover
Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto him I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds!"
Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round,a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were there than two.Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier path-way leads,
Past the boughs she stoops-and stops!
Lo! the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds!
Ellie went home, sad and slow!
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth, I know not! but I know,
She could show him never-never,
That swan's nest amongr the reeds.
MIss E. B. BARRET.
LESSON  X.
THE M1OON AND STARS.
ON the fourth day of creation, when the sun, after a glorious,
but solitary course, went down in the evening, and darkness
began to gather over the face of the uninhabited globe, already
arrayed in the exuberance of vegetation, and prepared by the
diversity of land and water, for the abode of uncreated animals
and man,-a star, single and beautiful, stepped forth into the
firmament. Trembling with wonder and delight in new-found
existence, she looked abroad, and beheld nothing in heaven or
on earth resembling herself.  But she was not long alone;
now one, then another, here a third, and there a fourth resplendent companion had joined her, till,light after light stealing
through the gloom, in the lapse of an hour the whole hemisphere was brilliantly bespangled.
The planets and stars, with a superb comet, flaming in the
zenith, for a while contemplated themselves and each other;
and every one, from the largest to the least, was so perfectly
well pleased with himself, that he imagined the rest only partakers of his felicity; he being the central luminary of his own
universe, and all the hosts of heaven besides displayed around
him  in graduated splendor.  Nor were any undeceived in
regard to themselves, though all saw their associates in their
real situations and relative proportions;-self-knowledge being
the last knowledge acquired, either in the sky or below it;C, ()YOUNG LADIES' READER.                    61
till bending over the ocean in their turns, they discovered what
they supposed at first to be a new heaven, peopled with beings
of their own species. But when they perceived further, that
no sooner had any one of their company touched the horizon
than he instantly disappeared, they then recognized themselves,
in their individual forms, reflected beneath, according to their
places and configurations above, from seeing others, whom they
previously knew, reflected in like manner.
By an attentive, but mournful self-examination in that mirror,
they slowly learned humility; but every one learned it only for
himself, none believing what others insinuated respecting their
own inferiority, till they reached the western slope, from
whence they could identify their true visages in the nether
element.  Nor was this very surprising; stars being only
visible points, without any distinction of limbs, each was all
eye; and though he could see others most correctly, he could
neither see himself nor any part of himself, till he came to
reflection. The comet, however, having a long train of brightness, streaming sun-ward, could review that, and did review it
with ineffable self-complacence. Indeed, after all pretensions
to precedence, he was at length acknowledged king of the hemisphere, if not by the universal assent, by the silent envy of all
his rivals.
But the object which attracted most attention, and astonishment too, was a slender thread of light, that could scarcely be
discerned through the blush of evening, and vanished soon after
night-fall, as if ashamed to appear in so scanty a form, like an
unfinished work of creation.  It was the moon, the first new
moon. Timidly, she looked around upon the glittering multitude that crowded the dark serenity of space, and filled it with
life and beauty.  Minute, indeed, they seemed to her, but perfect in symmetry, and formed to shine forever; while she was
unshapen, incomplete, and evanescent. In her humility, she
was glad to hide herself from their keen glances in the friendly
bosom of the ocean, wishing for immediate extinction.
When she was gone, the stars looked one at another with inquisitive surprise, as much as to say, " What a figure!" It was
so evident that they all thought alike, and thought contemptuously of the apparition, (though at first they almost doubted
whether they should not be frightened,) that they soon began totalk freely concerning her; of course, not with audible accents,
but in the language of intelligent sparkles, in which stars are
accustomed to converse with telegraphic precision from one end
of heaven to the other, and which no dialect on earth so nearly
resembles, as the language of the eyes,--the only one, probably,
that has survived in its purity, not only the confusion of Babel,
but the revolutions of all ages. Her crooked form and her shyness, were ridiculed and censured from pole to pole. For what
purpose such a monster could have been created, not the wisest
could conjecture; yet, to tell the truth, every one, though glad to
be countenanced in the affectation' of scorn by the rest, had
secret misgivings concerning the stranger, and envied the delicate
brilliancy of her light.
All the gay company, however, quickly returned to the admiration of themselves, and the inspection of each other.  Thus,
the first night passed away.  But, when the east began to dawn,
consternation seized the whole army of celestials, each feeling
himself fainting into invisibility, and-as he feared--into nothingness, whilst his neighbors were, one after another, totally disappearing. At length the sun arose, and filled the heavens, and
clothed the earth with his glory.  How he spent that day, belongs not to this history; but it is elsewhere recorded, that, for
the first time from eternity, the lark, on the wings of the morning, sprang up to salute him; the eagle, at noon, looked undazzled on his splendor; and, when he went down beyond the deep,
the leviathan was sporting amid the multitude of waves.
J. MONTGOMERY.
LESSON XI.
THE SAME,---CONCLUDE D.
IN the evening, the vanished constellations again gradually
awoke, and, on opening their eyes, were so rejoiced at meeting
together,-not one being wanting of last night's levee,--that they
were in the highest good humor with themselves and one another. Decked in all their beams, and darting their benignest influence, they exchanged smiles and endearments, and made vows
of affection, eternal and unchangeable; while, from this nether orb
the song of the nightingale arose out of darkness, and charmed
62even the stars in their courses, being the first sound, except the
roar of the ocean, that they had ever heard. " The music of the
spheres" may be traced to the rapture of that hour.
The little, gleaming horn was again discerned, leaning backward over the western hills. This companionless luminary,
they thought-but they must be mistaken--it could not beand yet they were afraid that it was so--appeared somewhat
stronger than on the former occasion. But the moon, still only
venturing to glance at this scene of magnificence, escaped beneath the horizon, leaving the comet in proud possession of the
sky.
On the third evening, the moon was so obviously increased
in size and splendor, and stood so much higher in the firmament
than at first, though she still hastened out of sight, that she was
the sole subject of conversation on both sides of the galaxy, till
the breeze that awakened newly-created man from his first slumber in paradise, warned the stars to retire; and the sun, with a
pomp never witnessed in our degenerate days, ushered in the
great Sabbath of creation, when " the heaven and the earth were
finished, and all the host of them."
The following night, the moon took her station still higher,
and looked brighter than before. Still, however, she preserved
her humility and shame-facedness, till her crescent had exceeded
the first quarter. Hitherto she had only grown lovelier, but
now she grew prouder at every step of her preferment. Her
rays, too, became so intolerably dazzling, that fewer and fewer
of the stars could endure her presence, but shrouded themselves
in her light as behind a vail. When she verged to maturity,
the heavens seemed too small for her ambition. She " rose in
clouded majesty," but the clouds melted at her approach, or
spread their rich and rainbow-tinted garments in her path.
She had crossed the comet in her course, and left him as wan
as a vapor behind her. On the night of her fullness, she triumphed gloriously in mid heaven, smiled on the earth, and arrayed it in a softer day; for she had repeatedly seen the sun,
and though she could not rival him when he was above the horizon, she fondly hoped to make his absence forgotten. Over
the ocean she hung, enamored of her own beauty reflected in -
the abyss. The few stars that still could stand amidst her overpowering effulgence, converged their rays, and shrunk into bluer
63depths of ether, to gaze at a safe distance upon her. " What
more can she be?" thought these scattered survivors of myriads
of extinguished sparklers; " as hitherto she has increased every
evening, to-morrow she will do the same; and we must be lost
like our brethren, in her all-conquering resplendence."
The moon herself was not a little puzzled to imagine what
might become of her; but vanity readily suggested, that although
she had reached her full form, she had not reached her full size;
consequently, by a regular nightly expansion of circumference,
she would finally cover the whole convexity of the sky, not only
to the exclusion of stars, but of the sun himself, since he occupied a superior region -of space, and certainly could not shine
through her; till man, and his beautiful companion,woman, looking upward from the bowers of Eden, would see all moon above
them, and walk in the light of her countenance forever.
In the midst of this pleasing self-illusion, a film crept upon
her, which spread from her utmost verge, athwart her center,
till it had completely eclipsed her visage, and made her a blot
on the tablet of the heavens. In the progress of this disaster,
the stars, which were hid in her pomp, stole forth to witness
her humiliation. But their transport and her shame, lasted not
long; the shadow retired as gradually as it had advanced,
leaving her fairer by contrast than before. Soon afterward,
the day broke, and she withdrew, marveling what would next
befall her.
Never had the stars been more impatient to resume their
places, nor the moon more impatient to rise, than on the following evening. With trembling hope and fear, the planets
that came out first after sunset, espied her disk, broad and dark
red, emerging from a gulf of clouds in the east. At the first
glance, their keen, celestial sight discovered that her western
limb was a little contracted, and her orb no longer perfect.
She herself was too much elated to suspect any failing, and
fondly imagined that she had continued to increase all round,
till she had got above the Pacific; but even then, she was only
chagrined to perceive, that her image was no larger than it had
been last night. There was not a star in the horoscope--no,
not the comet himself-durst tell her she was less.
Anothler day went, and another night came. She rose as
usual, a little later. Even while she traveled above the land,
64she was haunted with the idea, that her luster was rather
feebler than it had been; but when she beheld her face in the
sea, she could no longer overlook the unwelcome defect. The
season was boisterous; the wind rose suddenly, and the waves
burst into foam; perhaps the tide, for the first time, was then
affected by sympathy with the moon; and what had never
happened before, a universal tempest mingled heaven and
earth in rain, and lightning, and darkness. She plunged among
the thickest of the thunder-clouds, and, in the confusion that
hid. her disgrace, her exulting rivals were all likewise put out
of countenance.
On the next evening, and every.evening afterward, the
moon came forth later, and less, and dimmer; while on eacb
occasion, more and more of the minor stars, which had formerly vanished from her eye, re-appeared to witness her
fading honors and disfigured form. Prosperity had made her
vain; adversity brought her to her mind again, and humility
soon compensated the loss of glaring distinction with softer
charms, which won the regard which haughtiness had repelled;
for when she had worn off her uncouth gibbous aspect, and,
through the last quarter, ner profile waned into a hollow shell,
she appeared more graceful than ever in the eyes of all heaven.
When she was originally seen among them, the stars contemned
ner; afterward, as she grew in beauty, they envied, feared,
hated, and finally fled from her. As she relapsed into -insignificance, they first rejoiced in her decay, and then endured
her superiority, because it could not last long; but when they
marked how she had wasted away every time they met, compassion succeeded, and, on the last three nights, (like a human
fair one, in the latest stages of decline, growing lovelier, and
dearer to her friends till the close,) she disarmed hostility,
conciliated kindness, and secured affection: she was admired,
beloved, and unenvied by all.
At length, there came a night when there was no moon.
There was silence in heaven all that night. In serene meditation on the changes of the month, the stars pursued their journey from sunset to daybreak.  The comet had, likewise,
departed into unknown regions. His fading luster had been
attributed at'first, to the bolder radiance of the moon in her
meridian; but, during her wane, while inferior luminaries
6
65were brightening around her, he was growing fainter and
smaller every evening, and now, he was no more. Of the
rest, planets, and stars, all were unimpaired in their light, and
the former only slightly varied in their:positions. The whole
multitude, wiser by experience, and better for their knowledge,
were humble, contented, and grateful, each for his lot, whether
splendid or obscure.
Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of all, the moon,
with a new crescent, was descried in the west; and instantly,
from every quarter of the heavens, she was congratulated on
her happy resurrection. Just as she went down, while her
bow was yet recumbent in tlhe dark purple horizon, it is said
that an angel appeared, standing between her horns. Turning
his head, his eye glanced rapidly over the universe; the sun
far sunk behind him, the moon under his feet;the earth spread
in prospect before him, and the firmament all glittering with
constellations above. He paused a moment, and then in that
tongue, wherein, at the accomplishment of creation, " the
morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for
joy," he thus broke forth: " Great and marvelous are thy
works, Lord God Almighty! In wisdom hast thou made them
all. Who would not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name,
for thou only art holy!" He ceased; and from that hour there
has been harmony in heaven.                  J. MOsTGOrMEnY
LESSON XII.
ADAM'S  MORNING  HYMN.
THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair! thyself how wondrous, then,
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
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, to extol,
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end'
66Fairest 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 when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.
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 rise
Fromn hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the stin 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 or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from 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,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds
That, singing, 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 stately tread, or lowly creep,
WTitness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good: and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!  MrLToN.
67THE Lessons, contained in this book, have been selected with
great care, from a large amount of material examined for the purpose. Every article has been carefully studied with reference to its
instructive character, to its interest, to its appropriateness as an
exercise for reading, and, also, especially with regard to its adaptedness to the cultivation of the female mind and heart. ThI'e development of correct sentiment and taste, the encouragement of gentle
and amiable feeling, and the regulating and maturing of the social
affections, have been objects constantly prominent in the mind of the
compiler.
The title given to the work seems appropriate, as a tribute of
respect and admiration to one, whose writings, purely and distinctly feminine, present to youthful aspiration a high standard of
intellectual and moral excellence, and open a pure fount of religious
sentiment and refined feeling.
More than one hundred and thirty different authors, male and
female, are represented in this volume, and, in every instance, where
practicable, the selection has been made directly from an edition
issued under the eye of its author. Accuracy, beauty, and variety
of style have, also, been carefully consulted, and alterations have
been freely made, whenever necessary to secure this object. While
it has been made an object of importance to give a decidedly moral
and religious character to the instruction conveyed, every point of
sectarian opinion has been carefully avoided.
Directions for reading are given in the introductory article, which
may be useful as a review of previous instruction on the subject,
or may be profitably made an introductory study, whenever this
essential part of education has been neglected.
A few elliptical lessons have been introduced, which, while they
give variety and interest to the work, and are adapted for practice in
reading, serve also, as useful exercises in grammatical construction
and composition.
To the teachers and pupils of that class for Nhich it has been
especially prepared, this work is presented, with the hope that it may,
in some degree, prepare the youthful mind and heart for the high
and holy duties of active life, and give an impulse and direction
to that progressive development which will never cease, while the
immortal part of our nature shall continue to exist.
(5)LESSON XIII.
SPRING.
THE Spring-she is a blessed thing!
She is mother of the flowers!
She is the mate of birds and bees,
The partner of their revelries,
Our star of hope through wintry hours.
The merry children, when they see
Her coming, by the budding thorn,
They leap upon the cottage floor,
They shout beside the cottage door,
And run to meet her, night and morn.
They are soonest with her in the woods,
Peeping the withered leaves among,
To find the earliest, fragrant thing
That dares from the cold earth to spring,
Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song.
The little brooks run on in light,
As if they had a chase of mirth;
The skies are blue, the air is warm;
Our very hearts have caught the charm
That sheds a beauty o'er the earth.
The aged man is in the field;
The maiden'mong her garden flowers;
The sons of sorrow and distress
Are wandering in forgetfulness
Of wants that fret, and care that lowers.
She comes with more than present good,
With joys to store for future years,
From which, in striving crowds apart,
The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart,
May glean up hope with grateful tears.
Up! let us to the fields away,
And breathe the fresh and balmy air;
The bird is building in the tree,
The flower has opened to the bee,
And health, and love, and peace are there
MAY HIo WITT.
68LESSON XIV.
BREATHINGS OF SPRING.
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 flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,
Even as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When the 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! thou hast burst their sleep!
Amid the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
When sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers, the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou 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, 0 Spring?
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art;
What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! 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 cell,
Gush 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,
69Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet;
Spring!'mid the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these.
Vain longings for the dead! Why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes, gentle Spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breathed by our loved ones there!
MRs. HEixANs.
LESSON XV.
BEAUTY  OF  FLOWERS.
OF all the minor creations of God, flowers seem to be,most
completely the effusions of his love of beauty, grace, and joy.
Of all the natural objects which surround us, they are the least
connected with our absolute necessities.  Vegetation might
proceed, the earth might be clothed with a sober green; and
all the processes of fructification might be perfected, without
being attended by the glory with which the flower is crowned;
but beauty and fragrance are poured abroad over the earth in
blossoms of endless varieties, radiant evidences of the boundless benevolence of the Deity.  They are made solely to
gladden the heart of man, for a light to his eyes, for a living
inspiration of grace to his spirit, for a perpetual admiration.
And, accordingly, they seize on our affections the first moment
that we behold them.
With what eagerness do very infants grasp at flowers! As
they become older they would live forever among them.
They bound about in the flowery meadows like young fawns;
they gather all they come near; they collect heaps; they sit
among them, and sort them, and sing over them, and caress
them, till they perish in their grasp.  WVe see them  coming
wearily into the towns and villages, loaded with posies half as
large as themselves. We trace them in shady lanes, in the
grass of far-off fields, by the treasures they have gathered and
have left behind, lured on by others still brighter.
As they grow up to mature years, they assume, in their eyes,
70new characters and beauties. Then they are strewn around
them, the poetry of the earth. They become invested by a
multitude of associations with innumerable spells of power
over the human heart; they are to us memorials of the joys,
sorrows, hopes, and triumphs of our forefathers; they are,
to all nations, the emblems of youth in its loveliness and purity.
Of all the poetry ever drawn from flowers, none is so beautiful, none is so sublime, none is so imbued with that very spirit
in which they were made, as that of Christ.' And why take
ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they
grow; they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet, I say unto
you, that even Solomon in all his glory, was not arrayed like
one of these.  Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the
field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall
he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?'
The sentiment built upon this, entire dependence on the
goodness of the Creator, is one of the lights of our existence,
and could only have been uttered by Christ. But we have here
also the expression of the very spirit of beauty,in which flowers were created; a spirit so boundless and overflowing, that
it delights to enliven and adorn, with these luxuriant creatures
of sunshine, the solitary places of the earth; to scatter them by
myriads over the very desert' where no man is; on the wilderness where there is no man;' sending rain,' to satisfy the
desolate and waste ground, and to cause the bud of the tender
herb to spring forth.'
In our confined notions, we are often led to wonder why
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air;
why beauty, and flowers, and fruit, should be scattered so exuberantly where there are none to enjoy them. But the thoughts
of the Almighty are not as our thoughts.  He sees them; he,
doubtless, delights to behold the beauty of his handwork, and
rejoices in that tide of glory which he has caused to flow wide
through the universe. We know not, either, what spiritual
eves besides may behold them; for pleasant is the belief, that
Myriads of spiritual creatures walk the earth.
And how often does the gladness of uninhabited lands refresh
the heart of the solitary traveler! When the distant and seatired voyager suddenly descries the blue mountain-tops, and
71the lofty crest of the palm-tree, and makes some green and
pleasant island, where the verdant and blossoming forestboughs wave in the spicy gale, where the living waters leap
from the rocks, and millions of new and resplendent flowers
brighten the fresh sward, what then is the joy of his heart!
To Omnipotence, creation costs not an effort, but to the desolate and the weary, how immense is the happiness thus prepared
in the wilderness! Who does not recollect the exultation of
Vaillant over a magnificent lily in the torrid wastes of Africa,
which, growing on the banks of a river, filled the air far around
with its delicious fragrance, and, as he observes, had been respected by all the animals of the district, and seemed defended
even by its beauty?                                HOWITT.
LESSON XVI.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And,with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
" Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."
HIe gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves:
It was for the Lord of Paradise,
He bound them in his sheaves.
" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;'" Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
"'They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
72She knew she should find them all again,
In the fields of light above.
0, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
LESSON XVII.
THE CHILD OF EARTH.
FAINTER her slow steps fall from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow,
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die, but oh! not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;
Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathie.
Spare me, Great God! lift up my drooping brow;
I am content to die, but oh! not now!"
The spring hath ripened into summer time;
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime;
Oh, must this glimpse of beauty be the last.
"Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,
With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone.
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow:
I am content to die, but oh! not now!'
Summer is gone; and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn:
"Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam;
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;
I am content to die, but oh! not now!"
7
73The bleak wind whistles; snow-showers, far and near,
Drip without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends. " Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices light and loud:
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die, but oh! not now!"
The spring is come again, the joyful spring;
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing;
The child of earth is numbered with the dead!
Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again;
Death's silent shadow vails thy darkened brow-;
Why didst thou linger. thou art happier now!
Mns. NonTO.N.
LESSON  XVIII.
RESIGNATION.
ON a beautiful evening, about the middle of July, I pursued
my walk along a narrow path, that stretched through an extensive wood, to enjoy, alone and undisturbed, that soothingT melancholy, which is to me sweeter than the turbulence of social
merriment.  The sun had just set; the twilight star was
twinkling, like the eyes of a beautiful woman, whose lashes are
quivering with the effects of departing sorrow, that bedewed
them with tears; and the thrush was pouring forth his vesper
hymn on the topmost twig of the tall larch tree, as if he
thought that his song would sound the sweeter, the nearer he
could make his perch to heaven.
It was to me a scene of peculiar interest. On the one side,
stood the home of my father and mother, brothers and sisters,
the affectionate beings who appeared to me parts of my own
existence, without whom, without one of whom I could not be
happy; and on the other side, lay' the church-yard, where my
74forefathers slept in' the narrow house,' and where my kindred
and Inyself were in all likelihood destined to sleep; one of us,
perhaps, in a few days, for my mother was at that time sick;the being who gave me birth, who nourished me on her bosom
in infancy, who consoled my sorrows in manhood;-the
thought of her death was dreadful. But my mind was soon
called from its agonizing anticipations, by the tremulous tones
of a plaintive voice; when, on looking around me, I saw a
man kneeling beneath a branching fir, and praying loudly and
fervently. It was not, however, the prayer of the Pharisee, in
the corner of the street, where every eye might behold him:
the person before me was unconscious that any eye beheld
him, but that of his Creatoi, whom he was so earnestly supplicating.
I never saw a nlore affecting picture of devotion. I have
seen the innocent child lay its head upon its mother's knee,
and lisp out its evening prayer; and the father of a family
kneel in the midst of his domestic circle, and ask the blessing
of God to be upon them and him. I have seen the beautiful
maiden, whose lips, to the youthful imagination, seemed only
tuned to the song of pleasure, whisper the responses in the
public assembly of worship; and the dim-eyed matron stroke
back her hoary tresses, and endeavor to mingle her quivering
voice with the sublime symphony of the pealing organ: all
these have I seen, and felt the beauty of each; but this solitary
worshiper affected me more deeply, than I had ever before
experienced.
His knees were bent upon the deep green earth, where his
Bible lay on the one side of him, and his hat on the other; his
hands were lifted up, his raven hair waved in the breeze, and
his eyes were raised to heaven; yet I saw, or fancied I saw,
that he was frequently obliged to close them, and press out the
tears that flowed to them  from  the fountain of sorrow. I
passed him unperceived, with respect for his devotional feelings, and sympathy with his accumulated afflictions. I knew
him well. He was a laborer of the neighboring hamlet, intelligent and respectable in his sphere of life. Often had I met
with him in the same path, walking with his wife and children;
two little boys that plucked the wild flowers as they proceeded,
and an infant girl that yet nestled in its mother's bosom.
75He was devotedly attached to his family, and I considered
him one of the happiest men in existence; for his wife appeared
altogether worthy of the respect he paid her, and his children
were as beautiful and promising as a parent's heart could have
wished. He and I often entered into conversation, and I was
not only pleased, but frequently astonished by his remarks;
for his lips were unrestrained by the reserve of polished life,
and all his most eccentric conceptions, and all his deepest feelings, were in a moment laid open and naked before you, in all
their singularity and beauty.
He had read a good deal, but he had thought more than he
had read; and, in consequence, there was a poetical originality
in his mind, and a poetical enthusiasm in his heart, which were
peculiarly pleasing to a person who. has felt his generous emotions repulsed and chilled by the cold and affected votaries of
fashion. He was quite contented with his laborious occupation;
for, as he said, his toils seemed light and pleasant, when he
considered that they were undergone for the comfort of the wife
who,'like a fruitful vine,' spread the blossoms of pleasure
around his cottage; and of the children who;' like olive plants,'
arose to support him when bowed down by the burden of age.
The anticipation of an early death did not even appall him;
for in that case, as he observed, there was a God in heaven
who would prove'a father to the fatherless, and a husband to
the widow, and the orphan's stay, and the stranger's shield.'
The dictates of philosophy are weak, in comparison with the
power of this religious trust; it is the rock under whose
shadow the weary find repose, the rock whose summit is
brightened by sunshine, while the valley from which it rises is
covered with clouds and darkness.  My friend, the poor
laborer, clung to it with entlhusiasm in his severe domestic
trials. A malignant fever, like the storm that blasts the blossoms of spring, entered the hamlet, and, in the space of two
months, swept off more than a third of the children. There
was scarcely a cottage that had not numbered one of its little
inmates with the'dead.
It has been said, with what degree of truth I know not, that
the loss of children is the heaviest trial by which the human
heart can be visited; because, as it is averred, the attachment
of the parent to the child is stronger than that of the child to
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
76the parent. I have no doubt, that if a person have a family to
divide the stream of affection, the death of a father or a mother
will be felt with less poignancy than if the solitary mourner
have no object, as near and as dear, on which he can fix the
lacerated ties of love, that have been forced to quit their hold of
the bosom that withers in a parent's grave. As each of these
domestic calamities is, for a time, as severe as mortal creature
can conceive; and as the man who feels the acuteness of the
green wounds of affliction, cannot properly estimate the pain
of those that have been healed by the influence of time, there
appears to me no use in making, and no certainty in the result
of, the comparison.
I might, however, argue against the received opinion,*y
saying, that the place of a parent, when once empty, can never
be filled; whereas the bosom that has given its nursling to the
grave, may yet have the happiness to nourish another, and the
parental heart may half forget its withered scion, until it finds it
blooming in heaven. All I intend to say on the subject at present
is, that my poor friend lost both his little boys, whose funerals
were only divided by three melancholy days; and that, on the
evening when I saw him praying in the lonely wood, his infant
girl, his only remaining child, lay on the very brink of dissolution.
Having reached the end of the solitary footpath, I returned
homeward, and still found the afflicted man in the attitude of
prayer; perhaps unconscious, amid the strife of his spirit, of
the time that had passed over him while employed in this
act of heartfelt devotion. As soon as I descried him, a female
came running along the path, and informed him that the child
was dead. He arose with a trembling frame, and a face that
bore the fearful look of despair; or rather, the look of that
reckless frenzy, which prompted him to dispute with his
Maker the justice of the calamity that had befallen him. This
was but for a moment; he soon became firm and calm, and
exclaimed, with a subdued spirit,'The Lord's will be done.'
It was enough; it was a balm for his wounded soul, a cordial to
his fainting heart.
He then followed the steps of the female, who had disappeared, to the'house of mourning,' to condole with the childless mother, whose heart had mingled its feelings with his
77DIRECTIONS FOR READING.
PAGE
PnRELIMINARy REMARKS................. 13
ARTICULATION.................            14
INFLECTIONS....................16
ACCENT........................ 28
EMPHASIS................... 29
THE READING OF POETRY................. 32
MODULATION....................... 33
EXERCISES...............     37, 38, 39, 40
LESSONS IN PROSE.
LESSON.                                               PAGE.
1. What is Education?......... Annals of Education. 41
2. On Elocution and Reading.......    N. A. Review. 43
3. On Female Influence............  T. S.- Pinneo. 45
5. Female Heroism............. J. Wilson. 49
10. The Moon and Stars.J........... Montgomery.  60
]1. The same, concluded............ J. Montgomery. 62
15. Beauty of Flowers..............Howitt. 70
18. Resignation...............                  Knox. 74
19. Poetry of Mrs. Hemans......... Mrs. Sigourney. 78
24. Fashionable Follies..................   Flint.  86
29. Lilias Grieve.................. J. Wilson. 94
30. The same, concluded.............. J. Wilson. 97
34. The Deformed Child............ C. Edwards. 106
37. Description of the Mocking Bird....... A. Wilson. 113
40. The Wife.................. W. Irving. 117
41. The same, concluded......           TV..  Irving. 121
47. Value of the Soul........             Grin. 128
48. Promises of Religion to the Young........ Alison. 130
51. Good Sense and Beauty......onymous. 137
52. On Contentment...............            Addison. 139
55. On Politeness................  Miss Talbot. 145
(6)from the days of early youth; whose heart to his had been
doubly bound by the tendrils that sprung from their mutual
love; whose heart now demanded the support of his, the support which his would amply receive from hers in return.
Happy souls! happy, even under all your calamities! For
if there be pleasure, if there be consolation, if there be happiness on earth, they are nowhere to be so certainly found, as in
the unbounded confidence, and deeply-rooted attachment, of
two congenial and conjugal bosoms. Deeply affected by what
I had seen and heard, I entered my father's cottage strong in
good resolutions, and praying that I might have the power, in
ap:the afflictions that might await me, to say, with the ooor
p  ant: "'The Lord's will be done."                 KNOX
LESSON XIX
POETRY OF MRS. HE MANS.
BOTH critics and casual readers have united in pronouncing
the poetry of Mrs. Hemans to be essentially feminine. The
whole circle of the domestic affections; the hallowed ministry
of woman, at the cradle, the hearth-stone, and the death-bed,
were its chosen themes. Where have the disinterested, selfsacrificing virtues of her sex,
" the eye,
Lit by the soul's deep truth,"
been depicted by such graphic power?.Who else, with a
single dash of the pencil, has portrayed, at once, the lot of
woman and her refuge?
" To love on, through all things-therefore, pray!"
The warlike imagery, so predominant in her poetry, is not
a departure from its feminine elements. The chivalric strain,
though frequent and diffuse, is rather an episode, than the
key-tone of her spirit. Her genius seeks not to portray. even
its heroes amid the fury of the fight, but rather in the mild
glow of those virtues or sympathies which bind them to their
fellow-men. But with what a free breath and sunny smile,
does she turn from these to the simple themes of nature and
affection, like the shepherd-boy, springing from the heavy
YOUNG LADIES' READER.
78armor of the moody king of Israel, to gather the smooth stones
of the clear, tuneful brook?  Which of those high wrought,
chivalric strains reveals the deep gushing of the secret heart,
like the fearful night-watch of the devoted Gertrude?
"Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed;
All that she loved was there.
"She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch, upon the lute-chords low,
Had stilled his heart so oft."
In which of the spirit-stirring, belligerent lays, does the treibling sweetness of the poet's own soul irresistibly steal out, as
in 1" The Voice of Spring," "The Graves of a Household,"
"The Homes of England," "The Treasures of the Deep,"
the thrilling sigh of the " Palm-Tree," or the full, sustained,
sublime inspiration of the " Forest Sanctuary?"
The genius of Mrs. Hemans was as pure and feminine in
its impulses, as in its out-pourings.  That ambition which
impels the man of genius to " scorn delights, and live laborious
days," that he may walk on the high places of the world's
renown, and leave a name which shall be as a trumpet-tone to
all time, woke no answering echo in her bosom.  Sympathy,
notfame, was the desire of her being.
"Fame hath a voice whose thrilling tone
Can bid the life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:
But mine, let mine, -a woman's breast,
By words of I,ome-born love be blessed."'
The approbation of the good, and the assurance that her
efforts had imparted pleasure, comfort, or instruction, were
indeed precious rewards. Yet even these, with true woman's
nature, she valued more for the sake of others, than for her
own.  How  beautifully does she express this sentiment to
Miss Baillie!  "4Your praise will ever be valuable, yet it
comes to me now, mingled with mournfulness, for the ear to
which it ever brought the greatest delight, is closed. The last
winter deprived me of my truest, tenderest friend,--that
79mother, by whose unwearied spirit of hope and love, I have
been encouraged to bear on, through all the obstacles that have
beset my path!"
And when the celebrity which she had never sought, had
extended itself to the western, as well as her own hemisphere,
she writes feelingly in a letter to Miss Mitford; "Will you
think me weak, when I tell you that I shed tears over your
letter, from the idea of the pleasure it would have given my
mother? I am sure that you will agree with me, thatfacme can
afford only reflected delight to a woman."  Her poetry often
echoes the same voice of the heart.
" Thou shalt have fame! Oh mockery! Give the reed
From storms a shelter; give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine;
Give the parched flower a rain drop; and the meed
Of love's kind words to woman."
At the head of the school of poetry, essentially feminine,
we place her, " whose name we know not now  in heaven."
In that department, she would have been crowned at the Olympic games, were the whole civilized world her auditor and
judge.
And now we grieve to say farewell to thee, sweet ruler of
the tuneful harp! The young, free-hearted west, is a weeper
at thy grave. The hymns of the Pilgrim Fathers have found
an echo in thy lofty strain; and, from the storm-beaten rock
where they landed, to the Gulf where the Floridian orangegrove and the magnolia mingle their perfumes; from the sounding shores of the Atlantic, to the lone wilds of the Oregon,
where the red man wanders; thine image is cherished, and
thy memory is dear. The emigrant mother, toiling over steep,
rugged mountains, reads thy poems in the rude vehicle which
bears all her treasures to a stranger-land.  The lisping child
responds to her voice, amid those deep solitudes, and the
words are thine. Thou art with them in their-unfloored hut,
teaching them to love the home which God has given.
Why have we said farewell? We recall the word. Thou
art still with us, gentle spirit. -Race after race may fall like
autumnal leaves, and our broad prairies become the site of
thronged cities; but thou shalt still be there, undecaying, unYOUNG LADIES' READER.
80changed.   Yes, sit by our hearth-stones, and sing there,
when we shall be gathered to the fathers. When by our
children's children our memory is forgotten, thou shalt still be
remembered; thou shalt lift thy voice of melody to unborn
ages, and tell them of the Better Land.    MRS. SIGOURNEY.
LESSON XX.
DEA-TH OF MRS. HEMANS.
BRINGflowers to crown the cup and lute;
Bring flowers, the bride is near;
Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell,
Bring flowers to strew the bier:
Bring flowers; thus said the lovely song;
And shall they not be brought
To her who linked the offering
With feeling and with thought l
Bring flowers, the perfumed and the pure,
Those with the morning dew,
A sigh in every fragrant leaf,
A tear on every hue.
So pure, so sweet thy life has been,
So filling earth and air
With odors and with loveliness,
Till common scenes grew fair.
Thy song around our daily path
Flung beauty born of dreams,
That shadows on the actual world
The spirit's sunny gleams.
Mysterious influence, that on earth
Brings down the Heaven above,
And fills the universal heart
With universal love.
And thou from far and foreign lands
Didst bring back many a tone,
And giving such new music still,
A music of thine own.
A lofty strain of generous thoughts,
And yet subdued and sweet,
An angel's song, who sings of earth,
Whose cares are at his feet.
81And yet thy song is sorrowful,
Its beauty is not bloom;
The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes
That look beyond the tomb;
Thy song is sorrowful as winds
That wander o'er the plain,
And ask for summer's banished flowers,
And ask for them in vain.
Ah! dearly purchased is the gift,
The gift of song like thine:
A fated doom is hers who stands,
The priestess of the shrine.
The crowd, they only see the crown,
They only hear the hymn;
They mark not that the cheek is pale,
And that the eye is dim.
Wound to a pitch too exquisite,
The soul's fine chords are wrung;
With misery and melody
They are too highly strung.
T'he heart is made too sensitive
The daily pain to bear;
It beats in music, but it beats
Beneath a deep despair.
It never meets the love it paints,
The love for which it pines;
Too much of Heaven is in the faith
That such a heart enshrines.
The meteor wreath the poet wears,
Must make a lonely lot;
It dazzles, only to divied
From those who wear it not.
Let others thank thee;'twas for them
Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe;
The red rose wastes itself in sighs
Whose sweetness others breathe!
And they have thanked thee; many a lip
Has asked of thine for words,
When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched
The spirit's inmost chords.
How many loved and honored thee
Who only knew thy name;Which o'er the weary, working world
Like starry music came!
With what still hours of calm delight
Thy songs and image blend!
I cannot choose but think thou wert
An old familiar friend.
The charms that dwell in songs of thine
My inmost spirit moved;
And yet I feel as thou hadst been
Not half enough beloved.
They say that thou wert faint and worn
With suffering and with care;
What music must have filled the soul
That had so much to spare!  Miss L. E. LANDON.
LESSON XXI.
THE TWO VOICES.
Two solemn voices, in a fimneral strain,
Met, as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain
Meet in the sky:
"Thou art gone hence!" one sang, " our light is flown,
Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own
Ever to die!
"Thou art gone hence! our joyous hills among,
Never again to pour thy soul in song,
When spring-flowers rise;
Never the friend's familiar step to meet,
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet
Of thy glad eyes."
"Thou art gone home, gone home!" then high and clear,
Warbled that other voice; "thou hast no tear
Again to shed;
Never to fold the rob,e o'er secret pain,
Never, weighed down by Memory's clouds, again
To bow thy head.
"Thou art gone home! oh! early crowned and blest l
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest
With aught below?
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away;
Thrice blessed to go!"
83Yet sighed again that breeze-like voice of grief,
"Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief,
So loved should be;
Thou tak'st our summer hence; the flower, the tone,
The music of our being, all in one,
Depart with thee!
"Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled!
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead?
The dark unknown?
Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,
Thy smile is gone!"
"Home, home!" once nlore the exulting voice arose;
"Thou art gone home! from that divine repose
Never to roam!
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain,
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again:
Thou art gone home!
" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast;
Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath passed
The rough sea's foam!
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled,
Home! home! thy peace is won, thy heart is filled,
Thou art gone home!"
MRS.. HEA1ANS.
LESSON XXII.
THIE ANGEL S  GREETING.
COMEr to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away,
The sounds of weeping cease.
Fear hath no dwelling there,
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air I
Come to the bright, and blest,
And crowned forever!'mid that shining band,
Gathered to Heaven's own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest.
84Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother! on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
In silence wert thou left  
Come to thy sisters! joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.
Over thine orphan head
The storm has swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy Father! it is finished now:
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory! death by love no place:
Come, spirit, to thy God!
MRs. HEMA.~S.
LESSON XXIII.
EVENING  PRAYER  AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL.
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,
And fragile 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,'Mid 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 springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread;
S5And 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 woe!
Her lot is on you; silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering'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, untired,
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 vain;
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!
Mns. HEMANS.
LESSON XXIV.
FASHIONABLE FOLLIES.
T'HERE 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 theaters;
who have been admired at the examination of their high school;
who have wrought algebraic solutions on the blackboard; who
are, in short, the very roses of the garden, the attar of life;
who yet, 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
86
YOUNG LADIES' READER.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
robust brothers. We traverse the streets of our own city, and
the wires of the piano are thrunimed 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 sound, as the domestic hum of life within.
We need not enter in person. Imagination sees the fair one,
erect on her music stool, laced, and pinioned, and reduced to a
questionable class of entomology, dinging at the wires, as
though she could, in some way, hammer out of them music,
amusement, and a husband. Look at her taper and creamcolored 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 headache and rheumatism? Canst write a good and
straight forward letter of business? TI'hou art a chemist, I
remember, at the examination; canst compound, prepare, and
afterward boil, or bake, a good pudding? Canst make one of
the hundred subordinate ornaments of thy fair person? In
short, tell us thy use in existence, except to be contemplated,
as a pretty picture? And how long will any one be amused
with the view of a picture, after having surveyed it a dozen
times, unless it have a mind, a heart, and, we may emphatically
add, the perennial value of utility?"
It is a sad and lamentable truth, after all the incessant din we
have heard of the march of mind, and the interminable theories,
inculcations, and eulogies of education, that the present is an
age of unbounded desire of display and notoriety, of exhaustless and unquenchably burning ambition; and not an age of
calm, contented, ripe, and useful knowledge, for the sacred
privacy of the parlor. Display, notoriety, surface, and splendor,-these are the first aims of the mothers; and can we
expect that the daughters will drink in a better spirit? To
play, sing, dress, glide down the dance, and get a husband, is
the lesson; not to be qualified to render his home quiet, wellordered, and happy.
87CONTENTS.                          Vii
LESSON                                                       PAGE.
58. The Cottage of Moss-side.......... J. Wilson. 149
59. The same, concluded,............ J. Wilson. 154
66. Unwritten Music....                        N. P. Willis. 165
67. The same, concluded............ N. P. Willis. 168
71. The Wise and Amiable WVoman........ Freeman. 175
72. Mrs. Sigourney..............rs. S. J. Hale. 177
75. The Hermit of Niagara..........  rs. Sigourney. 183
78. Government of the Temper.........   s. Chapone. i90
79. The Daughter at her Mother's Grave.. Anonymous. 192
83. On the Nature of Clouds........... Anonymoius. 200
86. Description of Prairies............ James Hall. 206
88. God Seen in Nature's Works........Anonymous. 212
89. The Miracle....F...... F. A. Irummacher. 214
90. Description of Sinai.....J. L. Stephens. 216
94. Planetary and Terrestrial Worlds...          Hervey. 221
95. Escape from a Panther..........  J. F. Cooper. 223
100. Maternal Influence..............  is. A. Whelpley. 234
103. Woman's Influence on Character......  Thatcher. 238
105. The Sea is His, and He Made it.........  Greenwood. 243
107. Thanks to God for Mountains........... Howitt. 249
111. Byron and his Poetry.....  T.B. Macaulay.-Frisbie. 256
112. Henry Martyn and Lord Byron...          M. iiss C. E. Beecher. 258
117. The North American Indian....... Story.--M_lcLellan. 266
118. Pocahontas............... James Hall. 269
120. The Peruvian Soldier......... R. B. Seridan. 271
121. Disinterested Friendship........    R.  B. Sheridan. 274
122. Friendship in Scripture............. MIelmoth. 278
123. Naomi and Ruth (Elliptical.)..........  Ruth. 279
128. Tea Parties in New York.........    W. Irving. 286
129. On Taste and Beauty in Dress........  Mrs. Farrar. 287
132. Female Accomplishments.........  Hannah More. 294
133. The Profession of a Woman......  iss C. E. Beecher. 295
134. The Musical Instrument........... Anonymous. 297
136. The Last Days of Queen Elizabeth......... Hume. 301
137. Death of Princess Charlotte.R...  Xobert Hall. 303
143. Matilda....................~ Goldsmith. 311
144. The Voyage of Life: An Allegory........ Dr. Johnson. 312
145. The Emigrant's Abode........     T. Flint. 315
149. Thanksgiving............   J. T. Buckingham. 321
150. Duties of American Mothers........ D. Webster. 324
151. Lady Arabella Johnson (Elliptical.)........ Story. 325
152. Trials of the Pilgrims............. Everett. 327
157. The Transport.............. Anonymous. 336
160. The Uses of Suffiring...;...    E. C'hanning. 342
161. Moral Influence of Burial-Places....... Story. 344
162. Death and Sleep: A Parable....F. A. Krummacher. 346
167. Memory and Hope..........    J. K. Paulding. 352It is notorious, that there will soon be no intermediate class
between those who toil and spin, and those whose claim to be
ladies is founded on their being incapable of any value of
utility. At present, we know of none, except the little army
of martyrs, yclept school-mistresses, and the still smaller corps
of editorial and active blue-stockings. If it should be my lot
to transmigrate back to earth, in the form of 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 learning to
drink of the cup of earthly discipline, and more impressively
than by a thousand sermons, tasting the bitterness of our probationary course, in teaching the young idea how to shoot.
Except, as aforesaid, school-mistresses and blues, we believe,
that all other damsels, clearly within the purview of the term
lady, estimate the clearness of their title precisely in the ratio
of their uselessness.
Allow a young lady to have any hand in the adjustment of
all the components of her dress, each of which has a contour
which only the fleeting fashion of the moment can settle;
allow her time to receive morning visitors, and prepare for
afternoon appointments and evening parties, and what time
has the dear one to spare, to be useful and do good? To labor!
Heaven forefend the use of the horrid term! The simple state
of the case is this. There is somewhere, in all this, an
enormous miscalculation, an infinite mnischief; an evil, not of
transitory or minor importance, but fraught with misery and
ruin, not only to the fair ones themselves, but to society and
the age.
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
dispatch Amarylis C. to his sonnets. I have no conception of
a beautiful woman, or a fine man, in whose eye, in whose port,
88in whose whole expression, this sentiment does not stand
embodied: " I am called by my Creator to duties; I have employment on the earth; my sterner, but more enduring pleasures are in discharging my 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.
Which, 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 ornament only during the vernal
and sunny months of prosperity, and then not becoming a
chrysalis, an inert moth in adversity, but a croaking, repining,
ill-tempered termagant, who can only recur to the days of her
short-lived triumph, to imbitter the misery, and poverty, and
hopelessness of a husband, who, like herself, knows not to
dig, and is ashamed to beg.
We are obliged to use severe language in application to a
deep-rooted malady. We want words of power. We need
energetic and stern applications. No country ever verged more
rapidly towards extravagance and expense. In a young republic,
like ours, it is ominous of any thing but good. Men of thought,
and virtue, and example, are called upon to look to this- evil.
Ye patrician families, that croak, and complain, and forbode the
downfall of the republic, here is the origin of your evils.
Instead of training your son to waste his time, as an idle young
gentleman at large; instead of inculcating on your daughter,
that the incessant tinkling of a harpsichord, or a scornful and
lady-like toss of the head, or dexterity in waltzing, are the
chief requisites to make her way in life; if you can find no
better employment for them, teach him the use of the grubbing
hoe, and her to make up garments for your servants.
Train your son and daughter to an employment, to frugality,
to hold the high front, and to walk the fearless step of independence, and sufficiency to themselves in any fortunes, any
country, or any state of things. By arts like these, the early
8
89Romans thrived. When your children have these possessions,
you may go down to the grave in peace, as regards their temporal fortunes.                                    T. FLINT.
LESSON XXV.
REFLECTIONS OF A BELL;E.
I'M weary of the crowded ball; I'm weary of the mirth,
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 fashion's sun.
I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt
The mockery of the hollow shrine at which my spirit knelt;
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 squandered hours,
Like the sighing of the autumn wind above the faded 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 eye,
Made constant themes of eulogy, extravagant and high;
And the charm of person worshiped, in a homage offered not
To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of thought.
Away! I will not fetter thus the spirit God hath given,
Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to heaven;
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.
ANONYr.ous.
LESSON XXVI.
THE STOLEN  BLUSH.
NEVER tell me that cheek is not painted, false maid!'Tis a fib, though your pretty lips part while I say it;
And if the cheat were not already betrayed,
Those exquisite blushles themselves would betray it.But listen! This morning you rose e'er the dawn,
To keep an appointment, perhaps--with Apollo;
And, finding a fairy footprint on the lawn
Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow.
To the hillside I tracked it, and, tripping above me,
Her sun-ringlets flying and jeweled with dew,
A maiden I saw! Now, the truth, if you love me;
But why should I question? I'm sure it was you..
And you cannot deny you were met, in ascending,
-I, meanwhile, pursuing my truant by stealthBy a blooming young seraph, who turned, and, attending
Your steps, said her name was the Spirit of Health.
Meantime, through the mist of transparent vermilion
That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill,
All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion,
Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill.
And Health, floating up through the luminous air,
Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright;
Then turned and dashed down o'er her votary fair
A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light.
Even yet they're at play, here and there, in your form,
Through your fingers they steal to your white taper tips,
Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm,
Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips.
Will you tell me again, with that scorn lighted eye,
That you do not use paint, while such tinting is there?
While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny.
Nio, in future disclaim the sweet theft, if you dare!
MRS. F. S. OSGOOD
LESSON  XXVII.
THE TWO MAIDENS.
ONE came-with light and laughing air,
And cheek like opening blossom,
Bright gems were twined amid her hair,
And glittered on her bosom;
And pearls and costly bracelets deck
Her round, white arms,and lovely neck.
91YOUNG LADIES' READER.
Like summer's sky, with stars bedight,
The jeweled robe around her,
And dazzling as the noontide light
The radiant zone that bound her;
And pride and joy were in her eye,
And mortals bowed as she passed by.
Another came-o'er her mild face
A pensive shade was stealing,
Yet there no grief of earth we trace,
But that deep,holy feeling,
Which mourns the heart should ever stray
From the pure fount of Truth away.
Around her brow, as snow-drop fair,
The glossy tresses cluster,
Nor pearl, nor ornament was there,
Save the meek spirit's luster;
And faith and hope beamed from her eye,
And angels bowed as she passed by.
MRS. S. J. HALE.
LESSON XXVIII.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
"I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone;
"' Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I'm as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like blades of grass,
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough!"
92YOUNG LADIES' READER.
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt, for a time, at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or keen retort,
At length, she said, in a gentle tone:
" Since it has happened that I am thrown
From the lighter element, where I grew,
Down to another, so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head in dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel,
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon, in the earth, she sunk away
From the comfortless spot where the pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And as it arose, and its branches spread,
The pebble looked up, and wondering said:
".1 modest acorn! never to tell
What was inclosed in its simple shell!
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide its worth!
And oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering toward the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a curnberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humble pebble again be heard,
Till something, without me, or within,
Shall show the purpose for which I have been."
The pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.
Miss H. F. GOULD.
93LESSON X:XIX
LILIAS CRIEVE.
THERE were fear and melancholy in all the glens and valleys
that lay stretching around, or down upon St. Mary's Loch; for
it was a time of religious persecution. Many a sweet cottage
stood untenanted on the hill-side and in the hollow: some had
felt the fire, and had been consumed; and violent hands had
torn off the turf roof from the green shealing of the shepherd.
In the wide and deep silence and solitariness of the mountains,
it seemed as if humanl life were nearly extinct. Caverns and
clefts, in which the fox had kenneled, were now the shelter of
Christian souls; and when a lonely figure crept stealingly from
one hiding-place to another, on a visit of love to some hunted
brother in faith, the crows would hover over him, and the
hawk shriek at human steps, now rare in the desert.
When the babe was born, there might be none near to baptize it; or the minister, driven from his kirk, perhaps, poured
the sacramental water upon its face, from some pool in the glen,
whose rocks guarded the persecuted family from the oppressor.
Bridals now were unfrequent, and in the solemn sadness of
love. Many died before their time, of minds sunken, and of
broken hearts. White hair was on heads long before they were
old; and the silver locks of ancient men were often ruefuilly
soiled in the dust, and stained with their martyred blood.
But this is the dark side of the picture; for even in their
caves were these people happy. Their children were with
them, even like the wild flowers that blossomed all about the
entrances of their dens. And when the voice of psalms rose
up from the profound silence of the solitary place of rocks, the
ear of God was open, and they knew that their prayers and
praises were heard in heaven. If a'child was born, it belonged
unto the faithful; if an old man died, it was in the religion of
his forefathers. The hidden powers of their souls were brought
forth into the light, and they knew the strength that was in them
for these days of trial. The thoughtless became sedate; the
wild were tamed; the unfeeling made compassionate; hard
hearts were softened, and the wicked saw the error of their
ways.
All deep passion purifies and strengthens the soul; and so
94was it now. Now was shown and put to the proof, the stern,
austere, impenetrable strength of men, that would neither bend
nor break; -the calm, serene determination of matrons, who,
with meek eyes and unblanched cheeks, met the scowl of the
murderer; the silent beauty of maidens, who with smiles
received their death; and the mysterious courage of children,
who, in the inspiration of innocent and spotless nature, 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 sunny hair, did
many a sweet creature of twelve summers, ask just to be allowed
to say her prayers, and then go, unappalled, from her cottage
door to the breast of her Redeemer.
In those days, had old Samuel Grieve and his spouse suffered
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 natural joyfulness 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
mold, who would feed this young bird in the wild, and where
would she find shelter in which to fold her bonny wings?"
Lilias Grieve was the shepherdess of a small flock, among the
green pasturage at the head of St. Mary's Loch, and up the hillside, and over into some of the little neighboring glens. 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, happy and silent as a fairy upon
95the knoll, with the blue heavens over her head, and the blue
lake smiling at her feet.
"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
grew among the hills, were wreathed around 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
dell.
Lilias was invisible as a green linnet upon the grass; but
her sweet voice had betrayed her, and then one of the soldiers
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
appearing and disappearing, while she flew, as on wings,
across a piece of:black heathery moss, full of pits and hollows;
and still the soltdier kept his musket at its aim. His comrades
called to him to hold his hand, and not shoot a poor, little, innocent child; but he at length:-5red, and the bullet was heard to
whiz past her fern-crownedl1h4ad, 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 alittle birchen glen,
and disappeared. Not a sound of her fett was heard; she
seemed to have sunk into the ground; arnd the soldier stood,
without any effort to follow her, gazing through the smoke
toward 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 you deserve the weight of this
hand, the hand of an Englishman, you brute, for your cruelty."
96And up rose the speaker to put his threat into execution, when
the other retreated some distance, and began to load his musket; but the Englishman was upon him, and, with a Cumberland gripe and trip, laid him upon the hard ground with a
force that drove the breath out of his body, and left him
stunned, and almost insensible.
The fallen r,uffian now arose somewhat humbled, and sullenly sat down among the rest. "Why," quoth Allen Sleigh,
"I wager you a week's pay, you don't venture fifty yards,
without your musket, down yonder shingle, where the fairy
disappeared;" and, the wager being accepted, the half-drunken
fellow rushed on toward the head of the glen, and was heard
crashing away through the shrubs. In a few minutes, he
returned, declaring, with an oath, that he had seen her at the
mouth of a cave, where no human foot could reach, standing
with her hair all on fire, and an angry countenance; and that
he had tumbled backward into the burn, and been nearly
drowned. "Drowned?" cried Allen Sleigh. "A y, drowned;
why not? 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?"  "Why not?
because, who was ever drowned that was born to be hanged?"
And that jest created universal laughter, as it is always sure to
do, often as it may be, repeated, in a company of ruffians; such's felt to be its perfect truth, and unanswerable simplicity.
J WILSOX.
LESSON XXX.
TIHE SAME,-CONCLUDED.
AFTER an hour's quarreling, 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 of many voices
and many feet, came out, and were immediately saluted with
many opprobrious epithets. The hut was soon rifled of any
small articles of wearing apparel; and Samuel, without emo
tion, set before them whatever provisions he had-butter,
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