1. Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me.

2. When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed. Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me.



XCIX. A CHASE IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL.

James Fenimore Cooper (b. 1789, d. 1851). This celebrated American novelist was born in Burlington, N.J. His father removed to the state of New York about 1790, and founded Cooperstown, on Otsego Lake. He studied three years at Yale, and then entered the navy as a common sailor. He became a midshipman in 1806, and was afterwards promoted to the rank of lieutenant; but he left the service in 1811. His first novel, "Precaution," was published in 1819; his best work, "The Spy," a tale of the Revolutionary War, in 1821. The success of "The Spy" was almost unprecedented, and its author at once took rank among the most popular writers of the day. "The Pilot" and "The Red Rover" are considered his best sea novels. "The Pioneers," "The Last of the Mohicans," "The Prairie," "The Pathfinder," and "The Deerslayer" are among the best of his tales of frontier life. The best of his novels have been translated into nearly all of the European languages, and into some of those of Asia. "The creations of his genius," says Bryant, "shall survive through centuries to come, and only perish with our language." The following selection is from "The Pilot."

1. The ship which the American frigate had now to oppose, was a vessel of near her own size and equipage; and when Griffith looked at her again, he perceived that she had made her preparations to assert her equality in manful fight.

2. Her sails had been gradually reduced to the usual quantity, and, by certain movements on her decks, the lieutenant and his constant attendant, the Pilot, well understood that she only wanted to lessen the distance a few hundred yards to begin the action.

"Now spread everything," whispered the stranger.

3. Griffith applied the trumpet to his mouth, and shouted, in a voice that was carried even to his enemy, "Let fall—out with your booms—sheet home—hoist away of everything!"

4. The inspiring cry was answered by a universal bustle. Fifty men flew out on the dizzy heights of the different spars, while broad sheets of canvas rose as suddenly along the masts, as if some mighty bird were spreading its wings. The Englishman instantly perceived his mistake, and he answered the artifice by a roar of artillery. Griffith watched the effects of the broadside with an absorbing interest as the shot whistled above his head; but when he perceived his masts untouched, and the few unimportant ropes, only, that were cut, he replied to the uproar with a burst of pleasure.

5. A few men were, however, seen clinging with wild frenzy to the cordage, dropping from rope to rope, like wounded birds fluttering through a tree, until they fell heavily into the ocean, the sullen ship sweeping by them in a cold indifference. At the next instant, the spars and masts of their enemy exhibited a display of men similar to their own, when Griffith again placed the trumpet to his mouth, and shouted aloud, "Give it to them; drive them from their yards, boys; scatter them with your grape; unreeve their rigging!"

6. The crew of the American wanted but little encouragement to enter on this experiment with hearty good will, and the close of his cheering words was uttered amid the deafening roar of his own cannon. The Pilot had, however, mistaken the skill and readiness of their foe; for, notwithstanding the disadvantageous circumstances under which the Englishman increased his sail, the duty was steadily and dexterously performed.

7. The two ships were now running rapidly on parallel lines, hurling at each other their instruments of destruction with furious industry, and with severe and certain loss to both, though with no manifest advantage in favor of either. Both Griffith and the Pilot witnessed, with deep concern, this unexpected defeat of their hopes; for they could not conceal from themselves that each moment lessened their velocity through the water, as the shot of the enemy stripped the canvas from the yards, or dashed aside the lighter spars in their terrible progress.

8. "We find our equal here," said Griffith to the stranger. "The ninety is heaving up again like a mountain; and if we continue to shorten sail at this rate, she will soon be down upon us!"

"You say true, sir," returned the Pilot, musing, "the man shows judgment as well as spirit; but—"

9. He was interrupted by Merry, who rushed from the forward part of the vessel, his whole face betokening the eagerness of his spirit and the importance of his intelligence.—

"The breakers!" he cried, when nigh enough to be heard amid the din; "we are running dead on a ripple, and the sea is white not two hundred yards ahead."

10. The Pilot jumped on a gun, and, bending to catch a glimpse through the smoke, he shouted, in those clear, piercing tones, that could be even heard among the roaring of the cannon,—

"Port, port your helm! we are on the Devil's Grip! Pass up the trumpet, sir; port your helm, fellow; give it to them, boys—give it to the proud English dogs!"

11. Griffith unhesitatingly relinquished the symbol of his rank, fastening his own firm look on the calm but quick eye of the Pilot, and gathering assurance from the high confidence he read in the countenance of the stranger. The seamen were too busy with their cannon and the rigging to regard the new danger; and the frigate entered one of the dangerous passes of the shoals, in the heat of a severely contested battle.

12. The wondering looks of a few of the older sailors glanced at the sheets of foam that flew by them, in doubt whether the wild gambols of the waves were occasioned by the shot of the enemy, when suddenly the noise of cannon was succeeded by the sullen wash of the disturbed element, and presently the vessel glided out of her smoky shroud, and was boldly steering in the center of the narrow passages.

13. For ten breathless minutes longer the Pilot continued to hold an uninterrupted sway, during which the vessel ran swiftly by ripples and breakers, by streaks of foam and darker passages of deep water, when he threw down his trumpet and exclaimed—

"What threatened to be our destruction has proved our salvation.—Keep yonder hill crowned with wood one point open from the church tower at its base, and steer east and by north; you will run through these shoals on that course in an hour, and by so doing you will gain five leagues of your enemy, who will have to double their trail."

14. Every officer in the ship, after the breathless suspense of uncertainty had passed, rushed to those places where a view might be taken of their enemies. The ninety was still steering boldly onward, and had already approached the two-and-thirty, which lay a helpless wreck, rolling on the unruly seas that were rudely tossing her on their wanton billows. The frigate last engaged was running along the edge of the ripple, with her torn sails flying loosely in the air, her ragged spars tottering in the breeze, and everything above her hull exhibiting the confusion of a sudden and unlooked-for check to her progress.

15. The exulting taunts and mirthful congratulations of the seamen, as they gazed at the English ships, were, however, soon forgotten in the attention that was required to their own vessel. The drums beat the retreat, the guns were lashed, the wounded again removed, and every individual able to keep the deck was required to lend his assistance in repairing the damages to the frigate, and securing her masts.

16. The promised hour carried the ship safely through all the dangers, which were much lessened by daylight; and by the time the sun had begun to fall over the land, Griffith, who had not quitted the deck during the day, beheld his vessel once more cleared of the confusion of the chase and battle, and ready to meet another foe.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Frig'ate, a war vessel, usually carrying from twenty-eight to forty-four guns, arranged in two tiers on each side. Eq'ui-page (pro. ek'wi-paj), furniture, fitting out. 4. Ar'ti-fice. skillful contrivance, trick. Broad'side, a discharge of all the guns on one side of a ship, above and below, at the same time. 7. Man'i-fest, visible to the eye, apparent. 11. As-sur'ance (pro. a-shur'ans), full confidence, courage. 13. Sway, control, rule.

NOTES.—2. The Pilot, who appears in this story, under disguise, is John Paul Jones, a celebrated American naval officer during the Revolution. He was born in Scotland, in 1747, and was apprenticed when only twelve years old as a sailor. He was familiar with the waters about the British Islands, and during part of the war he hovered about their coasts in a daring way, capturing many vessels, often against heavy odds, and causing great terror to the enemy.

8. The ninety, refers to a large ninety-gun ship, part of a fleet which was chasing the American vessel.

10. The Devil's Grip; the name of a dangerous reef in the English Channel.

13. One point open. Directions for steering, referring to the compass.

14. The two-and-thirty; i.e., another of the enemy's ships, carrying thirty-two guns.



C. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Charles Wolfe (b. 1791, d. 1823), an Irish poet and clergyman, was born in Dublin. He was educated in several schools, and graduated at the university of his native city. He was ordained in 1817, and soon became noted for his zeal and energy as a clergyman. His literary productions were collected and published in 1825. "The Burial of Sir John Moore," one of the finest poems of its kind in the English language, was written in 1817, and first appeared in the "Newry Telegraph," a newspaper, with the author's initials, but without his knowledge. Byron said of this ballad that he would rather be the author of it than of any one ever written.

1. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

2. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

3. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

4. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

5. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

6. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on In a grave where a Briton has laid him.

7. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

DEFINITIONS.—3. Mar'tial (pro. mar'shal), military. 6. Up-braid', to charge with something wrong or disgraceful, to reproach. Reck, to take heed, to care. 7. Ran'dom, without fixed aim or purpose, left to chance.

NOTE.—Sir John Moore (b. 1761, d. 1809) was a celebrated British general. He was appointed commander of the British forces in Spain, in the war against Napoleon, and fell at the battle of Corunna, by a cannon shot. Marshal Soult, the opposing French commander, caused a monument to be erected to his memory. The British government has also raised a monument to him in St. Paul's Cathedral, while his native city, Glasgow, honors him with a bronze statue.



CI. LITTLE VICTORIES.

1. "O Mother, now that I have lost my limb, I can never be a soldier or a sailor; I can never go round the world!" And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had ever been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in future; and now this was the very thing he should never be able to do!

2. He had practiced climbing ever since he could remember, and now this was of no use; he had practiced marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said,

"Hugh, you have heard of Huber?"

"The man who found out so lunch about bees?" said Hugh. "Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known about these, and when he was sure that he could learn still more, and was more and more anxious to peep into their tiny homes and curious ways, he became blind."

3. Hugh sighed, and his mother went on.

"Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. His great, his sole delight was in music. It was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he suddenly became deaf, perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him." Hugh said nothing.

4. "Now do you think," asked his mother—and Hugh saw that a mild and gentle smile beamed from her countenance—"do you think that these people were without a Heavenly Parent?"

"O no! but were they patient?" asked Hugh.

"Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you suppose that they were hardly treated? Or would you not rather suppose that their Father gave them something better to do than they had planned for themselves?"

5. "He must know best, of course; but it does seem very hard that that very thing should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man, being blind.

"No doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments; but I fully believe that they very soon found God's will to be wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do far nobler than any the head could do through the eye or the ear. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel."

"What is that?"

6. "The pleasure of rousing the soul to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in the breast. There is no pleasure like that of exercising one's soul in bearing pain, and of finding one's heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God."

"Shall I feel that pleasure?"

"Often and often, I have no doubt; every time you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor, or anything else you have set your mind upon, you will feel that pleasure. But I do not expect it of you yet. I dare say it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it."

7. "But did he ever smile again?" asked Hugh.

"If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him," replied his mother.

"I wonder, oh, I wonder, if I shall ever feel so!"

"We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask him now?" Hugh clasped his hands. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.

8. Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes, such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. On one occasion, when he had been quite merry for a while, and his mother and his sister Agnes were chatting, they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly.

"What is it, my dear?" said his mother. "Agnes, have we said anything that could hurt his feelings?"

"No, no," sobbed Hugh. "I will tell you, presently."

9. And, presently, he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had gotten between two of his toes; unconsciously he put down his hand as if his foot were there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes; and then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible, it startled him so! It was a comfort to find that his mother knew about this. She came, and kneeled by his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful.

10. Hugh was very much dejected, and when he thought of the months and years to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, he almost wished that he were dead.

Agnes thought that he must be miserable indeed if he could venture to say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother's face, but there was no displeasure there. On the contrary, she said this feeling was very natural. She had felt it herself under smaller misfortunes than Hugh's; but she had found, though the prospect appeared all strewn with troubles, that they came singly, and were not so hard to bear, after all.

11. She told Hugh that when she was a little girl she was very lazy, fond of her bed, and not at all fond of dressing or washing.

"'Why, mother! you?" exclaimed Hugh.

"Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one day, at the thought that I should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every article of dress, every morning, as long as I lived."

"Did you tell anybody?" asked Hugh.

12. "No, I was ashamed to do that; but I remember I cried. You see how it turns out. When we have become accustomed to anything, we do it without ever thinking of the trouble, and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that has to tick so many millions of times, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in. So will you find that you can move about on each separate occasion, as you wish, and practice will enable you to do it without any trouble or thought."

"But this is not all, nor half what I mean," said Hugh.

13. "No, my dear, nor half what you will have to bear. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I remember. But what is it you dread the most?"

"Oh! all manner of things. I can never do like other people."

"Some things," replied his mother. "You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sister's Christmas parties."

14. "O mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and with the thought in her mind that it was cruel to talk so.

"Go on! Go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel, mother; and you don't keep telling me, as others do, and even sister Agnes, sometimes, that it will not signify much, and that I shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune, hardly, when I know what it is, and they don't. Now, then, go on, mother! What else?"

15. "There will be little checks and mortifications continually, when you see little boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will pity you in a way you will not like: and some may even laugh at you."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.

"Well, and what else?" said Hugh.

16. "Sooner or later you will have to follow some way of life determined by this accident instead of one that you would have liked better."

"Well, what else?"

"I must ask you, now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not much else; for, indeed, I think here is quite enough for a boy, or anyone else, to bear."

"I will bear it though; you will see."

17. "You will find great helps. These misfortunes of themselves strengthen one's mind. They have some advantages too. You will be a better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved by us all, and you yourself will love God more for having given you something to bear for his sake. God himself will help you to bear your trials. You will conquer your troubles one by one, and by a succession of LITTLE VICTORIES will at last completely triumph over all." —Harriet Martineau.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Af-flict'ed, overwhelmed, dejected. Reck'-oned, calculated, counted. 3. Com-pos'er, an author of a piece of music. Or'ches-tra, a body of instrumental musicians. 7. Ap-prove', sanction, allow. 10. De-ject'ed, discouraged, low-spirited.

NOTES.—2. Francois Huber (b. 1750, d. 1831) was a Swiss naturalist. He became blind at the age of fifteen, but pursued his studies by the aid of his wife and an attendant.

2. Ludwig van Beethoven (pro. ba'to-ven; b. 1770, d. 1827) was born at Bonn, Prussia, but passed most of his life at Vienna.



CII. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

Sir Henry Wotton (b. 1568, d. 1639) was born at Bocton Hall, Kent, England. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford. About 1598 he was taken into the service of the Earl of Essex, as one of his secretaries. On the Earl's committal to the Tower for treason, Wotton fled to France; but he returned to England immediately after the death of Elizabeth, and received the honor of knighthood. He was King James's favorite diplomatist, and, in 1623, was appointed provost of Eton College. Wotton wrote a number of prose works; but his literary reputation rests mainly on some short poems, which are distinguished by a dignity of thought and expression rarely excelled.

1. How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

2. Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the worldly care Of public fame, or private breath;

3. Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

4. Who hath his life from rumors freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;

5. Who God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend.

6. This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.



CIII. THE ART OF DISCOURAGEMENT.

Arthur Helps (b. 1813, d. 1875) graduated at Cambridge, England, in 1835. His best known works are: "Friends in Council, a Series of Readings and Discourses," "Companions of my Solitude," and "Realmah," a tale of the "lake dwellers" in southern Europe. He has also written a "History of the Spanish Conquests in America," two historical dramas, and several other works. Mr. Helps was a true thinker, and his writings are deservedly popular with thoughtful readers. In 1859 he was appointed secretary of the privy council.

1. Regarding, one day, in company with a humorous friend, a noble vessel of a somewhat novel construction sailing slowly out of port, he observed, "What a quantity of cold water somebody must have had down his back." In my innocence, I supposed that he alluded to the wet work of the artisans who had been building the vessel; but when I came to know him better, I found that this was the form of comment he always indulged in when contemplating any new and great work, and that his "somebody" was the designer of the vessel.

2. My friend had carefully studied the art of discouragement, and there was a class of men whom he designated simply as "cold-water pourers." It was most amusing to hear him describe the lengthened sufferings of the man who first designed a wheel; of him who first built a boat; of the adventurous personage who first proposed the daring enterprise of using buttons, instead of fish bones, to fasten the scanty raiment of some savage tribe.

3. Warming with his theme, he would become quite eloquent in describing the long career of discouragement which these rash men had brought upon themselves, and which he said, to his knowledge, must have shortened their lives. He invented imaginary dialogues between the unfortunate inventor, say of the wheel, and his particular friend, some eminent cold-water pourer. For, as he said, every man has some such friend, who fascinates him by fear, and to whom he confides his enterprises in order to hear the worst that can be said of them.

4. The sayings of the chilling friend, probably, as he observed, ran thus:—"We seem to have gone on very well for thousands of years without this rolling thing. Your father carried burdens on his back. The king is content to be borne on men's shoulders. The high priest is not too proud to do the same. Indeed, I question whether it is not irreligious to attempt to shift from men's shoulders their natural burdens.

5. "Then, as to its succeeding,—for my part, I see no chance of that. How can it go up hill? How often you have failed before in other fanciful things of the same nature! Besides, you are losing your time; and the yams about your hut are only half planted. You will be a beggar; and it is my duty, as a friend, to tell you so plainly.

6. "There was Nang-chung: what became of him? We had found fire for ages, in a proper way, taking a proper time about it, by rubbing two sticks together. He must needs strike out fire at once, with iron and flint; and did he die in his bed? Our sacred lords saw the impiety of that proceeding, and very justly impaled the man who imitated heavenly powers. And, even if you could succeed with this new and absurd rolling thing, the state would be ruined. What would become of those who carry burdens on their backs? Put aside the vain fancies of a childish mind, and finish the planting of your yams."

7. It is really very curious to observe how, even in modern times, the arts of discouragement prevail. There are men whose sole pretense to wisdom consists in administering discouragement. They are never at a loss. They are equally ready to prophesy, with wonderful ingenuity, all possible varieties of misfortune to any enterprise that may be proposed; and when the thing is produced, and has met with some success, to find a flaw in it.

8. I once saw a work of art produced in the presence of an eminent cold-water pourer. He did not deny that it was beautiful; but he instantly fastened upon a small crack in it that nobody had observed; and upon that crack he would dilate whenever the work was discussed in his presence. Indeed, he did not see the work, but only the crack in it. That flaw,—that little flaw,—was all in all to him.

9. The cold-water pourers are not all of one form of mind. Some are led to indulge in this recreation from genuine timidity. They really do fear that all new attempts will fail. Others are simply envious and ill-natured. Then, again, there is a sense of power and wisdom in prophesying evil. Moreover, it is the safest thing to prophesy, for hardly anything at first succeeds exactly in the way that it was intended to succeed.

10. Again, there is the lack of imagination which gives rise to the utterance of so much discouragement. For an ordinary man, it must have been a great mental strain to grasp the ideas of the first projectors of steam and gas, electric telegraphs, and pain-deadening chloroform. The inventor is always, in the eyes of his fellow-men, somewhat of a madman; and often they do their best to make him so.

11. Again, there is the want of sympathy; and that is, perhaps, the ruling cause in most men's minds who have given themselves up to discourage. They are not tender enough, or sympathetic enough, to appreciate all the pain they are giving, when, in a dull plodding way, they lay out argument after argument to show that the project which the poor inventor has set his heart upon, and upon which, perhaps, he has staked his fortune, will not succeed.

12. But what inventors suffer, is only a small part of what mankind in general endure from thoughtless and unkind discouragement. Those high-souled men belong to the suffering class, and must suffer; but it is in daily life that the wear and tear of discouragement tells so much. Propose a small party of pleasure to an apt discourager, and see what he will make of it. It soon becomes sicklied over with doubt and despondency; and, at last, the only hope of the proposer is, that his proposal, when realized, will not be an ignominious failure. All hope of pleasure, at least for the proposer, has long been out of the question.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Des'ig-nat-ed, called by a distinctive title, named. 5. Yam, the root of a climbing plant, found in the tropics, which is used for food. 6. Im-paled', put to death by being fixed on an upright, sharp stake. 8. Di-late', to speak largely, to dwell in narration. 10. Rise (pro. ris, not riz), source, origin. Pro-jec'tor, one who forms a scheme or design.



CIV. THE MARINER'S DREAM.

William Dimond (b. 1780, d. 1837) was a dramatist and poet, living at Bath, England, where he was born and received his education. He afterwards studied for the bar in London. His literary productions are for the most part dramas, but he has also written a number of poems, among them the following:

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

2. He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While Memory each scene gayly covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn.

3. Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise; Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

4. The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

5. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

6. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Joy quickens his pulses,—all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,— "O God! thou hast blest me,—I ask for no more."

7. Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound that now 'larums his ear? 'T is the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

8. He springs from his hammock,—he flies to the deck; Amazement confronts him with images dire; Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck; The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.

9. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!

10. O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss! Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,— Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

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

12. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.

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

14. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye; O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ham'mock, a hanging or swinging bed, usu-ally made of netting or hempen cloth. 4. Trans'port, ecstasy, rapture. 5. Im-pearled' (pro. im-perled'), decorated with pearls, or with things resembling pearls. 7. 'Lar'ums (an abbreviation of alarums, for alarms), affrights, terrifies. 12. Dirge, funeral music.

NOTES.—13. Coral is the solid part of a minute sea animal, corresponding to the bones in other animals. It grows in many fantastic shapes, and is of various colors.

Amber is a yellow resin, and is the fossilized gum of buried trees. It is mined in several localities in Europe and America; it is also found along the seacoast, washed up by the waves.



CV. THE PASSENGER PIGEON.

John James Audubon (b. 1780, d. 1851). This celebrated American ornithologist was born in Louisiana. When quite young he was passionately fond of birds, and took delight in studying their habits. In 1797 his father, an admiral in the French navy, sent him to Paris to be educated. On his return to America, he settled on a farm in eastern Pennsylvania, but afterward removed to Henderson, Ky., where he resided several years, supporting his family by trade, but devoting most of his time to the pursuit of his favorite study. In 1826 he went to England, and commenced the publication of the "Birds of America," which consists of ten volumes—five of engravings of birds, natural size, and five of letterpress. Cuvier declares this work to be "the most magnificent monument that art has ever erected to ornithology." In 1830 Audubon returned to America, and soon afterwards made excursions into nearly every section of the United States and Canada. A popular edition of his great work was published, in seven volumes, in 1844, and "The Quadrupeds of America," in six volumes,—three of plates and three of letterpress, in 1846-50. He removed to the vicinity of New York about 1840, and resided there until his death.

1. The multitudes of wild pigeons in our woods are astonishing. Indeed, after having viewed them so often, and under so many circumstances, I even now feel inclined to pause and assure myself that what I am going to relate is a fact. Yet I have seen it all, and that, too, in the company of persons who, like myself, were struck with amazement.

2. In the autumn of 1813 I left my house at Henderson, on the banks of the Ohio, on my way to Louisville. In passing over the Barrens, a few miles beyond Hardinsburgh, I observed the pigeons flying, from northeast to southwest, in greater numbers than I thought I had ever seen them before, and feeling an inclination to count the flocks that might pass within the reach of my eye in one hour, I dismounted, seated myself on an eminence, and began to mark with my pencil, making a dot for every flock that passed.

3. In a short time, finding the task which I had undertaken impracticable, as the birds poured in in countless multitudes, I rose, and, counting the dots then put down, found that one hundred and sixty-three had been made in twenty-one minutes. I traveled on, and still met more the farther I proceeded. The air was literally filled with pigeons; the light of noonday was obscured as by an eclipse; and the continued buzz of wings had a tendency to lull my senses to repose.

4. Whilst waiting for dinner at Young's inn, at the confluence of Salt River with the Ohio, I saw, at my leisure, immense legions still going by, with a front reaching far beyond the Ohio on the west, and the beech wood forests directly on the east of me. Not a single bird alighted, for not a nut or acorn was that year to be seen in the neighborhood. They consequently flew so high that different trials to reach them with a capital rifle proved ineffectual; nor did the reports disturb them in the least.

5. I can not describe to you the extreme beauty of their aerial evolutions when a hawk chanced to press upon the rear of a flock. At once, like a torrent, and with a noise like thunder, they rushed into a compact mass, pressing upon each other towards the center. In these almost solid masses, they darted forward in undulating and angular lines, descended and swept close over the earth with inconceivable velocity, mounted perpendicularly so as to resemble a vast column, and, when high, were seen wheeling and twisting within their continued lines, which then resembled the coils of a gigantic serpent.

6. As soon as the pigeons discover a sufficiency of food to entice them to alight, they fly round in circles, reviewing the country below. During their evolutions, on such occasions, the dense mass which they form exhibits a beautiful appearance, as it changes its direction, now displaying a glistening sheet of azure, when the backs of the birds come simultaneously into view, and anon suddenly presenting a mass of rich, deep purple.

7. They then pass lower, over the woods, and for a moment are lost among the foliage, but again emerge, and are seen gliding aloft. They now alight; but the next moment, as if suddenly alarmed, they take to wing, producing by the flappings of their wings a noise like the roar of distant thunder, and sweep through the forests to see if danger is near. Hunger, however, soon brings them to the ground.

8. When alighted, they are seen industriously throwing up the withered leaves in quest of the fallen mast. The rear ranks are continually rising, passing over the main body, and alighting in front, in such rapid succession, that the whole flock seems still on wing. The quantity of ground thus swept is astonishing; and so completely has it been cleared that the gleaner who might follow in their rear would find his labor completely lost.

9. On such occasions, when the woods are filled with these pigeons, they are killed in immense numbers, although no apparent diminution ensues. About the middle of the day, after their repast is finished, they settle on the trees to enjoy rest and digest their food. As the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon; they depart en masse for the roosting place, which not unfrequently is hundreds of miles distant, as has been ascertained by persons who have kept an account of their arrivals and departures.

10. Let us now inspect their place of nightly rendezvous. One of these curious roosting places, on the banks of the Green River, in Kentucky, I repeatedly visited. It was, as is always the case, in a portion of the forest where the trees were of great magnitude, and where there was little underwood. I rode through it upwards of forty miles, and, crossing it in different parts, found its average breadth to be rather more than three miles. My first view of it was about a fortnight subsequent to the period when they had made choice of it, and I arrived there nearly two hours before sunset.

11. Many trees, two feet in diameter, I observed, were broken off at no great distance from the ground; and the branches of many of the largest and tallest had given way, as if the forest had been swept by a tornado. Everything proved to me that the number of birds resorting to this part of the forest must be immense beyond conception.

12. As the period of their arrival approached, their foes anxiously prepared to receive them. Some were furnished with iron pots containing sulphur, others with torches of pine knots, many with poles, and the rest with guns. The sun was lost to our view, yet not a pigeon had arrived. Everything was ready, and all eyes were gazing on the clear sky, which appeared in glimpses amidst the tall trees. Suddenly there burst forth the general cry of, "Here they come!"

13. The noise which they made, though yet distant, reminded me of a hard gale at sea passing through the rigging of a close-reefed vessel. As the birds arrived and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised me. Thousands were soon knocked down by the pole men. The birds continued to pour in. The fires were lighted, and a magnificent as well as wonderful and almost terrifying sight presented itself.

14. The pigeons, arriving by thousands, alighted everywhere, one above another, until solid masses, as large as hogsheads, were formed on the branches all round. Here and there the perches gave way under the weight with a crash, and falling to the ground destroyed hundreds of the birds beneath, forcing down the dense groups with which every stick was loaded. It was a scene of uproar and confusion. I found it quite useless to speak or even to shout to those persons who were nearest to me. Even the reports of the guns were seldom heard, and I was made aware of the firing only by seeing the shooters reloading.

15. The uproar continued the whole night; and as I was anxious to know to what distance the sound reached, I sent off a man, accustomed to perambulate the forest, who, returning two hours afterwards, informed me he had heard it distinctly when three miles distant from the spot. Towards the approach of day, the noise in some measure subsided; long before objects were distinguishable, the pigeons began to move off in a direction quite different from that in which they had arrived the evening before, and at sunrise all that were able to fly had disappeared.

DEFINITIONS.—5. A-e'ri-al, belonging or pertaining to the air. 6. A-non', in a short time, soon. 8. Mast, the fruit of oak and beech or other forest trees. 10. Ren'dez-vous (pro. ren'de-voo), an appointed or customary place of meeting. Sub'se-quent, following in time. 15. Per-am'bu-late, to walk through.

NOTES.—The wild pigeon, in common with almost every variety of game, is becoming more scarce throughout the country each year; and Audubon's account, but for the position he holds, would in time, no doubt, be considered ridiculous.

9. En masse (pro. aN mas), a French phrase meaning in a body.

[Transcriber's note: The last Passenger Pigeon died at the Cincinnati Zoo on September 1, 1914. Population estimates ranged up to 5 billion, comprising 40% of the total number of birds in North America in the 19th century.]



CVI. THE COUNTRY LIFE.

Richard Henry Stoddard (b. 1825,—) was born at Hingham, Mass., but removed to New York City while quite young. His first volume of poems, "Foot-prints," appeared in 1849, and has been followed by many others. Of these may be mentioned "Songs of Summer," "Town and Country," "The King's Bell," "Abraham Lincoln" (an ode), and the "Book of the East," from the last of which the following selection is abridged. Mr. Stoddard's verses are full of genuine feeling, and some of them show great poetic power.

1. Not what we would, but what we must, Makes up the sum of living: Heaven is both more and less than just, In taking and in giving. Swords cleave to hands that sought the plow, And laurels miss the soldier's brow.

2. Me, whom the city holds, whose feet Have worn its stony highways, Familiar with its loneliest street,— Its ways were never my ways. My cradle was beside the sea, And there, I hope, my grave will be.

3. Old homestead! in that old gray town Thy vane is seaward blowing; Thy slip of garden stretches down To where the tide is flowing; Below they lie, their sails all furled, The ships that go about the world.

4. Dearer that little country house, Inland with pines beside it; Some peach trees, with unfruitful boughs, A well, with weeds to hide it: No flowers, or only such as rise Self-sown—poor things!—which all despise.

5. Dear country home! can I forget The least of thy sweet trifles? The window vines that clamber yet, Whose blooms the bee still rifles? The roadside blackberries, growing ripe, And in the woods the Indian pipe?

6. Happy the man who tills his field, Content with rustic labor; Earth does to him her fullness yield, Hap what may to his neighbor. Well days, sound nights—oh, can there be A life more rational and free?

NOTE.—5. The Indian pipe is a little, white plant, bearing a white, bell-shaped flower.



CVII. THE VIRGINIANS.

William Makepeace Thackeray (b. 1811, d. 1863). This popular English humorist, essayist, and novelist was born in Calcutta. He was educated at the Charterhouse school in London, and at Cambridge, but he did not complete a collegiate course of study. He began his literary career as a contributor to "Fraser's Magazine," under the assumed name of Michael Angelo Titmarsh, and afterwards contributed to the column of "Punch." The first novel published under Thackeray's own name was "Vanity Fair," which is regarded by many as his greatest work. He afterwards wrote a large number of novels, tales, and poems, most of which were illustrated by sketches drawn by himself. His course of "Lectures on the English Humorists" was delivered in London in 1851, and the following year in several cities in the United States. He revisited the United States in 1856, and delivered a course of lectures on "The Four Georges," which he repeated in Great Britain soon after his return home. In 1860 he became the editor of "The Cornhill Magazine," the most successful serial ever published in England.

1. Mr. Esmond called his American house Castlewood, from the patrimonial home in the old country. The whole usages of Virginia, indeed, were fondly modeled after the English customs. It was a loyal colony. The Virginians boasted that King Charles the Second had been king in Virginia before he had been king in England. English king and English church were alike faithfully honored there.

2. The resident gentry were allied to good English families. They held their heads above the Dutch traders of New York, and the money-getting Roundheads of Pennsylvania and New England. Never were people less republican than those of the great province which was soon to be foremost in the memorable revolt against the British Crown.

3. The gentry of Virginia dwelt on their great lands after a fashion almost patriarchal. For its rough cultivation, each estate had a multitude of hands—of purchased and assigned servants—who were subject to the command of the master. The land yielded their food, live stock, and game.

4. The great rivers swarmed with fish for the taking. From their banks the passage home was clear. Their ships took the tobacco off their private wharves on the banks of the Potomac or the James River, and carried it to London or Bristol,—bringing back English goods and articles of home manufacture in return for the only produce which the Virginian gentry chose to cultivate.

5. Their hospitality was boundless. No stranger was ever sent away from their gates. The gentry received one another, and traveled to each other's houses, in a state almost feudal. The question of slavery was not born at the time of which we write. To be the proprietor of black servants shocked the feelings of no Virginia gentleman; nor, in truth, was the despotism exercised over the negro race generally a savage one. The food was plenty: the poor black people lazy and not unhappy. You might have preached negro emancipation to Madam Esmond of Castlewood as you might have told her to let the horses run loose out of the stables; she had no doubt but that the whip and the corn bag were good for both.

6. Her father may have thought otherwise, being of a skeptical turn on very many points, but his doubts did not break forth in active denial, and he was rather disaffected than rebellious, At one period, this gentleman had taken a part in active life at home, and possibly might have been eager to share its rewards; but in latter days he did not seem to care for them. A something had occurred in his life, which had cast a tinge of melancholy over all his existence.

7. He was not unhappy,—to those about him most kind,—most affectionate, obsequious even to the women of his family, whom he scarce ever contradicted; but there had been some bankruptcy of his heart, which his spirit never recovered. He submitted to life, rather than enjoyed it, and never was in better spirits than in his last hours when he was going to lay it down.

8. When the boys' grandfather died, their mother, in great state, proclaimed her eldest son George her successor and heir of the estate; and Harry, George's younger brother by half an hour, was always enjoined to respect his senior. All the household was equally instructed to pay him honor; the negroes, of whom there was a large and happy family, and the assigned servants from Europe, whose lot was made as bearable as it might be under the government of the lady of Castlewood.

9. In the whole family there scarcely was a rebel save Mrs. Esmond's faithful friend and companion, Madam Mountain, and Harry's foster mother, a faithful negro woman, who never could be made to understand why her child should not be first, who was handsomer, and stronger, and cleverer than his brother, as she vowed; though, in truth, there was scarcely any difference in the beauty, strength, or stature of the twins.

10. In disposition, they were in many points exceedingly unlike; but in feature they resembled each other so closely, that, but for the color of their hair, it had been difficult to distinguish them. In their beds, and when their heads were covered with those vast, ribboned nightcaps, which our great and little ancestors wore, it was scarcely possible for any but a nurse or a mother to tell the one from the other child.

11. Howbeit, alike in form, we have said that they differed in temper. The elder was peaceful, studious, and silent; the younger was warlike and noisy. He was quick at learning when he began, but very slow at beginning. No threats of the ferule would provoke Harry to learn in an idle fit, or would prevent George from helping his brother in his lesson. Harry was of a strong military turn, drilled the little negroes on the estate, and caned them like a corporal, having many good boxing matches with them, and never bearing malice if he was worsted;—whereas George was sparing of blows, and gentle with all about him.

12. As the custom in all families was, each of the boys had a special little servant assigned him: and it was a known fact that George, finding his little wretch of a blackamoor asleep on his master's bed, sat down beside it, and brushed the flies off the child with a feather fan, to the horror of old Gumbo, the child's father, who found his young master so engaged, and to the indignation of Madam Esmond, who ordered the young negro off to the proper officer for a whipping. In vain George implored and entreated—burst into passionate tears, and besought a remission of the sentence. His mother was inflexible regarding the young rebel's punishment, and the little negro went off beseeching his young master not to cry.

13. On account of a certain apish drollery and humor which exhibited itself in the lad, and a liking for some of the old man's pursuits, the first of the twins was the grandfather's favorite and companion, and would laugh and talk out all his infantine heart to the old gentleman, to whom the younger had seldom a word to say.

14. George was a demure, studious boy, and his senses seemed to brighten up in the library, where his brother was so gloomy. He knew the books before he could well-nigh carry them, and read in them long before he could understand them. Harry, on the other hand, was all alive in the stables or in the wood, eager for all parties of hunting and fishing, and promised to be a good sportsman from a very early age.

15. At length the time came when Mr. Esmond was to have done with the affairs of this life, and he laid them down as if glad to be rid of their burden. All who read and heard that discourse, wondered where Parson Broadbent of James Town found the eloquence and the Latin which adorned it. Perhaps Mr. Dempster knew, the boys' Scotch tutor, who corrected the proofs of the oration, which was printed, by the desire of his Excellency and many persons of honor, at Mr. Franklin's press in Philadelphia.

16. No such sumptuous funeral had ever bean seen in the country as that which Madam Esmond Warrington ordained for her father, who would have been the first to smile at that pompous grief.

17. The little lads of Castlewood, almost smothered in black trains and hatbands, headed the procession and were followed by my Lord Fairfax, from Greenway Court, by his Excellency the Governor of Virginia (with his coach), by the Randolphs, the Careys, the Harrisons, the Washingtons, and many others; for the whole country esteemed the departed gentleman, whose goodness, whose high talents, whose benevolence and unobtrusive urbanity, had earned for him the just respect of his neighbors. 18. When informed of the event, the family of Colonel Esmond's stepson, the Lord Castlewood of Hampshire in England, asked to be at the charges of the marble slab which recorded the names and virtues of his lordship's mother and her husband; and after due time of preparation, the monument was set up, exhibiting the arms and coronet of the Esmonds, supported by a little, chubby group of weeping cherubs, and reciting an epitaph which for once did not tell any falsehoods.

DEFINTIONS.—1. Pat-ri-mo'ni-al, inherited from ancestors. 6. Dis-af-fect'ed, discouraged. 7. Ob-se'qui-ous, compliant to excess. 12. Black'a-moor, a negro. 17. Ur-ban'i-ty, civility or courtesy of manners, refinement. 18. Ep'i-taph (pro. ep'i-taf), an inscription on a monument, in honor or in memory of the dead.

NOTES.—2. Roundhead was the epithet applied to the Puritans by the Cavaliers in the time of Charles I. It arose from the practice among the Puritans of cropping their hair peculiarly.

3. Patriarchal. 5. Feudal. The Jewish patriarch, in olden times, and the head of a noble family in Europe, during the Middle Ages, when the "Feudal System," as it is called, existed, both held almost despotic sway, the one over his great number of descendants and relations, and the other over a vast body of subjects or retainers. Both patriarch and feudal lord were less restricted than the modern king, and the feudal lord, especially, lived in a state of great magnificence.

15. Proofs. When matter is to be printed, a rough impression of it is taken as soon as the type is set up, and sent to the editor or some other authority for correction. These first sheets are called proofs.

"His Excellency" was the title applied to the governor.



CVIII. MINOT'S LEDGE.

Fitz-James O'Brien (b. 1828, d. 1862) was of Irish birth, and came to America in 1852. He has contributed a number of tales and poems to various periodicals, but his writings have never been collected in book form. Mr. O'Brien belonged to the New York Seventh Regiment, and died at Baltimore of a wound received in a cavalry skirmish.

1. Like spectral hounds across the sky, The white clouds scud before the storm; And naked in the howling night The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. The waves with slippery fingers clutch The massive tower, and climb and fall, And, muttering, growl with baffled rage Their curses on the sturdy wall.

2. Up in the lonely tower he sits, The keeper of the crimson light: Silent and awe-struck does he hear The imprecations of the night. The white spray beats against the panes Like some wet ghost that down the air Is hunted by a troop of fiends, And seeks a shelter anywhere.

3. He prays aloud, the lonely man, For every soul that night at sea, But more than all for that brave boy Who used to gayly climb his knee,— Young Charlie, with his chestnut hair, And hazel eyes, and laughing lip. "May Heaven look down," the old man cries. "Upon my son, and on his ship!"

4. While thus with pious heart he prays, Far in the distance sounds a boom: He pauses; and again there rings That sullen thunder through the room. A ship upon the shoals to-night! She cannot hold for one half hour; But clear the ropes and grappling hooks, And trust in the Almighty Power!

5. On the drenched gallery he stands, Striving to pierce the solid night: Across the sea the red eye throws A steady crimson wake of light; And, where it falls upon the waves, He sees a human head float by, With long drenched curls of chestnut hair, And wild but fearless hazel eye.

6. Out with the hooks! One mighty fling! Adown the wind the long rope curls. Oh! will it catch? Ah, dread suspense! While the wild ocean wilder whirls. A steady pull; it tightens now: Oh! his old heart will burst with joy, As on the slippery rocks he pulls The breathing body of his boy.

7. Still sweep the specters through the sky; Still scud the clouds before the storm; Still naked in the howling night The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. Without, the world is wild with rage; Unkenneled demons are abroad; But with the father and the son Within, there is the peace of God.

NOTE.—Minot's Ledge (also called the "Cohasset Rocks") is a dangerous reef in Boston Harbor, eight miles southwest of Boston Light. It has a fixed light of its own, sixty-six feet high.



CIX. HAMLET.

William Shakespeare (b. 1564, d. 1616), by many regarded as the greatest poet the world has ever produced, was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, England. He was married, when very young, to a woman eight years his senior, went to London, was joint proprietor of Blackfriar's Theater in 1589, wrote poems and plays, was an actor, accumulated some property, and retired to Stratford three or four years before his death. He was buried in Stratford church, where a monument has been erected to his memory. This is all that is known of him with any degree of certainty.

Shakespeare's works consist chiefly of plays and sonnets. They show a wonderful knowledge of human nature, expressed in language remarkable for its point and beauty.

(ACT I, SCENE II. HAMLET alone in a room, of the castle. Enter HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO.)

Hor. Hail, to your lordship!

Ham. I am glad to see you well: Horatio,—or I do forgot myself.

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?— Macellus?

Mar. My good lord—

Ham. I am very glad to see you. [To Ber.] Good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself: I knew you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, follow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding.

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father!—methinks I see my father.

Hor. Where, my lord?

Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Hor. I saw him once; he was a goodly king.

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Ham. Saw? who?

Hor. My lord, the king your father.

Ham. The king my father!

Hor. Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear, till I may deliver, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you.

Ham. For God's love, let me hear.

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, In the dead vast and middle of the night, Been thus encounter'd. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pie. Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes, Within his trucheon's length; whilst they, distill'd Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch: Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes: I knew your father; These hands are not more like.

Ham. But where was this?

Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.

Ham. Did you speak to it?

Hor. My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up its head and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak; But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish'd from our sight.

Ham. 'T is very strange.

Hor. As I do live, my honor'd lord, 't is true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me, Hold you the watch to-night?

Mar. Ber. We do, my lord.

Ham. Arm'd, say you?

Mar. Ber. Arm'd, my lord.

Ham. From top to toe?

Mar. Ber. My lord, from head to foot.

Ham. Then saw you not his face?

Hor. Oh, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.

Ham. What, look'd he frowningly?

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Ham. Pale or red?

Hor. Nay, very pale.

Ham. And fix'd his eyes upon you?

Hor. Most constantly.

Ham. I would I had been there.

Hor. It would have much amazed you.

Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Mar. Ber. Longer, longer.

Hor. Not when I saw't.

Ham. His beard was grizzled,—no?

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver'd.

Ham. I will watch to-night; Perchance 't will walk again.

Hor. I warrant it will.

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue: I will requite your loves. So, fare you well: Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you.

DEFINITIONS.—Tru'ant, wandering from business, loitering. Trust'er, a believer. At-tent', attentive, heedful. De-liv'er, to communicate, to utter. Cap-a-pie' (from the French, pro. kap-a-pee'), from head to foot. Trun'cheon (pro. trun'shun), a short staff, a baton. Bea'ver, a part of the helmet covering the face, so constructed that the wearer could raise or lower it. Ten'a-ble, capable of being held.

NOTES.—What make you from Wittenberg? i.e., what are you doing away from Wittenberg?

Wittenberg is a university town in Saxony, where Hamlet and Horatio had been schoolfellows.

Elsinore is a fortified town on one of the Danish islands, and was formerly the seat of one of the royal castles. It is the scene of Shakespeare's "Hamlet."

Hard upon; i.e., soon after.

Funeral baked meats. This has reference to the ancient custom of funeral feasts.

My dearest foe; i.e., my greatest foe. A common use of the word "dearest" in Shakespeare's time.

Or ever, i.e., before.

Season your admiration; i.e., restrain your wonder.

The dead vast; i.e., the dead void.

Armed at point; i.e., armed at all points.

Did address itself to motion; i.e., made a motion.

Give it an understanding, etc.; i.e., understand, but do not speak of it.

I will requite your loves, or, as we should say, I will repay your friendship.



CX. DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG.

Charles Lamb (b. 1775, d. 1834) was born in London. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, where he was a schoolfellow and intimate friend of Coleridge. In 1792 he became a clerk in the India House, London, and in 1825 he retired from his clerkship on a pension of 441 Pounds. Lamb never married, but devoted his life to the care of his sister Mary, who was at times insane. He wrote "Tales founded on the Plays of Shakespeare," and several other works of rare merit; but his literary fame rests principally on the inimitable "Essays of Elia" (published originally in the "London Magazine"), from one of which the following selection is adapted.

1. Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day.

2. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his "Mundane Mutations," where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner following:

3. The swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion till it was reduced to ashes.

4. Together with the cottage,—a sorry, antediluvian makeshift of a building, you may think it,—what was of much more importance, a fine litter of newborn pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East from the remotest periods we read of.

5. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the labor of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nostrils unlike any scent which he had before experienced.

6. What, could it proceed from? Not from the burnt cottage,—he had smelt that smell before,—indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think.

7. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life, indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted—crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now; still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit.

8. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and surrendering himself up to the newborn pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with a retributory cudgel, and, finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders as thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies.

9. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig till he had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue eusued:

"You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what? What have you got there, I say?"

"O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats!"

10. The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself that he should ever have a son that should eat burnt pig.

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and, fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, "Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father! only taste! Oh!" with such like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke.

11. Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretense, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had dispatched all that remained of the litter.

12. Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbors would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the night-time; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever.

13. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box.

14. He handled it, and they all handled it; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which the judge had ever given,—to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present,—without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of "Not Guilty."

15. The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the decision; and when the court was dismissed, went privily, and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his lordship's townhouse was observed to be on fire.

16. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fire in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. The insurance offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world.

17. Thus this custom of firing houses continued till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked (burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it.

18. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later; I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious, arts make their way among mankind.

19. Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must be agreed that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favor of any culinary object that pretext and excuse might be found in Roast Pig.

DEFINITIONS.—3. Youn'kers, young persons. 4. An-te-di-lu'-vi-an (literally, existing before the flood), very ancient. Make'shlft, that which answers a need with the best means at hand. 6. Pre-mon'i-to-ry, giving previous warning. 8. Re-trib'u-to-ry, rewarding, retaliating. 12. En-joined', ordered, commanded. l3. Ob-nox'-ious (pro. oh-nok'shus), liable to censure, offensive. 18. Dy'nas-ty, sovereignty, reign. 19. Im-plic'it, trusting without doubt. Cu'li-na-ry, relating to the kitchen.

NOTES.—1. Abyssinia is a country of eastern Africa.

2. Confucius (pro. Con-fu'she-us; the Chinese name is Kong-fu-tse', pro. Kong-foot-sa') was a celebrated Chinese philosopher (b. 551 B.C.) who did much for the moral improvement of his country.

The Golden Age was supposed to be that period in the various stages of human civilization when the greatest simplicity existed; the fruits of the earth sprang up without cultivation, and spring was the only season.

13. Pekin is the capital of China. An assize town is a town where the assizes, or periodical sittings of a court, are held.

17. Locke (b. 1632, d. 1704) was one of the most illustrious of English philosophers.



CXI. A PEN PICTURE.

William Black (b. 1841,—-) is one of the leading modern novelist of England. The scenes of his stories are for the most part laid in Scotland, and he excels in the delineation of Scotch character. But his most remarkable power is seen in those vivid, poetical descriptions of scenery, of which the following selection, adapted from "The Princess of Thule," is a good example. Mr. Black's most noted works, in addition to the one named, are: "A Daughter of Heth," "The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton," "Kilmeny," and "McLeod of Dare."

1. Lavender had already transformed Sheila into a heroine during the half hour of their stroll from the beach and around the house; and as they sat at dinner on this still, brilliant evening in summer, he clothed her in the garments of romance.

2. Her father, with his great, gray beard and heavy brow, became the King of Thule, living in this solitary house overlooking the sea, and having memories of a dear sweetheart. His daughter, the Princess, had the glamour of a thousand legends dwelling in her beautiful eyes; and when she walked by the shores of the Atlantic, that were now getting yellow under the sunset, what strange and unutterable thoughts must appear in the wonder of her face!

3. After dinner they went outside and sat down on a bench in the garden. It was a cool and pleasant evening. The sun had gone down in red fire behind the Atlantic, and there was still left a rich glow of crimson in the west, while overhead, in the pale yellow of the sky, some filmy clouds of rose color lay motionless. How calm was the sea out there, and the whiter stretch of water coming into Loch Roag! The cool air of the twilight was scented with sweetbrier. The wash of the ripples along the coast could be heard in the stillness.

4. The girl put her hand on her father's head, and reminded him that she had had her big greyhound, Bras, imprisoned all the afternoon, and that she had to go down to Borvabost with a message for some people who were leaving by the boat in the morning.

"But you can not go away down to Borvabost by yourself, Sheila," said Ingram. "It will be dark before you return."

"It will not be darker than this all the night through," said the girl.

5. "But I hope you will let us go with you," said Lavender, rather anxiously; and she assented with a gracious smile, and went to fetch the great deerhound that was her constant companion. And lo! he found himself walking with a Princess in this wonderland, through the magic twilight that prevails in northern latitudes. Mackenzie and Ingram had gone to the front. The large deerhound, after regarding him attentively, had gone to its mistress's side, and remained closely there.

6. Even Sheila, when they had reached the loftiest part of their route, and could see beneath them the island and the water surrounding it, was struck by the exceeding beauty of the twilight; and as for her companion, he remembered it many a time thereafter, as if it were a dream of the sea.

7. Before them lay the Atlantic—a pale line of blue, still, silent, and remote. Overhead the sky was of a clear, thin gold, with heavy masses of violet cloud stretched across from north to south, and thickening as they got near the horizon. Down at their feet, near the shore, a dusky line of huts and houses was scarcely visible; and over these lay a pale blue film of peat smoke that did not move in the still air.

8. Then they saw the bay into which the White Water runs, and they could trace the yellow glimmer of the river stretching into the island through a level valley of bog and morass. Far away towards the east lay the bulk of the island,—dark green undulations of moorland and pasture; and there, in the darkness, the gable of one white house had caught the clear light of the sky, and was gleaming westward like a star.

9. But all this was as nothing to the glory that began to shine in the southeast, where the sky was of a pale violet over the peaks of Mealasabhal and Suainabhal. There, into the beautiful dome, rose the golden crescent of the moon, warm in color, as though it still retained the last rays of the sunset. A line of quivering gold fell across Loch Roag, and touched the black hull and spars of the boat in which Sheila had been sailing in the morning.

10. That bay down there, with its white sands and massive rocks, its still expanse of water, and its background of mountain peaks palely covered by the yellow moonlight, seemed really a home for a magic princess who was shut off from all the world. But here, in front of them, was another sort of sea, and another sort of life,—a small fishing village hidden under a cloud of pale peat smoke, and fronting the great waters of the Atlantic itself, which lay under a gloom of violet clouds.

11. On the way home it was again Lavender's good fortune to walk with Sheila across the moorland path they had traversed some little time before. And now the moon was still higher in the heavens, and the yellow lane of light that crossed the violet waters of Loch Roag quivered in a deeper gold. The night air was scented with the Dutch clover growing down by the shore. They could hear the curlew whistling and the plover calling amid that monotonous plash of the waves that murmured all around the coast.

12. When they returned to the house, the darker waters of the Atlantic and the purple clouds of the west were shut out from sight; and before them there was only the liquid plain of Loch Roag, with its pathway of yellow fire, and far away on the other side the shoulders and peaks of the southern mountains, that had grown gray and clear and sharp in the beautiful twilight. And this was Sheila's home.

DEFINITIONS.—2. Gla'mour (pro. gla'moor), witchery, or a charm on the eyes, making them see things differently from what they really are. 3. Loch (pro. lok), a lake, a bay or arm of the sea. 7. Peat, a kind of turf used for fuel. 11. Cur'lew (pro. kur'lu), an aquatic bird which takes its name from its cry. Plov'er (pro. pluv'er), a game bird frequenting river banks and the sea-shore.

NOTES.—Of the characters mentioned in this selection, Sheila is a young Scotch girl living on the small island of Borva, which her father owns; it lies just west of Lewis, one of the Hebrides. Ingram is an old friend and frequent visitor, while Lavender, a friend of Ingram's, is on his first visit to the island.

2. Thule (pro. Thu'le) is the name given by an ancient Greek navigator, Pytheas, to the northernmost region of Europe. The exact locality of Thule is a disputed point.

3. Loch Roag (pro. Rog') is all inlet of the sea, west of Lewis, in which Borva is situated.

4. Borvabost, a little town at Borva. Bost means an inhabited place.

9. Mealasabhal and Suainabhal are mountains on the island of Lewis. Bhal is Gaelic for mountain.



CXII. THE GREAT VOICES.

Charles T. Brooks (b. 1813, d. 1833)[1] was born at Salem, Mass., and was the valedictorian of his class at Harvard College, where he graduated in 1832. He shortly afterwards entered the ministry, and had charge of a congregation at Newport, R.I. He was a great student of German literature, and began his own literary career by a translations of Schiller's "William Tell." This was followed by numerous translations from the German, mainly poetry, which have been published from time to time, in several volumes. Of these translations, Goethe's "Faust," Richter's "Titan" and "Hesperus," and a humorous poem by Dr. Karl Arnold Kortum, "The Life, Opinions, Actions, and Fate of Hieronimus Jobs, the Candidate," deserve especial mention. Mr. Brooks also published a number of original poems, addresses, etc.

[Transcriber's Note 1: The correct dates are June, 20 1813 to June 14, 1883.]

1. A voice from the sea to the mountains, From the mountains again to the sea; A call from the deep to the fountains,— "O spirit! be glad and be free."

2. A cry from the floods to the fountains; And the torrents repeat the glad song As they leap from the breast of the mountains,— "O spirit! be free and be strong."

3. The pine forests thrill with emotion Of praise, as the spirit sweeps by: With a voice like the murmur of ocean To the soul of the listener they cry.

4. Oh! sing, human heart, like the fountains, With joy reverential and free, Contented and calm as the mountains, And deep as the woods and the sea.



CXIII. A PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE.

Samuel Johnson (b. 1709, d. 1784). This remarkable man was born in Lichfield, Staffordshire, England. He was the son of a bookseller and stationer. He entered Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1728; but his poverty compelled him to leave at the end of three years. Soon after his marriage, in 1736, he opened a private school, but obtained only three pupils, one of whom was David Garrick, afterwards a celebrated actor. In 1737, he removed to London, where he resided most of the rest of his life. The most noted of his numerous literary works are his "Dictionary," the first one of the English language worthy of mention, "The Vanity of Human Wishes," a poem, "The Rambler," "Rasselas," "The Lives of the English Poets," and his edition of Shakespeare. An annual pension of 300 pounds was granted him in 1762.

In person, Johnson was heavy and awkward; in manner, boorish and overbearing; but his learning and his great powers caused his company to be sought by many eminent men.

1. Obidah, the son of Abnesina, left the caravansary early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Hindostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him.

2. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes contemplated towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring; all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.

3. Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridian, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however, forget whither he was traveling, but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence without suffering its fatigues.

4. He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without the least remission of his ardor, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which the heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused himself with picking the flowers that covered the banks on each side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among the hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls.

5. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it was longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but, remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the garieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road.

6. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region, with innumerable circumvolutions.

7. In these amusements, the hours passed away uncounted; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head.

8. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.

9. He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power; to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with his saber in his hand; for the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage, and fear, and ravage, and expiration; all the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him; the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills.

10. Thus, forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild without knowing whither he was going or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At length, not fear but labor began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced toward the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

11. When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the hermit, "by what chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderness, in which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.

12. "Son," said the hermit, "let the errors and follies, the dangers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into your heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigor, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gayety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the straight road of piety toward the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavor to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end.

13. "We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance can not be made, and whether we may not at least turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we for a while keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return.

14. "But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we, in time, lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, and with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the paths of virtue.

15. "Happy are they, my son, who shall learn, from thy example, not to despair, but shall remember that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose: commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life."

DEFINITIONS.—1. Car-a-van sa-ry, a kind of inn in the East, where caravans (or large companies of traders) rest at night. 5. Me-an'ders, windings, turnings. 6. Cir-cum-vo-lu'tions, windings or flowings around. 7. De-vi-a'tions, wanderins from one's course. 9. Ex-pi-ra'tion, death. 11. Pal-li-a'tion, concealment of the most blamable circumstances of an offence. 12. Mit-i-ga'tion, abatement, the act of rendering less severe. 14. Ad'e-quate, fully sufficient. Lab'y-rinth, a place full of winding passages.



CXIV. A SUMMER LONGING.

George Arnold (b. 1834, d. 1865) was born in New York, but removed with his parents to Illinois while yet an infant. There he passed his boyhood, being educated at home by his parents. In 1849 the family again removed to Strawberry Farms, Monmouth County, N.J. When eighteen years old he began to study painting, but soon gave up the art and devoted himself to literature. He became a journalist of New York City, and his productions include almost every variety of writings found in the literary magazines. After his death, two volumes of his poems, "Drift: a Seashore Idyl," and "Poems, Grave and Gay," were edited by Mr. William Winter.