F. T. But thanks, madam, will not pay for all my nightly vigils, consultations, and calculations.

Mrs. C. Oh, right, sir! I forgot to pay you. What am I indebted to you?

F. T. Only five dollars, madam.

Mrs. C. [Handing him the money.] There it is, sir. I would have paid twenty rather than not have found the ring.

F. T. I never take but five, madam. Farewell, madam, your friend is at the door with your chaise.

[He leaves the room.]

[Enter, Friend.]

Friend. Well, Mary, what does the fortune-teller say?

Mrs. C. Oh, he told me I was a widow, and lived in Boston, and had an adopted daughter,—and——

Friend. But you knew all this before, did you not?

Mrs. C. Yes; but how should he know it? He told me, too, that I had lost a ring,—

Friend. Did he tell you where to find it?

Mrs. C. Oh yes! he says that fellow has it, and I must go to law and get it, if he will not give it up. What do you think of that?

Friend. It is precisely what any fool could have told you. But how much did you pay for this precious information?

Mrs. C. Only five dollars.

Friend. How much was the ring worth?

Mrs. C. Why, two dollars, at least.

Friend. Then you have paid ten dollars for a chaise to bring you here, five dollars for the information that you had already, and all this to gain possession of a ring not worth one quarter of the expense!

Mrs. C. Oh, the rascal! how he has cheated me! I will go to the world's end but I will be revenged.

Friend. You had better go home, and say nothing about it; for every effort to recover your money, will only expose your folly.

QUESTIONS.—1. What had Mrs. Credulous said, by which the fortune-teller knew all the circumstances relative to the loss of her ring? 2. How was she told she must get her ring? 3. What did she pay the fortune-teller? 4. How much for the chaise? 5. What was her ring worth? 6. Was she a bright dame?

* * * * *

LESSON LXVII.

UN FAL' TER ING, steady. CON FID' ING LY, trustingly. SOOTH' ING LY, tenderly, calmly. AL LUR'ING, seductive; flattering. AP PRO' PRI ATE, proper; peculiar. SUB MIS' SION, resignation. IN' VA LID, sick or infirm person. CON TENT' MENT, satifaction. MEA' GER, scanty. CON' FI DENCE, faith; reliance. AS SUAG' ED, relieved; mitigated. FER' VEN CY, heat; ardent feeling. RA DI A TION luster. FRU I' TION, realization; enjoyment.

FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.—AN ALLEGORY.

[Footnote: AL' LE GO RY is a word of Greek origin. It is made up of two parts; ALL, other; and EGORY, discourse; the literal meaning of the compound being, discourse about other things; that is, things other than those expressed by the words, literally interpreted. Allegory is, therefore, the general name for that class of compositions, as Fables, Apologues, Parables, and Myth, in which there is a double signification, one literal and the other figurative; the literal being designed merely to give a more clear and impressive view of that which is figurative.]

1. Many years ago, three beautiful sisters came into our world to lighten the burdens of earth's toiling pilgrims, and aid them in preparation for a higher state of existence. Alike commissioned by the Great Father, they were sent on errands of mercy, and were not to turn away from scenes of darkness, sorrow, and suffering.

2. FAITH had a firm, unfaltering step; HOPE, a beaming eye, ever turned to the future; and LOVE, a pitying glance, and a helping hand. They journeyed confidingly together; and when they found a stricken being in danger of perishing by the wayside, FAITH soothingly whispered, "My Father doeth all things well;" HOPE pointed to the cooling shade just in advance; and LOVE assisted him to rise, and aided his feeble steps.

3. Groups of fair children played near the path in which they were traveling. Some of these did not understand the tones of FAITH; but they all listened eagerly to the alluring strains of HOPE, who painted brighter scenes than those they were enjoying, and flowers more fragrant than any they yet had gathered. LOVE delighted to linger with the youthful band, lessening their trials, and increasing their pleasures.

4. Her gentle touch arrested the little hand that was lifted against a playmate, and her soothing voice calmed the angry passions which were swelling in the bosom. When a child stumbled in the way, she tenderly raised it up again, or when a thorn pierced the unwary finger, she kindly removed it, and bound up the bleeding wound.

5. While the sisters were busy in their appropriate mission, a pale-cheeked lad mingled with the group of merry children, though too weak to share their sports. FAITH stole to his side, and whispered of the great Parent above, who afflicts in wisdom, and chastens in love. His eye brightened while she spoke, and he looked upward with that trust and submission which he had never before experienced.

6. Then HOPE came, with visions of returning health, when his frame would be strong and his heart buoyant. But when HOPE and FAITH were gone, again his head drooped, and the tear started. Then LOVE sat down by the invalid, twining a garland of summer blossoms for his pale brow, and singing sweet melodies which charmed his listening ear. The pain was all gone now; smiles wreathed his pallid lips, and the sick boy laughed as merrily as his more robust companions.

7. The sisters, in their journeyings, entered the abode of poverty. It was a humble dwelling, and yet it looked cheerful, yea, even inviting, when the three graced it with their presence. FAITH shed a spirit of calm contentment and heavenly trust in those lowly walls; HOPE whispered of the better mansions prepared for the followers of the Lamb; and LOVE, not less exalted than her sisters, threw a charm over the meager fare and scanty attire of the inmates. FAITH taught them to offer the daily prayer in trusting confidence; HOPE pointed beyond this world to joys which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard; while LOVE lessened each burden, and increased each simple pleasure. FAITH, HOPE, and CHARITY! ye, indeed, can make a paradise of the humblest home!

8. There was a darkened chamber, with a wan form tossing restlessly upon the couch. Wealth was there; but it could not allay pain, or prolong life. FAITH, noiseless as a spirit form, glided to the sick one's side. "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him," was her language, as she pointed upward. HOPE fain would have whispered of length of days, but she knew this could not be; so she spoke of life eternal, where there is no more pain. Then LOVE smoothed the pillow, and bathed the fevered brow, pausing not in her tender ministries through the night-watches. When morning dawned, the spirit of the sick man passed away, though not until FAITH, and HOPE, and LOVE had assuaged the anguish of the parting pang.

9. Weeping mourners gathered around the dead. There were tears,—for "tears well befit earth's partings;" there was sorrow,—for what bitterness is like unto that of the bereaved, when the grave opens to infold the heart's best treasure? Yet FAITH, and HOPE, and LOVE were there, assuaging those tears, and mitigating that sorrow. FAITH, even while her cheeks were wet, exclaimed, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

10. HOPE'S language was, "Not lost, but gone before;" and her eye, having lost none of its brightness, saw with prophetic vision a reunion yet to come. LOVE tenderly wiped away each gathering tear, and gave deeper fervency to the trusting confidence of FAITH, and the inspiring strains of HOPE. And when the sleeper was committed to the dust, these gentle sisters lingered in the lonely house, and by the darkened hearth.

11. Such are FAITH, HOPE, and CHARITY,—given by God to lighten human sorrow, and bless the creatures He has made. They have each a mission to fulfill,—different, it is true, and yet they move in harmony. FAITH enables us to submit trustingly to daily trials, viewing a kind Father's hand in each passing event. HOPE, when the sky is dark, and the path thorny, points not only to fairer scenes below, but to that brighter world where there is no night and no sorrow.

12. LOVE lightens every burden, and reflects upon earth a faint radiation of heavenly blessedness,—for the Scriptures assure us that "God is love: and every one that loveth is born of God." The time will come when, the purposes of the wise Creator being accomplished, Faith and Hope will cease. Faith will be lost in sight, Hope in fruition; but Love will remain, binding the spirits of the redeemed in blissful communion, and uniting them to God the Father and Christ the Elder Brother.

13. Faith, Hope, and Charity! blessed spirits! May they be inmates of every heart! May they assist each of us in the peculiar trials which none can know but ourselves! They will come to us if we seek their presence; but they must be carefully nurtured. Let us cherish them in our bosoms, and they will bless us constantly in our pilgrimage below, and conduct us to the presence of our God.

* * * * *

LESSON LXVIII.

TRANSPORT' ED, highly delighted. THREAT' EN ING, impending. COR' O NAL, crown; chaplet. MYR' I AD, innumerable. LUS' CIOUS, delicious. LUS TY, strong; vigorous. WAR' BLING, singing; caroling. CHURL, sour, surly man. RE FRESH', cool; make fresh. LAN' GUID, dull; sluggish. DROUTH' Y, dry; arid. SUS TAIN', uphold; support. UN GRUDG'ING, free-hearted; liberal. NIG GARD, miser; stingy person.

"NOT TO MYSELF ALONE."

S.W. PARTRIDGE.

1. "Not to myself alone," The little opening flower transported cries. "Not to myself alone I bud and bloom; With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume, And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes. The bee comes sipping, every eventide, His dainty fill; The butterfly within my cup doth hide From threatening ill."

2. "Not to myself alone," The circling star with honest pride doth boast, "Not to myself alone I rise and set; I write upon night's coronal of jet His power and skill who formed our myriad host; A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate, I gem the sky. That man might ne'er forget, in every fate, His home on high."

3. "Not to myself alone," The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum, "Not to myself alone, from flower to flower, I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower, And to the hive at evening weary come; For man, for man, the luscious food I pile With busy care, Content if he repay my ceaseless toil With scanty share."

4. "Not to myself alone," The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings, "Not to myself alone I raise my song; I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue, And bear the mourner on my viewless wings; I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn, And God adore; I call the worldling from his dross to turn, And sing and scar."

5. "Not to myself alone," The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way, "Not to myself alone I sparkling glide; I scatter health and life on every side, And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay. I sing unto the common, bleak and bare, My gladsome tune; I sweeten and refresh the languid air In droughty June."

6. "Not to myself alone:"— O man, forget not thou,—earth's honored priest, Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart,— In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part! Chiefest of guests at Love's ungrudging feast, Play not the niggard; spurn thy native clod, And self disown; Live to thy neighbor; live unto thy God; Not to thyself alone!

QUESTIONS.—1. What things are mentioned, that contribute to our comfort and happiness? 2. How does the suffix less, affect the meaning of the words cease, view, hymn, &c.? 3. What is the meaning of the suffixes let and et, in the words streamlet and floweret? See SANDERS & McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS, page 140, Ex. 185 and 187.

* * * * *

LESSON LXIX.

NURS'ING, nourishing; cherishing. AB HOR', detest; loathe. RE LI' ED, depended. FRA TER' NAL, brotherly. SU PER' NAL, heavenly. COM BINE', unite; join together. RE HEARS' AL, recital; repetition. BIG' OT RY, blind zeal; prejudice. SHEATHE, put in a sheath. U NI VERS AL, general. CUS TOM, practice; usage. TAL' ENT, natural ability. AF FECT'ING, making false show. IS' O LATE, separate; detach.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

W.H. COBB.

1. If men cared less for wealth and fame, And less for battle-fields and glory,— If writ in human hearts a name Seemed better than in song and story,— If men instead of nursing pride, Would learn to hate it and abhor it,— If more relied On love to guide,— The world would be the better for it.

2. If men dealt less in stocks and lands, And more in bonds and deeds fraternal,— If Love's work had more willing hands To link this world to the supernal,— If men stored up Love's oil and wine, And on bruised human hearts would pour it,— If "yours" and "mine" Would once combine,— The world would be the letter for it.

3. If more would act the play of Life, And fewer spoil it in rehearsal,— If Bigotry would sheathe his knife Till Good became more universal,— If Custom, gray with ages grown, Had fewer blind men to adore it,— If talent shone In Truth alone,— The world would be the better for it.

4. If men were wise in little things, Affecting less in all their dealings,— If hearts had fewer rusted strings To isolate their kindly feelings,— If men, when Wrong beats down the Right, Would strike together and restore it,— If Right made Might In every fight,— The world would be the letter for it.

* * * * *

LESSON LXX.

In reading these antithetic sentences, an excellent effect may be produced by dividing the class equally into two parts, and letting one part read, in concert, the line marked 1st Voice, and the other part, the line marked 2d Voice; or, one pupil may read one line, and the next pupil the other, alternately.

SELECT PROVERBS OF SOLOMON.

1st Voice. A wise son maketh a glad father; 2d Voice, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother.

1 V. Treasures of wickedness profit nothing; 2 V. but righteousness delivereth from death.

1 V. He becometh poor, that dealeth with a slack hand; 2 V. but the hand of the diligent maketh rich.

1 V. Blessings are upon the head of the just; 2 V. but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.

1 V. The memory of the just is blessed; 2 V. but the name of the wicked shall rot.

1 V. The wise in heart will receive commandment; 2 V. but a prating fool shall fall.

1 V. He that walketh uprightly, walketh surely; 2 V. but he that perverteth his ways, shall be known.

1 V. Wise men lay up knowledge; 2 V. but the mouth of the wicked is near destruction.

1 V. He is in the way of life, that keepeth instruction; 2 V. but he that refuseth reproof, erreth.

1 V. It is as sport to a fool to do mischief; 2 V. but a man of understanding hath wisdom.

1 V. The fear of the Lord prolongeth days; 2 V. but the years of the wicked shall be shortened.

1 V. The hope of the righteous shall be gladness; 2 V. but the expectation of the wicked shall perish.

1 V. The righteous shall never be removed; 2 V. but the wicked shall not inhabit the earth.

1 V. The mouth of the just bringeth forth wisdom; 2 V. but the froward tongue shall be cut out.

1 V. A false balance is an abomination to the Lord; 2 V. but a just weight is his delight.

1 V. Riches profit not in the day of wrath; 2 V. but righteousness delivereth from death.

1 V. The righteousness of the perfect shall direct his way; 2 V. but the wicked shall fall by his own wickedness.

1 V. By the blessing of the upright the city is exalted; 2 V. but it is overthrown by the mouth of the wicked.

1 V. Where no counsel is, the people fall, 2 V. but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.

1 V. He that diligently seeketh good, procureth favor; 2 V. but he that seeketh mischief, it shall come unto him.

1 V. The righteous man regardeth the life of his beast; 2 V. but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.

1 V. The lip of truth shall be established forever; 2 V. but a lying tongue is but for a moment.

1 V. Lying lips are abomination to the Lord; 2 V. but they that deal truly are His delight.

1 V. The hand of the diligent shall bear rule; 2 V. but the slothful shall be under tribute.

1 V. A wise son heareth his father's instruction; 2 V. but a scorner heareth not rebuke.

1 V. He that keepeth his mouth, keepeth his life; 2 V. but he that openeth wide his lips, shall have destruction.

1 V. A scorner seeketh wisdom, and findeth it not; 2 V. but knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth.

1 V. There is a way which seemeth right unto a man; 2 V. but the end thereof are the ways of death.

1 V. A wise man feareth, and departeth from evil; 2 V. but the fool rageth, and is confident.

1 V. The poor is hated even of his neighbor; 2 V. but the rich hath many friends.

1 V. He that oppresseth the poor, reproacheth his Maker; 2 V. but he that honoreth Him, hath mercy on the poor.

1 V. He that is slow to wrath, is of great understanding; 2 V. but he that is hasty in spirit, exalteth folly.

1 V. A soft answer turneth away wrath; 2 V. but grievous words stir up anger.

1 V. He that walketh with wise men, shall be wise; 2 V. but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.

1 V. Counsel in the heart of man is like deep water; 2 V. but a man of understanding will draw it out.

1 V. The wicked is driven away in his wickedness; 2 V. but the righteous hath hope in his death.

* * * * *

LESSON LXXI.

IM PRES' SION, idea; notion. AT TRAC' TIONS, allurements. SA TI' E TY, excessive fullness. SAT' ED, glutted; satiated. PAM' PER ED, over-fed. SUC' CU LENT, full of sap; juicy. UM BRA' GEOUS, shady. GOR' GEOUS, showy; brilliant. DREAR' I NESS, gloominess. REG' IS TER, record; note down. SUG GEST' IVE, giving signs. DEC LA RA' TION, announcement. EX TREM' I TIES, ends. DRA' PER Y, hangings; decorations. EN CHANT' MENT, charms; fascination. FRET' TED, furnished with frets, of ornamental raised work. DEC O RA' TIONS, adornments.

[Headnote 1: AR' A BESQUES, is a word, denoting ornaments after the Arabian manner, often intricate and fantastic, from the intermingling of foliage, fruits, &c., with other objects real or imaginary.]

WINTER BEAUTY.

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

1. It is the impression of many, that only in summer, including spring and autumn, of course, is the country desirable as a residence. The country in summer, and the city for the winter. It is true, that the winter gives attractions to the city, in endless meetings, lectures, concerts, and indoor amusements; but it is not true that the country loses all interest when the leaves are shed and the grass is gone. On the contrary, to one who has learned how to use his senses and his sensibilities, there are attractions in the winter of a peculiar kind, and pleasures which can be reaped only then.

2. It appears to me, that winter comes in to relieve the year of satiety. The mind grows sated with greenness. After eight or nine months of luxuriant growths, the eye grows accustomed to vegetation. To be sure, we never are less pleased with the wide prospect; with forms of noble trees, with towns and meadows, and with the whole aspect of nature. But it is the pleasure of one pampered. We lose the keen edge of hunger. The eye enjoys, without the relish of newness. We expect to enjoy. Every thing loses surprise.

3. Of course, the sky is blue, the grass succulent, the fields green, the trees umbrageous, the clouds silent and mysterious. They were so yesterday, they are so to-day, they will be so to-morrow, next week, next month. In short, the mind does not cease to feel the charm of endless growths; but needs variety, change of diet, less of perpetual feasting, and something of the blessings of a fast. This winter gives. It says to us: You have had too much. You are luxurious and dainty. You need relief and change of diet.

4. The cold blue of the sky, the cold gray of rocks, the sober warmth of browns and russets, take the place of more gorgeous colors. If, now, one will accept this change in the tone of nature, after a time a new and relishful pleasure arises. The month formed by the last fortnight of November and the first two weeks of December, is, to me, the saddest of the year. It most nearly produces the sense of desolateness and dreariness of any portion of the year.

5. From the hour that the summer begins to shorten its days, and register the increasing change along the horizon, over which the sun sets, farther and farther toward the south, we have a genial and gentle sadness. But sadness belongs to all very deep joys. It is almost as needful to the perfectness of joy, as shadows in landscapes are to the charm of the picture. Then, too, comes the fading out of flowers,—each variety in its turn, saying, "Farewell till next summer."

6. Scarcely less suggestive of departing summer are the new-comers, the late summer golden-rod, the asters, and all autumnal flowers. Long experience teaches us that these are the latest blossoms that fall from the sun's lap, and next to them is snow. By association we already see white in the yellow and blue. Then, too, birds are thinking of other things. No more nests, no more young, no more songs,—except signal-notes and rallying-calls; for they are evidently warned, and go about their little remaining daily business, as persons who expect every hour to depart to a distant land.

7. It is scarcely ever that we see the birds go. They are here to-day, and gone to-morrow. They disappear without observation. The fields are empty and silent. It seems as if the winds had blown them away with the leaves. The first sight of northern waterfowl, far up in the air, retreating from Labrador and the short, Arctic summer, is always to us like the declaration: "Summer is gone; winter is behind us; it will soon be upon you." At last come the late days of November. All is gone,—frosts reap and glean more sharply every night.

8. A few weeks bring earnest winter. Then begin to dawn other delights. The bracing air, the clean snow-paths, the sled and sleigh, the revelation of forms that all summer were grass-hidden; the sharp-outlined hills lying clear upon the sky; the exquisite tracery of trees,—especially of all such trees as that dendral child of God, the elm, whose branches are carried out into an endless complexity of fine lines of spray, and which stands up in winter, showing in its whole anatomy, that all its summer shade was founded upon the most substantial reality.

9. In winter, too, particularly in the latter periods of it, the extremities of shrubs and branches begin to take on ruddy hues, or purplish browns, and the eye knows that these are the first faint blushes of coming summer. Now, too, we find how beautiful are the mosses in the woods; and under them we find solitary green leaves, that have laughed all winter because they had outwitted the frost.

10. Wherever flowing springs gush from sheltered spots looking south, one will find many green edges, young grass, and some few tougher leaves. Now, too, in still days, the crow swings heavily through the air, cawing with a pleasing harshness. For dieting has performed its work. Your appetite is eager. A little now pleases you more than abundance did in August. Every tiny leaf is to you like a cedar of Lebanon.

11. All these things are unknown to dwellers in cities. It is nothing to them that a robin appeared for the first time yesterday morning, or that a blue-bird sang over against the house. Some new prima-donna [Footnote: The first female singer in an opera.] exhausts their admiration. They are yet studying laces, and do not care for the of swamps, for the first catkins of the willow. They are still coveting the stores of precious stones at the jewelers, and do not care for my ruby buds, and red dogwood, and scarlet winter berries, and ground pine, and partridge-berry leaves.

12. There is one sight of the country, at about this time of the year—the first of March—that few have seen, or else they have passed it by as if it were not worthy of record. I mean the drapery of rocks in gorges, or along precipitous sides of hills or mountains. The seams of rocks are the outlets of springs. The water, trickling through, is seized by the frost, and held fast in white enchantment. Every day adds to the length of the ice drapery; and, as the surface is overlaid by new issuings, it is furred and fretted with silver-white chasings, the most exquisite.

13. Thus, one may find a succession, in a single gorge, of extraordinary ice-curtains, and pendent draperies, of varying lengths, of every fantastic form, of colors varying by thickness, or by the tinge of earth or rock shining through them. In my boyhood, I used to wander along these fairy halls, imagining them to be now altars in long, white draperies; now, grand cathedral pillars of white marble; then, long tapestries chased in white, with arabesques [Headnote 1] and crinkled vines and leaves.

14. Sometimes they seemed like gigantic bridal decorations, or like the robes of beings vast and high, hung in their wardrobes while they slept. But, whatever fancy interpreted them, or whether they were looked upon with two good, sober, literal eyes, they were, and still are, among the most delightful of winter exhibitions, to those who are wise enough to search out the hidden beauty of winter in the country.

QUESTIONS.—1. What are some of the attractions of winter in the city? 2. What are some of the delights of winter in the country? 3. What is said of the drapery of rocks? 4. What did the writer imagine them to be, in boyhood?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXII.

UN SUL' LIED, pure; clear. PHE NOM' E NON, appearance. TRANS PAR' EN CY, clearness. AS TON' ISH ING, amazing. RAM I FI CA' TION, branch, or branching out. IN DE SCRIB' A BLY, beyond description. MA JES' TIC, grand. OC CA' SION AL, occurring at times. IM PRESS'IVE, powerful; effective. IN TER SECT' ING, meeting and crossing. PEN' E TRA TING, piercing. E' THER, thin or refined air. CON GEAL' ED, frozen. BUR' NISH ING, brightening. EN GEN' DER ED, produced. EM' BLEM, symbol. CON TEM PLA' TION, meditation. EL E VA' TION, loftiness.

FROSTED TREES.

1. "Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, Or winds begun their hazy skies to blow, At evening, a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view The face of Nature in a rich disguise, And brightened every object to my eyes. For every shrub, and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass."

2. Since Sunday, [Feb. 1st, 1852,] we have had presented to our view, the beautiful phenomenon of FROSTED TREES, the most astonishing and brilliant that I ever remember to have noticed. The previous storm and mist had thickly covered every exposed object,—the loftiest trees, the minutest blade, hill and dale, with the icy garment. This transparency was most perfect, defining every form and ramification into exact models of the entire body, branch, or limb.

3. Dwellings and barns were incrusted by the chilling vapor. It hung upon the manes of the cattle, and decorated, wherever seen, the humble grass, which appeared bending, like threads of crystal. The small bushes were indescribably beautiful, and seemed as if chiseled out of the whitest marble. As far as the eye could extend, over brooks, fields, and woods, the same striking and singular sight was universal.

4. I could not remain contented in the house, and toward sunset, hastened away, where the view might be free and uninterrupted. Here, the scene, if possible, was more impressive and interesting. There was scarcely a breath of air, and the general silence was only interrupted by the occasional flight of some winter bird, which, alighting on a limb, would shake down a thousand feathery showers, until he seemed frightened at the unusual sound. The forest trees made a truly majestic appearance, with their naked, giant arms and mossy branches intersecting each other, and fast bound by the frozen barriers.

5. I shall not attempt to describe the brilliancy of the undergrowth and dwarf trees, upon whose limbs hung a delicate frosting, like unwrought silver, nor the crimson glow of the holly-berries through their transparent and icy covering,—all, all was a dazzling and splendid winter array,

"That buries wide the works of man."

It brought to my mind some of the Eastern fairy tales, and their gardens ornamented with shrubs and plants of sparkling crystals.

6. The exposed sides of the rocks and fences were completely iced over, not the smallest particle escaping the penetrating and congealed ether. It was truly astonishing to examine its thickness. On some twigs, not larger than a wheat straw, the ice measured half an inch through. One would scarcely imagine what an immense weight of the frozen mass a tree will sustain, before it breaks under the unusual load. Many branches were bent so low that I could reach them with my hands; and, shaking off their frosted barks, they would instantly spring far above my reach. Every few minutes, I was startled by the rattling noise of these falling icicles from some neighboring tree or grove.

7. Just when the sun went down, there was not a single cloud to be seen in the horizon, and his cold, bright, setting rays brought out, on every hand, frozen gems, diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, in every possible prismatic beauty, wherever his departing beams fell. Presently the moon bathed the whitened earth, and every congealed drop, in her soft light, burnishing, with dazzling icy brilliancy, trees, dwellings, and streams. I am an ardent lover of Nature and her scenery, and have often, delighted, gazed upon the Queen of Night; but never did I behold such a brilliant moonlight night as this.

8. Who could help bringing to mind the sublimities of Job and of David,—"The hoary frost of heaven, who hath engendered it? The waters are hid, as with a stone, and the face of the deep is frozen."—"By the breath of the Mighty God, ice is produced, and the waters which were spread on all sides, are held in chains." The Psalmist says, "He giveth the snow like wool, He scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."—Well may poets look to the falling snow-flake for their images of purity and innocence, ere it receives the stain of earth. I know of no litter emblem.

9. Such a winter's night! and the skies! the skies! So resplendent in brightness are the hosts of heaven at this moment, that they should be contemplated by every lover and student of the works of God. Their numbers who can count,—their twinkling beauty who can describe, as onward they roll in the deep blue of midnight? In their contemplation are inspired "thoughts that wander through eternity," with an elevation of feeling, as if we were separated from the toils and tumults of earth, and exalted into a higher state of being than that in which we toiled through the day! These heavens tell us of a WISDOM and POWER we can not search or estimate. There we seem to stand more immediately in the vailed presence of the Infinite Majesty, who "laid the foundations of the earth, when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."

QUESTIONS.—1. Describe the appearance of frosted trees. 2. What is said of the appearance of shrubs, bushes, &c.? 3. What, of the weight sustained by a single tree? 4. What was the appearance at sunset? 5. What passages of Scripture did the scene bring to mind? 6. Of what is the snowflake an emblem? 7. What is said of the skies?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXIII.

SPLEN' DOR, brightness; glory. E TER' NAL LY, everlastingly. WAY'-WEA RY, tired; fatigued. GAZE, eager look. EV' ER GREEN, always green. LONG' ED, earnestly desired. RE POSE, rest; quietude. RAN' SOM ED, redeemed. PAL' ACE, mansion; abode. UN CEAS' ING LY, constantly.

THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE.

JAMES G. CLARK.

1. There's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told, Where they know not the sorrows of time,— Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, And life is a treasure sublime; 'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, Where the ages of splendor eternally roll,— Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal, On the evergreen Mountains of Life.

2. Our gaze can not soar to that beautiful land, But our visions have told of its bliss; And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned, When we faint in the desert of this; And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes, And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows From the evergreen Mountains of Life.

3. Oh! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night, But we think where the ransomed have trod; And the day never smiles from his palace of light, But we feel the bright smile of our God. We are traveling homeward, through changes and gloom, To a kingdom where pleasures unceasingly bloom, And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb, From the evergreen Mountains of Life.

QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of that land far away? 2. How do we know there is such a land? 3. Of what do the stars remind us?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXIV.

IM AG' IN A RY, not real. AN TIC' I PATE, take beforehand. PRE FER' RED, chosen. OC CUR' RED, happened. SUS TAIN', support; uphold. PER MIT', allow. IN VIS' I BLE, unseen. EN CHAIN', bind; fasten. FORE BOD' ING, dread of evil. IN VEN' TION, contrivance. CON FER' RED, bestowed. AP PRE HEN' SION, dread; fear.

IMAGINARY EVILS.

CHARLES SWAIN.

1. Let to-morrow take care of to-morrow; Leave things of the future to fate; What's the use to anticipate sorrow? Life's troubles come never too late. If to hope overmuch be an error, 'Tis one that the wise have preferred; And how often have hearts been in terror Of evils that never occurred.

2. Have faith, and thy faith shall sustain thee; Permit not suspicion and care With invisible bonds to enchain thee, But bear what God gives thee to bear. By His Spirit supported and gladdened, Be ne'er by forebodings deterred; But think how oft hearts have been saddened By fears of what never occurred!

3. Let to-morrow take care of to-morrow; Short and dark as our life may appear, We may make it still darker by sorrow, Still shorter by folly and fear; Half our troubles are half our invention, And often from blessings conferred, Have we shrunk in the wild apprehension Of evils that never occurred!

QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of imaginary evils? 2. How may we be supported under trials? 3. What tends to shorten life? 4. Whence proceed half our troubles? 5. What rule for doubling the r and d in such words as occurred, saddened, &c.? See SANDERS' NEW SPELLER, page 168, Rule II.

* * * * *

LESSON LXXV.

WASTE, desolate region. PRO CEED', come forth. CHASM, gap; opening. COILS, folds; convolutions. MAN I FEST, plain; evident. PRE SERV' ER, protector. AL LE' GI ANCE, duty; loyalty. RAY, make bright; adorn. EX PAND, swell; dilate. FA' THER LAND, native land. GUER DON, reward; recompense. PROF' FER, offer; tender. PIT' E OUS, mournful; sorrowful. IM PET' U OUS LY, furiously.

AT TRACT', (AT, to; TRACT, draw;) draw to; allure.

IN VEST', (IN, to; VEST, clothe;) clothe in or with; inclose; surround.

PRO TEST, (PRO, before; TEST, witness;) witness before; openly declare.

[Headnote 1: PY THON is the name of a large serpent, fabled to have been slain by the god Apollo.]

SIR WALTER AND THE LION.

A. WALCHNER.

1. Sir Walter of Thurn, over the Syrian waste, Rides away with a flowing rein; But he hears a groan that checks his haste, As if death were in the strain. He spurs his steed Whence the sounds proceed; And there, from a rocky chasm, arise Fierce cries of pain, that assail the skies; And his horse uprears In excess of fears, As the glance of a lion attracts his eyes.

2. Fierce struggling there in the monster folds Of a serpent that round him twines; Sir Walter a moment the scene beholds, Then to save the beast inclines. His good sword stout From its sheath leaps out, When down it falls on the Python's [Headnote 1] crest, And cleaves the coils that the lion invest; And the noble beast, From its thrall released, Shows grateful joy most manifest.

3. He shakes his mane, and bends his form, And licks his preserver's hand, As if he yields allegiance warm To his supreme command. Like the faithful hound To be constant found, And follow his steps for evermore; And thus he follows, on sea and shore, In the battle's tide, He stands by his side, Or with him rests when the strife is o'er.

4. In Palestine Sir Walter is known,— Long years attest his fame; And many brave deeds he there hath done, That ray with glory his name; But his heart doth expand For the fatherland, And he fain its pleasant scenes would see, With his friendly lion for company; But with fearful breast, The sailors protest, As they glanced at the beast and his majesty.

5. Rich guerdon he proffers, and golden store; But though the prize were great, The sailors hurry away from the shore As if from the doom of fate. The poor beast moans In piteous tones, Then darts impetuously o'er the sands,— Then looks to the ship, and mournfully stands; Then plunges into the gloomy wave, The perils of the depths to brave. Already he nears the flying bark, Already his roar of grief they hark; But his strength is spent, and the sea is strong, And he may not the fearful struggle prolong. His dying glances are fondly cast Along the track where the loved one passed; Then sinks to his grave Beneath the wave, And the night and the ocean behold him the last.

QUESTIONS.—1. What did Sir Walter discover as he was riding over the Syrian waste? 2. What did he do? 3. What did the lion do, after being released? 4. Did the sailors allow the lion to go on board the ship? 5. What did the lion then do? 6. What became of him?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXVI.

VAL' IANT, strong; courageous, INC LI NA' TION, desire; tendency. RE PLEN' ISH ED, filled up. DIS SEV' ER, part; sunder. SHIV' ER, dash to pieces. EC STAT' IC, rapturous. CON CLU' SION, result. CON CEP' TION, thought; idea. DEF' ER ENCE, respect. PHYS I CAL, material. AR' RANT, mere; vile. TIME'-BAN DI ED, time-lost. DE VEL' OP ED, brought out. CON STEL LA' TIONS, clusters of stars. DE SIGN ED, planned. COM BIN' ED, united.

UNINTERRUPTED, (UN, not; INTER, in between; RUPTED, broken;) not broken in between; unbroken.

It is sometimes desirable to have each member of the class read a piece complete in itself. To answer this end, the following collection of brief, though beautiful productions, have been brought together all under one head.

CHOICE EXTRACTS.

I.

WHAT REALLY BENEFITS US.

It is not what we earn, but what we save, that makes us rich. It is not what we eat, but what we digest, that makes us strong. It is not what we read, but what we remember, that makes us learned. It is not what we intend, but what we do, that makes us useful. It is not a few faint wishes, but a life-long struggle, that makes us valiant.

II.

GOD'S LOVE.

There's not a flower that decks the vale, There's not a beam that lights the mountain, There's not a shrub that scents the gale, There's not a wind that stirs the fountain, There's not a hue that paints the rose, There's not a leaf around us lying, But in its use or beauty shows God's love to us, and love undying!

III.

LIFE-WORK.

To acquire a thorough knowledge of our own hearts and characters, to restrain every irregular inclination, to subdue every rebellious passion, to purify the motives of our conduct, to form ourselves to that temperance which no pleasure can seduce, to that meekness which no provocation can ruffle, to that patience which no affliction can overwhelm, and that integrity which no interest can shake; this is the task which is assigned to us,—a task which can not be performed without the utmost diligence and care.

IV.

HUMILITY.

The brightest stars are burning suns; The deepest water stillest runs; The laden bee the lowest flies; The richest mine the deepest lies; The stalk that's most replenished, Doth bow the most its modest head. Thus, deep Humility we find The mark of every master-mind; The highest-gifted lowliest bends, And merit meekest condescends, And shuns the fame that fools adore,— That puff that bids a feather soar.

V.

BENEFITS OF ADVERSITY.

A smooth sea never made a skillful mariner. Neither do uninterrupted prosperity and success qualify man for usefulness or happiness. The storms of adversity, like the storms of the ocean, rouse the faculties and excite the invention, prudence, skill, and fortitude of the voyager.

VI.

OUR MOUNTAIN HOMES.

MRS. S.R.A. BARNES.

Why turn we to our mountain homes With more than filial feeling? 'Tis here that Freedom's altars rise, And Freedom's sons are kneeling! Why sigh we not for softer climes? Why cling to that which bore us? 'Tis here we tread on Freedom's soil, With Freedom's sunshine o'er us!

VII.

MAKE A BEGINNING.

If you do not begin, you will never come to the end. The first weed pulled up in the garden, the first seed set in the ground, the first dollar put in the savings-bank, and the first mile traveled on a journey, are all important things; they make a beginning, and thereby give a hope, a promise, a pledge, an assurance that you are in earnest in what you have undertaken. How many a poor, idle, erring, hesitating outcast is now creeping his way through the world, who might have held up his head and prospered, if, instead of putting off his resolutions of amendment and industry, he had only made a beginning!

VIII.

INFLUENCE.

GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

1. Drop follows drop, and swells With rain the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lives forever.

2. Flake follows flake, like sprites Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realm of mind forever.

3. Beam follows beam to cheer, The cloud a bolt might shiver; Throb follows throb, and fear Gives place to joy forever.

4. The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream Impress the soul forever.

IX.

PLEASURE IN ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE.

CAROLINE F. ORNE.

1. Note the ecstatic joy of the student, who has labored long over a problem or proposition, but finally comes to a logical conclusion; who has struggled with the misty darkness of his own mind, for a clear view of some difficult subject, until the clouds, one after another, have dispersed, and he beholds, with his mental vision, in bright and glorious light, the conception for which he labored. Think you he would exchange his joys for the pleasures of sense'? It is of a higher and more ennobling character, and not to be bartered for paltry wealth.

2. What dignity and self-respect invest the man of thought! His very looks bespeak of mind. He is approached with deference, as a being of higher order in the scale of intelligence,—as one who has a right to command and be obeyed. For what moves mind, but mind? A strong intellect, coming in contact with one of less energy, will as naturally move it, as superior physical strength will overcome the weaker.

X.

WHAT IS FAME?

MOTHERWELL.

What is glory'? What is fame'? The echo of a long-lost name'; A breath', an idle hour's brief talk'; The shadow of an arrant naught'; A flower that blossoms for a day', Dying next morrow'; A stream that hurries on its way, Singing of sorrow'; A fortune that to lose were gain'; A word of praise, perchance of blame'; The wreck of a time-bandied name'— Ay' this is glory'! this is fame'!

XI.

CULTIVATED INTELLECT.

Ah! well do we all know the worth of intelligence, the power of knowledge, and the beauty and glory of wisdom. It is educated manhood that wakes up the sleeping soil, covers the earth with good, that gathers in the golden harvest, that clothes the naked, that feeds the hungry. It is the cultivated mind that applies the strength of the ox and the fleetness of the horse; that bridges the river, that turns to use the flying winds, that makes the lightning its swift messenger, that makes beautiful palaces of dull clay, that rouses the dead ore to active life, that covers the sea with ships, and the land with mighty engines of wealth. It is the developed intellect that flies through the upper air, that mingles with the stars, that follows the moon in her course, that overtakes the constellations in their orbits, that weighs the sun, that measures the distance to the polar star. It is the enlightened soul that worships God.

XII.

GOD'S WORKS ATTEST HIS GREATNESS.

MRS. OPIE.

1. There's not a leaf within the bower; There's not a bird upon the tree; There's not a dew-drop on the flower, But bears the impress, Lord, of Thee.

2. Thy hand the varied leaf designed, And gave the bird its thrilling tone; Thy power the dewdrop's tints combined, Till like the diamond's blaze they shone.

3. Yes, dewdrops, leaves, and buds, and all The smallest, like the greatest things,— The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball, Alike proclaim Thee King of kings.

4. But man alone to bounteous Heaven, Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise; To favored man alone 'tis given To join the angelic choir in praise!

* * * * *

LESSON LXXVII.

MO NOT' O NOUS, dull; uniform. HAR POON', barbed spear. AG' I TA TED, disturbed. RE VER' BER ATES, rebounds; re-echoes. WRITHES, twists, or or turns in agony. CON TOR' TIONS, twistings; writhings. VE LOC' I TY, swiftness. IG NITES', takes fire. FRIC' TION, rubbing together. COILS, winds into a ring. PRO JECT' ED, thrown out or forward. VO CIF' ER A TED, shouted. IN FU' RI A TED, enraged. UN RE LENT' ING, unfeeling. CON VUL' SIONS, violent spasms. REN COUN' TER, fight; conflict.

CAPTURE OF THE WHALE.

1. Let the reader suppose himself on the deck of a South-seaman, cruising in the North Pacific ocean. He may be musing over some past event, the ship may be sailing gently along over the smooth ocean, every thing around solemnly still, with the sun pouring its intense rays with dazzling brightness. Suddenly the monotonous quietude is broken by an animated voice from the masthead, exclaiming, "There he spouts!"

2. The captain starts on deck in an instant, and inquires "Where away?" but, perhaps, the next moment every one aloft and on deck, can perceive an enormous whale lying about a quarter of a mile from the ship, on the surface of the sea, having just come up to breathe,—his large "hump" projecting three feet out of the water. At the end of every ten seconds, the spout is seen rushing from the fore part of his enormous head, followed by the cry of every one on board, who join in the chorus of "There again!" keeping time with the duration of the spout.

3. But, while they have been looking, a few seconds have expired. They rush into the boats, which are directly lowered to receive them; and in two minutes from the time of first observing the whale, three or four boats are down, and are darting through the water with their utmost speed toward their intended victim, perhaps accompanied with a song from the headsman, who urges the quick and powerful plying of the oar, with the common whaling chant of

"Away, my boys, away, my boys, 'tis time for us to go."

4. But, while they are rushing along, the whale is breathing; they have yet, perhaps, some distance to pull before they can get a chance of striking him with the harpoon. His "spoutings are nearly out," he is about to descend, or he hears the boats approaching. The few sailors left on board, and who are anxiously watching the whale and the gradual approach of the boats, exclaim, "Ah, he is going down!" Yet he spouts again, but slowly, the water is seen agitated around him; the spectators on board with breathless anxiety think they perceive him rising in preparation for his descent. "He will be lost!" they exclaim; for the boats are not yet near enough to strike him, and the men are still bending their oars in each boat with all their strength, to claim the honor of the first blow with the harpoon.

5. The bow-boat has the advantage of being the nearest to the whale; the others, for fear of disturbing the unconscious monster, are now ordered to drop astern. One more spout is seen slowly curling forth,—it is his last; but the boat shoots rapidly alongside of the gigantic creature. "Peak your oars!" exclaims the mate, and directly they flourish in the air; the glistening harpoon is seen above the head of the harpooner. In an instant it is darted with unerring force and aim, and is buried deeply in the side of the huge animal. It is "socket up;" that is, it is buried in his flesh up to the socket which admits the handle or pole of the harpoon.

6. A cheer from those in the boats, and from the seamen on board, reverberates along the still deep at the same moment. The sea, which a moment before was unruffled, now becomes lashed into foam by the immense strength of the wounded whale, which, with its vast tail, strikes in all directions at his enemies. Now his enormous head rises high into the air, then his flukes are seen lashing everywhere, his huge body writhes in violent contortions from the agony the harpoon has inflicted. The water all around him is a mass of foam, and the sounds of the blows from his tail on the surface of the sea, can be heard for miles!

7. "Stern all!" cries the headsman; but the whale suddenly disappears; he has "sounded;" the line is running through the groove at the head of the boat, with lightning-like velocity; it smokes; it ignites from the heat produced by the friction; but the headsman, cool and collected, pours water upon it as it passes. But an oar is now held up in their boat; it signifies that their line is rapidly running out; two hundred fathoms are nearly exhausted; up flies one of the other boats, and "bends on" another line, just in time to save that which was nearly lost.

8. But still the monster descends; he is seeking to rid himself of his enemies by descending deeply into the dark and unknown depths of the vast ocean. Two more lines are exhausted,—he is six hundred fathoms deep! "Stand ready to bend on!" cries the mate to the fourth boat; (for sometimes they take the whole four lines away with them,—eight hundred fathoms!!) but, it is not required, he is rising. "Haul in the slack!" observes the headsman, while the boat-steerer coils it again carefully into the tubs as it is drawn up.

9. The whale is now seen approaching the surface; the gurgling and bubbling water which rises, proclaims that he is near; his nose starts from the sea; the rushing spout is projected high and suddenly, from his agitation. The slack of the line is now coiled in the tubs, and those in the fast boat, haul themselves gently toward the whale. The boat-steerer places the headsman close to the fin of the trembling animal, who immediately buries his long lance in the vitals of the leviathan, while, at the same moment, those in one of the other boats, dart another harpoon into his opposite side. Then, "Stern all!" is again vociferated, and the boats shoot rapidly away from the danger.

10. Mad with the agony which he endures from these fresh attacks, the infuriated "sea monster" rolls over and over, and coils an amazing length of line around him. He rears his enormous head, and, with wide-expanded jaws, snaps at every thing around him. He rushes at the boats with his head,—they are propelled before him with vast swiftness, and sometimes utterly destroyed.

11. He is lanced again,—and his pain appears more than he can bear. He throws himself, in his agony, completely out of his element; the boats are violently jerked, by which one of the lines is snapped asunder; at the same time the other boat is upset, and its crew are swimming for their lives. The whale is now free! he passes along the surface with remarkable swiftness, "going head out;" but the two boats that have not yet "fastened," and are fresh and free, now give chase.

12. The whale becomes exhausted from the blood which flows from his deep and dangerous wounds, and the two hundred fathoms of line belonging to the overturned boat, which he is dragging after him through the water, checks him in his course; his pursuers again overtake him, and another harpoon is darted and buried deeply in his flesh.

13. The fatal lance is, at length, given; the blood gushes from the nostrils of the unfortunate animal in a thick, black stream, which stains the clear blue water of the ocean to a considerable distance around the scene of the affray. The immense creature may now again endeavor to "sound," to escape from his unrelenting pursuers; but he is powerless. He soon rises to the surface, and passes slowly along until the death-pang seizes him, when his appearance is awful in the extreme.

14. Suffering from suffocation, or from the stoppage of some important organ, the whole strength of his enormous frame is set in motion, for a few seconds, when his convulsions throw him into a hundred different contortions of the most violent description, by which the sea is beaten into foam, and boats are sometimes crushed to atoms, with their crews.

15. But this violent action being soon over, the now unconscious animal passes rapidly along, describing in his rapid course the segment of a circle; this is his "flurry," which ends in his sudden dissolution. The mighty rencounter is finished. The gigantic animal rolls over on his side, and floats an inanimate mass on the surface of the crystal deep,—a victim to the tyranny and selfishness, as well as a wonderful proof of the great power of the mind of man.

QUESTIONS.—1. How are whales generally discovered? 2. Why do they come to the surface of the water? 3. How far do they sometimes descend in the ocean? 4. Describe the manner in which they are captured.

* * * * *

LESSON LXXVIII.

A'ER O NAUT, one who sails in the air. RE DOUB LED, repeated. MAG NIF I CENT, grand; splendid. EL' E VA TED, raised; excited. GON' DO LA, small boat. BE GIRT', surrounded. RO TA RY, turning; revolving. IN TEN' SI TY, extreme degree. A' ER OS TAT, air-balloon. IN TER MI NA BLE, boundless. VA' RI E GA TED, diversified; varied. VERG' ING, tending; inclining. OB LIQUE' LY, slantingly. RES PI RA' TION, act of breathing. ZE' NITH, point in the heavens directly over head. MAN' DI BLES, jaws. EU ROC' LY DON, tempestuous wind.

LEAVES FROM AN AERONAUT.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

1. My hour had now come, and I entered the car. With a singular taste, the band struck up, at this moment, the melting air of "Sweet Home." It almost overcame me. A thousand associations of youth, friends, of all that I must leave, rushed upon my mind. But I had no leisure for sentiment. A buzz ran through the assemblage; unnumbered hands were clapping, unnumbered hearts beating high; and I was the cause. Every eye was upon me. There was pride in the thought.

2. "Let go!" was the word. The cheers redoubled; handkerchiefs waved from many a fair hand; bright faces beamed from every window, and on every side. One dash with my knife, and I rose aloft, a habitant of air. How magnificent was the sight which now burst upon me! How sublime were my sensations! I waved the flag of my country; the cheers of the multitude from a thousand housetops, reached me on the breeze; and a taste of the rarer atmosphere elevated my spirits into ecstasy.

3. The city, with a brilliant sunshine striking the spires and domes, now unfolded to view a sight incomparably beautiful. My gondola went easily upward, cleaving the depths of heaven like a vital thing. A diagram placed before you, on the table, could not permit you to trace more definitely than I now could, the streets, the highways, basins, wharves, and squares of the town. The hum of the city arose to my ear, as from a vast bee-hive; and I seemed the monarch-bee, directing the swarm.

4. I heard the rattling of carriages, the hearty yo-heavo-s! of sailors from the docks that, begirt with spars, hemmed the city round. I was a spectator of all, yet aloof, and alone. Increasing stillness attended my way; and, at last, the murmurs of earth came to my ear like the vast vibrations of a bell. My car tilted and trembled, as I rose. A swift wind sometimes gave the balloon a rotary motion, which made me deathly sick for a moment; but strong emotion conquered all my physical ailings.

5. My brain ached with the intensity of my rapture. Human sounds had fainted from my ear. I was in the abyss of heaven, and alone with my God. I could tell my direction by the sun on my left; and, as his rays played on the aerostat, it seemed only a bright bubble, wavering in the sky, and I, a suspended mote, hung by chance to its train. Looking below me, the distant Sound and Long Island appeared to the east; the bay lay to the south, sprinkled with shipping; under me, the city, girded with bright rivers and sparry forests.

6. The free wind was on my cheek, and in my locks; afar, the ocean rolled its long, blue waves, checkered with masses of shadow, and gushes of ruby sunlight; to the north and west, the interminable land, variegated like a map, dotted with purple, and green, and silver, faded to the eye. The atmosphere which I now breathed, seemed to dilate my heart at every breath. I uttered some audible expressions. My voice was weaker than the faintest sound of a reed. There was no object near to make it reverb or echo.

7. My barometer now denoted an immense hight; and, as I looked upward and around, the concave above seemed like a mighty waste of purple air, verging to blackness. Below, it was lighter; but a long, lurid bar of cloud stretched along the west, temporarily excluding the sun. The shadows rushed afar into the void, and a solemn, Sabbath twilight reigned around. I was now startled by a fluttering in my gondola. It was my carrier-pigeon. I had forgotten him entirely. I attached a string to his neck, with a label, announcing my hight, then nearly four miles, and the state of the barometer.

8. As he sat on the side of the car, and turned his tender eyes upon me in mute supplication, every feather shivering with apprehension, I felt that it was a guilty act to push him into the waste beneath. But it was done; he attempted to rise, but I out-sped him; he then fell obliquely, fluttering and moaning, till I lost him in the haze. My greatest altitude had not yet been reached. I was now five miles from terra firma. [Footnote: Solid earth.] I began to breathe with difficulty. The atmosphere was too rare for safe respiration.

9. I pulled my valve-cord to descend. It refused to obey my hand. For a moment I was horror-struck. What was to be done? If I ascended much higher, the balloon would explode. I threw over some tissue paper to test my progress. It is well known that this will rise very swiftly. It fell, as if blown downward by a wind from the zenith. I was going upward like an arrow. I attempted to pray, but my parched lips could not move. I seized the cord again, with desperate energy. Blessed Heaven! it moved.

10. I threw out more tissue. It rose to me like a wing of joy. I was descending. Though far from sunset, it was now dark about me, except a track of blood-red haze in the direction of the sun. I encountered a strong current of wind; mist was about me; it lay like dew upon my coat. At last, a thick bar of vapor being past, what a scene was disclosed! A storm was sweeping through the sky, nearly a mile beneath; and I looked down upon an ocean of rainbows, rolling in indescribable grandeur, to the music of the thunder-peal, as it moaned afar and near, on the coming and dying wind.

11. A frightened eagle had ascended through the tempest, and sailed for minutes by my side, looking at me with panting weariness, and quivering mandibles, but with a dilated eye, whose keen iris flashed unsubdued. Proud emblem of my country! As he fanned me with his heavy wing, and looked with a human intelligence at the car, my pulse bounded with exulting rapture. Like the genius of my native land, he had risen above every storm, unfettered and FREE.

12. But my transports were soon at an end. He attempted to light on the balloon, and my heart sunk; I feared his huge claws would tear the silk. I pulled my cord; he rose, as I sank, and the blast swept him from my view in a moment. A flock of wild-fowl, beat by the storm, were coursing below, on bewildered pinions; and, as I was nearing them, I knew I was descending. A breaking rift now admitted the sun. The rainbows tossed and gleamed; chains of fleecy rack, shining in prismatic rays of gold, and purple, and emerald, "beautiful exceedingly," spread on every hand.

13. Vast curtains of clouds pavilioned the immensity, brighter than celestial roses; masses of mist were lifted on high, like strips of living fire, more radiant than the sun himself, when his glorious noontide culminates from the equator. A kind of aerial Euroclydon now smote my car, and three of the cords parted, which tilted my gondola to the side, filling me with terror. I caught the broken cords in my hand, but could not tie them.

14. The storm below was now rapidly passing away, and beneath its waving outline, to the south-east, I saw the ocean. Ships were speeding on their course, and their bright sails melting into distance; a rainbow hung afar; and the rolling anthems of the Atlantic came like celestial hymnings to my ear. Presently all was clear below me. The fresh air played around. I had taken a noble circuit; and my last view was better than the first, I was far over the bay, "afloating sweetly to the west." The city, colored by the last blaze of day, brightened remotely to the view.

15. Below, ships were hastening to and fro through the Narrows, and the far country lay smiling like an Eden. Bright rivers ran like ribbons of gold and silver, till they were lost in the vast inland, stretching beyond the view; the gilded mountains were flinging their purple shadows over many a vale; bays were blushing to the farewell day-beams; and now I was passing over a green island. I sailed to the mainland; saw the tall, old trees waving to the evening breeze; heard the rural lowing of herds, and the welcome sound of human voices; and, finally, sweeping over forest-tops and embowered villages, at last, descended with the sun, among a kind-hearted, surprised, and hospitable community, in as pretty a town as one could desire to see, "safe and well."

QUESTIONS.—1. What demonstrations were made by the people as the aeronaut began to ascend? 2. How did the city and other objects appear to him? 3. What could he hear? 4. Describe the appearance of the ocean. 5. What did he do with his carrier-pigeon? 6. How high did he ascend? 7. Describe his descent. 8. What is said about the eagle that came near him? 9. Describe the appearance of the clouds beneath him.

* * * * *

LESSON LXXIX.

BOUN' TY, charity; favor. FRU' GAL, prudent; economical. FLOUR' ISH ED, thrived; prospered. DIS CHARG' ED, performed. BREED' ING, education. EM BRAC' ED, accepted. MAIN TAIN' ED, supported. TRUDG' ED, traveled. BE GUIL' ED, amused. LE' GAL, lawful. TWAIN, two. BE WITCH' ING, charming. YOUNK' ER, lad; youngster. MED' I TA TIVE, thoughtful. PRO VOK' ED, (PRO, forward, forth; VOKED, called;) called forth; excited. IN CLUDE', (IN, in; CLUDE, shut;) shut in; inclose. IN SERT', (IN, in; SERT, join, set;) join, or set in; put in.

THE DAPPLE MARE.

JOHN G. SAXE.

1. "Once on a time," as ancient tales declare, There lived a farmer in a quiet dell In Massachusetts, but exactly where, Or when, is really more than I can tell,— Except that quite above the public bounty, He lived within his means and Bristol county.

2. By patient labor and unceasing care, He earned, and so enjoyed, his daily bread; Contented always with his frugal fare, Ambition to be rich ne'er vexed his head; And thus unknown to envy, want, or wealth, He flourished long in comfort, peace, and health.

3. The gentle partner of his humble lot, The joy and jewel of his wedded life, Discharged the duties of his peaceful cot, Like a true woman and a faithful wife; Her mind improved by thought and useful reading, Kind words and gentle manners showed her breeding.

4. Grown old, at last, the farmer called his son, The youngest, (and the favorite I suppose,) And said,— "I long have thought, my darling John, 'Tis time to bring my labors to a close; So now to toil I mean to bid adieu, And deed, my son, the homestead-farm to you."

5. The boy embraced the boon with vast delight, And promised, while their precious lives remained, He'd till and tend the farm from morn till night, And see his parents handsomely maintained; God help him, he would never fail to love, nor Do aught to grieve his gen'rous old gov'nor.

6. The farmer said,—"Well, let us now proceed, (You know there's always danger in delay,) And get 'Squire Robinson to write the deed; Come,—where's my staff?—we'll soon be on the way." But John replied, with tender, filial care, "You're old and weak—I'll catch the Dapple Mare."

7. The mare was saddled, and the old man got on, The boy on foot trudged cheerfully along, The while, to cheer his sire, the duteous son Beguiled the weary way with talk and song. Arrived, at length, they found the 'Squire at home, And quickly told him wherefore they had come.

8. The deed was writ in proper form of law, With many a "foresaid," "therefore," and "the same," And made throughout without mistake or flaw, To show that John had now a legal claim To all his father's land—conveyed, given, sold, Quit-claimed, et cetera,[Footnote 1]—to have and hold.

9. Their business done, they left the lawyer's door, Happier, perhaps, than when they entered there; And started off as they had done before,— The son on foot, the father on the mare. But ere the twain a single mile had gone, A brilliant thought occurred to Master John.

10. Alas for truth!—alas for filial duty!— Alas that Satan in the shape of pride, (His most bewitching form save that of beauty,) Whispered the lad—"My boy, you ought to ride!" "Get off!" exclaimed the younker—"'t isn't fair That you should always ride the Dapple Mare!"

11. The son was lusty, and the sire was old, And so, with many an oath and many a frown, The hapless father did as he was told; The man got off the steed, the boy got on, And rode away as fast as she could trot, And left his sire to trudge it home on foot!

12. That night, while seated round the kitchen fire The household sat, cheerful as if no word Or deed, provoked the injured father's ire, Or aught to make him sad had e'er occurred,— Thus spoke he to his son: "We quite forgot, I think, t'include that little turnip lot!"

13. "I'm very sure, my son, it wouldn't hurt it," Calmly observed the meditative sire, "To take the deed, my lad, and just insert it;" Here the old man inserts it—in the fire! Then cries aloud with most triumphant air, "Who now, my son, shall ride the Dapple Mare?"

[Footnote 1: And so forth.]

QUESTIONS.—1. What proposition did the father make to his son? 2. What did the son promise to do? 3. How did the son treat his father after he got the deed? 4. What did the old gentleman do?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXX.

HARD' I HOOD, bravery. MAIN TRUCK, small cap at the top of a flagstaff or masthead. A GHAST', horrified. GROUPS, clusters; crowds. PAL' LID, pale. LU' RID, dismal; gloomy. HUE, color. RIV' ET TED, firmly fixed. FOLD' ED, embraced; clasped.

A LEAP FOR LIFE.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

1. Old Ironsides at anchor lay, (sl.) In the harbor of Mahon [Footnote 1]; A dead calm rested on the bay,— The waves to sleep had gone,— When little Jack,[Footnote 2] the captain's son, With gallant hardihood, Climbed shroud and spar,—and then upon The main-truck rose and stood!

2. A shudder ran through every vein,— All eyes were turned on high! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky! No hold had he above,—below, Alone he stood in air! At that far hight none dared to go,— No aid could reach him there.

3. We gazed,—but not a man could speak; With horror all aghast, In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast! The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue, As, riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew.

4. The father came on deck. He gasped, "O God, Thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son! "Jump far out, boy, into the wave! Jump, or I fire!" he said. "That only chance your life can save: ('') Jump! jump, boy!" He obeyed.

5. He sank,—he rose,—he lived,—he moved,— He for the ship struck out! On board we hailed the lad beloved With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, Then folded to his heart the boy, And fainted on the deck!

[Footnote 1: MA HON', (Ma hone,) a sea-port town on the island of Minorca, in the Mediterranean Sea.]

[Footnote 2: A name commonly applied to a young sailor.]

QUESTIONS.—1. What did the captain's son do, on board the Ironsides? 2. Describe his situation. 3. What is said of the officers and crew? 4. What did the father say and do? 5. What did the boy do?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXXI.

COM MIN' GLE, mix or unite. PE DES' TRI AN, traveler on foot. PROM' I NENT, important. TRAG' lC, fatal; mournful. NAR RATE', tell; relate. YORE, olden time. WI' LY, craft; cunning. RE LENT' LESS, hard-hearted; cruel. WIG' WAM, Indian hut or cabin. EM BARK' ED, went aboard. TWANG, quick, sharp sound. SPA' CIOUS, large; capacious. WA' RI LY, cautiously. MYS TE' RI OUS LY, strangely. OM' IN OUS, foreboding ill. IM PLA' CA BLE, relentless. UN TRACE' A BLE, (UN, not; TRACE, mark; ABLE, that can be;) that can not be marked, or traced; not found out.

THE INDIAN BRIDE'S REVENGE.

L.M. STOWELL.

1. In the State of New York, where the dark, foaming waters of the Black River, after roaring and surging through many pleasant fields, beautiful groves, and dense woodlands, commingle with the clear, cold waters of Lake Ontario, the wandering pedestrian or the lone fisherman may see, resting upon a gravelly flat, the remains of an old Indian canoe, whose once beautiful proportions, now untraceable in its rottenness, bore a prominent part in the tragic event I am about to narrate.

2. Through these pleasant valleys, among the broken hills, and in the majestic forests, of yore, the wily Indian and his dusky mate, held undisputed possession; and many are the incidents, yet unwritten, of tragic and thrilling interest, that transpired around the red men's camp-fire, ere the white man disturbed their forest homes.

3. Si ous' ka, or the "Wild Flower," was the daughter of a powerful chief of the Onondagas, and the only being ever known to turn the relentless old chief from a savage purpose. Something of this influence was owing to her great beauty; but more to the gentleness of which that beauty was the emblem. Her downcast eye, her trembling lip, her quiet, submissive motion, all bespoke its language; and many were the young chieftains that sought to win her affections.

4. Among her admirers were two young chiefs of the Oneidas, with whom the Onondagas were on the most friendly terms. Si ous' ka's father, in order to cherish the friendly feeling of the two tribes, and, at the same time, strengthen his power, besought her to accept the more powerful chief, "Eagle Eye." He did not plead in vain; for she had long loved the young Oneida.

5. One bright sunny morning, in early spring, as the old chief was out hunting, the young Oneida crossed his path, upon which the old man advanced, and, laying his hand upon his shoulder, pointed to the dwelling of Si ous' ka. Not a word was spoken. The proud old man and the strong, young chief proceeded toward her wigwam, and entered together.

6. Si ous' ka was seated in one corner, engaged upon some fancy basket-work, and did not notice their approach until they had entered. The old chief looked upon her with an expression of love, which his stern countenance never wore except in her presence. "Sious'ka," he said in a subdued tone, "Go to the wigwam of the Oneida, that your father's tribe may be strengthened, and many moons may shine upon their peace and prosperity."

7. There was mingled joy and modesty in the upward glance of the "Wild Flower" of the Onondagas, and, when the young chief saw the light of her mild eye suddenly and timidly vailed by its deeply-fringed lid, he knew that her love had lost none of its power. The marriage song was soon sung in the royal wigwam, in which the sweet voice of Sious'ka was happily heard to mingle.

8. When the rejected chief of the Oneidas heard that the "Wild Flower" had mated with the "Eagle Eye," his wrath knew no bounds, and he secretly resolved upon revenge. Two years passed away, and, as yet, no good opportunity had arrived; for he dared not attack "Eagle Eye" in open conflict, for fear of his superior powers; and, assassin-like, he sought to give the blow unperceived.

9. At length, the spring came, and a number of the tribe prepared to visit Lake Ontario, on a fishing and hunting excursion. Among the number who went, were the "Eagle Eye," Sious'ka, and their little boy. They were obliged to carry their light, birchen canoes from home, and these were packed with the necessary tackle, skins for beds, &c. The strong men of the party carried the canoes on their shoulders, and the women the smaller articles of furniture.

10. They had advanced across the country, until they reached the Black River, and, by carrying their canoes around falls and rapids, gently floated down the stream till they reached the great falls, about six miles from the Lake. Here they halted for the night, and encamped about half a mile above the falls.

11. The morning came; and, as the first beam of the rising sun pierced the forest shade, the party again embarked in their canoes for the mouth of the river, the gaudy canoe of Si ous' ka, which her father had given her, taking the lead. They had scarcely started from the shore, ere the sharp twang of a bow-string was heard from the shore, and an unerring arrow pierced the heart of "Eagle Eye." He fell over the side of the canoe, and was swept by the current over the great falls.

12. The party immediately started in pursuit of the coward murderer; but they sought in vain. His hiding-place was too sure,—he had taken refuge in a cave, the entrance of which was hid from observation by a thick clump of cedars. Here he remained till he was certain the company had departed. This cave is still there, and I have often been in its many chambers,—some of which are very spacious.

13. The fatal shaft was winged from the bow of the revenged Oneida chief. Having been apprised of the expedition, he had warily dogged the steps of the party, until a favorable opportunity presented itself, and then satisfied his secret longing for revenge upon the enemy, whom he did not dare to attack even-handed. The party sought him far and near; but, as no trace of any one could be found, they imagined, with superstitious fear, that the "Great Spirit" had thus summoned "Eagle Eye" to the "Spirit's Hunting Ground."

14. When they returned to their canoes, no traces of Si ous' ka and her child were to be found. They, too, had mysteriously disappeared, and the whole party, with ominous silence, hastened around the falls, and away from the fearful place. When Si ous' ka saw the fatal shaft pierce her companion, with, a fearful shriek she fell into the bottom of the canoe, hid herself in the furs, and immediately her reason forsook her.

15. When she recovered, she found that her canoe, urged on by the current, had floated into a large cave, and was firmly wedged in between two rocks; and her little boy, with his bow and arrow in his hand, was quietly sleeping by her side. Dislodging the canoe, she plied the oars, and was soon outside the cave.

16. On finding her people had left her, she sought the shore, and, fastening the canoe, proceeded below the falls, where she found the body of the ill-fated "Eagle Eye," where it had washed ashore. With superhuman strength, she bore the mangled body to a thick grove of cedars, and, with her own hands, dug a rude grave, and covered his remains with dried leaves and earth. That night she kept her lonely watch beside the grave of all that she held dear on earth, save her boy, intending to follow the party on the morrow.

17. The morning came, and the mid-day sun began to descend toward the western hills, ere she left the grave of the murdered chief. But, at length, she sorrowfully departed; and, on arriving where she moored the canoe the day before, what was her surprise to see the murderer of her husband, quietly sleeping upon the skins where last "Eagle Eye" had reposed, in the bow of the canoe.

18. From that moment Si ous' ka was changed. Her quiet, submissive air immediately gave place to fierce sternness, and the eye that had always beamed with the smile of love, shot forth flashes of bitter hate and passion, implacable as the most bloodthirsty of her tribe. Noiselessly throwing the oars from the boat, with a wild shriek, she quickly swung it around into the rapidly rolling current, and it was hurried toward the brink of that awful cataract, over which no living being had ever passed alive.

19. The young chief, awakened by that fearful, exulting cry of revenge, and seeing the peril of his situation, leaped from the bark that was hurrying him to sure destruction, and vainly sought to gain the shore. After struggling with the swift tide for a moment, in which he was carried nearer and nearer the awful brink, he turned, and, with a wild, unearthly yell, plunged over, and the boiling waters only responded to his death-wail, as he sunk to rise no more, and his spirit joined that of his victim in the "Spirit Land."

20. After the gentle "Wild Flower" had avenged the death of the "Eagle Eye," she returned to her father's wigwam, and spent the remainder of her life to the memory of her heart's first devotion. The canoe, all battered and broken, floated to the mouth of the river, bottom side up, where it was seen by one of the party while fishing, drawn to the shore, and left to decay. The party supposed that "Eagle Eye," Sious'ka, and her child, had all perished in some mysterious manner.

QUESTIONS.—1. Who was Sious'ka? 2. Who became her husband? 3. What effect had her marriage upon the rejected Oneida chief? 4. In what way did he seek revenge? 5. How did Sious'ka avenge the death of her husband?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXXII.

EN TER TAIN' ED, had; harbored. PE CUL IAR' I TY, something special. CHA GRIN'ED, (sha grin'ed,) vexed. MOR' TI FI ED, hurt in feeling. OUT STRIP', go beyond; excel. RI' VAL RY, emulation. RE VERS' ES, troubles; difficulties. IN VIG' OR A TED, made strong. DES O LA' TION, waste; ruin. REF' UGE, shelter; protection. SYM' PA THIZ ED, (SYM, with; PATH, feeling; IZE, make, have; ED, did;) did have feeling with. See Note on the suffix IZE, p. 132 of the ANALYSIS.

[Headnote 1: SIS' ER A, captain of the army of the Canaanitish king, Jabin. He was utterly defeated by Barak. Fleeing on foot, he took refuge in the tent of Jael, wife of Heber. There, while asleep, Jael drove a nail through his temples, and so he died. His mother, finding he did not return from the battle, "looked out at a window, and cried through the lattice, Why is his chariot so long in coming?" Read 4th and 5th chapters of Judges.]

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

ALBERT BARNES.

1. Many of us who are advanced beyond the period of childhood, went out from home to embark on the stormy sea of life. Of the feelings of a father, and of his interest in our welfare, we have never entertained a doubt, and our home was dear because he was there; but there was a peculiarity in the feeling that it was the home of our mother. Where she lived, there was a place that we felt was home. There was one place where we would always be welcome, one place where we would be met with a smile, one place where we would be sure of a friend.

2. The world might be indifferent to us. We might be unsuccessful in our studies or our business. The new friends which we supposed we had made, might prove to be false. The honor which we thought we deserved, might be withheld from us. We might be chagrined and mortified by seeing a rival outstrip us, and bear away the prize which we sought. But there was a place where no feelings of rivalry were found, and where those whom the world overlooked, would be sure of a friendly greeting. Whether pale and wan by study, care, or sickness, or flushed with health and flattering success, we were sure that we should be welcome there.

3. Though the world was cold toward us, yet there was one who always rejoiced in our success, and always was affected in our reverses; and there was a place to which we might go back from the storm which began to pelt us, where we might rest, and become encouraged and invigorated for a new conflict. So have I seen a bird, in its first efforts to fly, leave its nest, and stretch its wings, and go forth to the wide world. But the wind blew it back, and the rain began to fall, and the darkness of night began to draw on, and there was no shelter abroad, and it sought its way back to its nest, to take shelter beneath its mother's wings, and to be refreshed for the struggles of a new day; but then it flew away to think of its nest and its mother no more.

4. But not thus did we leave our home when we bade adieu to it to go forth alone to the manly duties of life. Even amidst the storms that then beat upon us, and the disappointments that we met with, and the coldness of the world, we felt still that there was one who sympathized in our troubles, as well as rejoiced in our success, and that, whatever might be abroad, when we entered the door of her dwelling, we should be met with a smile. We expected that a mother, like the mother of Sisera [Headnote 1], as she "looked out at her window," waiting for the coming of her son laden with the spoils of victory, would look out for our coming, and that our return would renew her joy and ours in our earlier days.

5. It makes a sad desolation when, from such a place, a mother is taken away, and when, whatever may be the sorrows or the successes in life, she is to greet the returning son or daughter no more. The home of our childhood may be still lovely. The old family mansion—the green fields—the running stream—the moss-covered well—the trees—the lawn—the rose—the sweet-brier—may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an aged father, with venerable locks, sitting in his loneliness, with every thing to command respect and love; but she is not there. Her familiar voice is not heard. The mother has been borne forth to sleep by the side of her children who went before her, and the place is not what it was.

6. There may be those there whom we much love; but she is not there. We may have formed new relations in life, tender and strong as they can be; we may have another home, dear to us as was the home of our childhood, where there is all in affection, kindness, and religion, to make us happy; but that home is not what it was, and it will never be what it was again. It is a loosening of one of the cords which bound us to earth, designed to prepare us for our eternal flight from every thing dear here below, and to teach us that there is no place here, that is to be our permanent home.

QUESTIONS.—1. What renders home doubly endearing? 2. Where are we always welcome? 3. Who always rejoices in our successes, and is affected in our reverses? 4. Who was Sisera, and what account is given of him?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXXIII.

UN SPOT' TED, pure; unstained. FAL' TER, fail. TRA' CER Y, traces; impressions. IM' PRESS, mark: stamp. DO MIN' ION, authority; predominance. SHRINK, withdraw. PUR SU' ING, following. STERN ER, harsher; more rigid. DE FY', dare; challenge. WHO' SO, any person whatever. TO' KEN, sign; indication. BROTH' ER HOOD, fraternity.

THE LIFE-BOOK.

HOME JOURNAL.

1. Write, mother, write! A new, unspotted book of life before thee, Thine is the hand to trace upon its pages The first few characters, to live in glory, Or live in shame, through long, unending ages! Write, mother, write! Thy hand, though woman's, must not faint nor falter: The lot is on thee,—nerve thee then with care,— A mother's tracery time may never alter; Be its first impress, then, the breath of prayer! Write, mother, write!

2. Write, father, write! Take thee a pen plucked from an eagle's pinion, And write immortal actions for thy son; Teach him that man forgets man's high dominion, Creeping on earth, leaving great deeds undone! Write, father, write! Leave on his life-book a fond father's blessing, To shield him 'mid temptation, toil, and sin. And he shall go to glory's field, possessing Strength to contend, and confidence to win. Write, father, write!

3. Write, sister, write! Nay, shrink not, for a sister's love is holy! Write words the angels whisper in thine ears,— No bud of sweet affection, howe'er lowly, But planted here, will bloom in after years. Write, sister, write! Something to cheer him, his rough way pursuing, For manhood's lot is sterner far than ours; He may not pause,—he must be up and doing, Whilst thou sitt'st idly, dreaming among flowers. Write, sister, write!

4. Write, brother, write! Strike a bold blow upon those kindred pages,— Write; shoulder to shoulder, brother, we will go; Heart linked to heart, though wild the conflict rages, We will defy the battle and the foe. Write, brother, write! We who have trodden boyhood's path together, Beneath the summer's sun and winter's sky, What matter if life brings us some foul weather, We may be stronger than adversity! Write, brother, write!

5. Fellow immortal, write! One GOD reigns in the Heavens,—there is no other,— And all mankind are brethren—thus 'tis spoken,— And whoso aids a sorrowing, struggling brother, By kindly word, or deed, or friendly token, Shall win the favor of our heavenly Father, Who judges evil, and rewards the good, And who hath linked the race of man together, In one vast, universal brotherhood! Fellow immortal, write!

QUESTIONS.—1. What may the mother write in the Life-Book? 2. What, the father? 3. What, the sister? 4. What, the brother? 5. What may all write?

* * * * *

LESSON LXXXIV.

ODE, short poem. PA TER' NAL, coming by inheritance. AT TIRE', clothing; raiment. UN CON CERN' ED LY, without care. REC RE A' TION, amusement. IN' NO CENCE, freedom from guilt. MED I TA' TION, contemplation. UN LA MENT' ED, unmourned.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

POPE.

Written when the author was twelve years of age.

1. Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.

2. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

3. Blest who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years glide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day.

4. Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most doth please With meditation.

5. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

QUESTIONS.—1. Who, did the writer think, were happy? 2. How did he wish to live and die? 3. Analyse the word recreation, (RE back; CREATION, act of bringing into life;) act of bringing back to life; a reviving.

* * * * *

LESSON LXXXV.

AD MI RA' TION, esteem. FRA TER' NAL, brotherly. IN SIG NIF' I CANCE, worthlessness. CRIT' IC AL, perilous. THOR' OUGH LY, completely; fully. COM PRE HEND', understand. CON VIC' TION, strong belief. COM PE TI' TION, strife; rivalry. EM U LA' TION, competition. IN TRIN' SIC AL LY, really; truly. AP PRE' CI ATE, value; esteem. BRAWN, physical strength. PIN' NA CLE, summit; highest point. SIN' U OUS, winding; bending. LE GIT' I MATE, lawful. REQ' UI SITE, necessary. CON SER VA' TION, act of keeping. DE VEL' OP MENT, training.

GETTING THE RIGHT START.

J.G. HOLLAND.

1. The first great lesson a young man should learn, is, that he knows nothing; and that the earlier and more thoroughly this lesson is learned, the better it will be for his peace of mind, and his success in life. A young man bred at home, and growing up in the light of parental admiration and fraternal pride, can not readily understand how it is, that every one else can be his equal in talent and acquisition. If bred in the country, he seeks the life of the town, he will very early obtain an idea of his insignificance.

2. This is a critical period in his history. The result of his reasoning will decide his fate. If, at this time, he thoroughly comprehend, and in his soul admit and accept the fact, that he knows nothing and is nothing; if he bow to the conviction that his mind and his person are but ciphers, and that whatever he is to be, and is to win, must be achieved by hard work, there is abundant hope of him.

3. If, on the contrary, a huge self-conceit still hold possession of him, and he straightens stiffly up to the assertion of his old and valueless self,—or, if he sink discouraged upon the threshold of a life of fierce competitions, and more manly emulations, he might as well be a dead man. The world has no use for such a man, and he has only to retire or be trodden upon.

4. When a young man has thoroughly comprehended the fact that he knows nothing, and that, intrinsically, he is of but little value, the next thing for him to learn is that the world cares nothing for him,—that he is the subject of no man's overwhelming admiration and esteem,—that he must take care of himself.

5. If he be a stranger, he will find every man busy with his own affairs, and none to look after him. He will not be noticed until he becomes noticeable, and he will not become noticeable, until he does something to prove that he has an absolute value in society. No letter of recommendation will give him this, or ought to give him this. No family connection will give him this, except among those few who think more of blood than brains.

6. Society demands that a young man shall be somebody, not only, but that he shall prove his right to the title; and it has a right to demand this. Society will not take this matter upon trust,—at least, not for a long time; for it has been cheated too frequently. Society is not very particular what a man does, so that it prove him to be a man: then it will bow to him, and make room for him.

7. There is no surer sign of an unmanly and cowardly spirit, than a vague desire for help,—a wish to depend, to lean upon somebody, and enjoy the fruits of the industry of others. There are multitudes of young men who indulge in dreams of help from some quarter, coming in at a convenient moment, to enable them to secure the success in life which they covet. The vision haunts them of some benevolent old gentleman, with a pocket full of money, a trunk full of mortgages and stocks, and a mind remarkably appreciative of merit and genius, who will, perhaps, give or lend them from ten to twenty thousand dollars, with which they will commence and go on swimmingly.

8. To me, one of the most disgusting sights in the world, is that of a young man with healthy blood, broad shoulders, and a hundred and fifty pounds, more or less, of good bone and muscle, standing with his hands in his pockets, longing for help. I admit that there are positions in which the most independent spirit may accept of assistance,—may, in fact, as a choice of evils, desire it; but for a man who is able to help himself, to desire the help of others in the accomplishment of his plans of life, is positive proof that he has received a most unfortunate training, or that there is a leaven of meanness in his composition, that should make him shudder.

9. When, therefore, a young man has ascertained and fully received the fact that he does not know any thing, that the world does not care any thing about him, that what he wins must be won by his own brain and brawn, and that while he holds in his own hands the means of gaining his own livelihood and the objects of his life, he can not receive assistance without compromising his self-respect and selling his freedom, he is in a fair position for beginning life. When a young man becomes aware that only by his own efforts can he rise into companionship and competition with the sharp, strong, and well-drilled minds around him, he of ready for work, and not before.