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THE 
 
 CLASSICAL READER; 
 
 SELECTION OF LESSONS 
 
 IN 
 
 PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 FROM THE MOST ESTEEMED 
 
 ENGLISH AND AMERICAN WRITERS. 
 
 INTENDED FOR THE USE OF THE HIGHER CLASSES 
 IN PUBLIC AND PRIVATE SEMINARIES.. 
 
 i 
 
 V 
 
 By Rev. F ; W. P. GREENWOOD AND G. B. EMERSON 
 
 i 
 
 OF BOSTON. 
 
 Emprobeu .Stereotype JStution, 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED* BY ROBERT S. DAVIS, 
 
 No, 77, Washington-Street, 
 
 1843. 
 
■G7 
 
 6SS93 
 
 DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: 
 
 District Clerk's Office. 
 Be it remembered, That on the tenth day of October, A. D. 1826, in the fiftieth 
 year of the Independence of the United States of America, Lincoln & Edrnands, of the 
 said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they 
 claim as proprietors, in the words following, to wit : 
 
 " The Classical Reader ; a Selection of Lessons in Prose and Verse. From the most es- 
 teemed English and American Writers. Intended for the Use of the higher Classes in 
 public and private Seminaries. By Rev. F. W. P. Greenwood and G. B. Emerson, of 
 Boston." 
 
 In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entit.ed, " An Act for 
 the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, ana books, to 
 the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned ;" 
 and also to an act, entitled, " An Act supplementary to an act, entitled, An Act for 
 the encouragement of learning', by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, 
 to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned; 
 and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching 
 historical and other prints." 
 
 J NO. W. DAVIS, 
 Clerk of the District of Massachusetts 
 
 Stereotyped at. the 
 Boston Type ana Stereotype Foundry. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 It will be thought by some, perhaps, on the appearance of this new 
 collection of readings for schools, that books of a similar character have 
 already been more than sufficiently multiplied, and that any addition 
 to their number is something worse than a superfluity 
 
 In answer to this, we would suggest, that the tastes and the wants 
 of the various seminaries of instruction throughout our country, must 
 necessarily be different from each other ; and that it is more probable 
 that all will be suited and gratified, when the field of choice is wide, 
 than when there is but little room for the exercise of comparison and 
 preference. As new authors come forward, new collections should be 
 made, in order to embrace them, and to keep up an acquaintance in 
 our schools with the progress of literature. As well might it be assert- 
 ed that no more authors should write, as that no notice should after- 
 wards be taken of their writinas. Neither is it at all probable, that the 
 beauties of old writers have yet been exhausted by public exhibition. 
 The more they are drawn upon, the more generally will they be known 
 and valued ; and celebrated names will receive a worthier honour, than 
 that which is conferred by their association with a limited set of thread- 
 bare and traditionary selections. 
 
 While a demand exists for new school-books, a spirit of improvement 
 in our schools is denoted, and the great cause of education is in evident 
 prosperity. We shall begin to despair of that cause when instructers, 
 parents, and pupils, are content with the elements which have long 
 been in use, and cease to call on the press for novelty and variety. 
 
 For the success of our own collection, we must, of course, depend on 
 the public voice ; but, as we are conscious of having devoted no com- 
 mon degree of care and pains to the work, we look forward with hope 
 to a favourable sentence. 
 
 Our general rules in selection and arrangement have been these : to 
 make our most copious draughts on the literature of the present age ; 
 to place the modern authors in the first portion of our book ; to asso- 
 ciate all the extracts from each author together ; to intermix poetry 
 with prose, but so that the latter should predominate in quantity ; to 
 give as great a variety of authors as possible ; to introduce a good 
 proportion of native American literature ; and to offer a few specimens 
 from writers, whose style is so antiquated that they seldom or never 
 appear in school-books, but whose excellence ought to preserve them 
 from neglect, and with whose compositions a little study and practice 
 are alone necessary to render youth familiar. — In one or two instances, 
 only, have wc departed from either of these rules. 
 
 There is still another rule, to which we have endeavoured most rigid- 
 ly to adhere. We have felt ourselves called upon by every sentiment 
 of duty, and of regard to the happiness and well being of the rising gen- 
 eration, to admit no piece into our book, of the good tendency of which 
 there could be the slightest doubt. Eloquence, wit, and fine writing, 
 have been no apology with us, if any offence has been offered to moral- 
 ity or religion. We have rejected every composition which has come 
 before us, whatever might have been its literary claims, if it has been 
 thought deficient in the essentials of purity and a virtuous character. 
 
 Our table of contents exhibits the two general divisions only of prose 
 and verse. We should have broken it up into the usual subdivisions 
 
4 PREFA.CE. 
 
 of Narrative, Didactic, Pathetic, &c. if we had perceived any advantage 
 in the practice. We doubted, indeed, whether we should not designate 
 sorne pieces for recitation, but came to the conclusion that the choice 
 might just as well be left to the master or the pupil ; either of whom, 
 when familiar with the book, may more easily select such lessons as 
 appear suitable for that purpose, than we can do it for him. Almost 
 the whole of the poetry, and a considerable portion of the prose, will be 
 found proper for exercises in oratory. 
 
 It may be objected, that some of our selections are above the compre- 
 hension of young people, and should not, on that account, have been 
 admitted.— That some of them are above the comprehension of the 
 greater part of the inmates of a school, we allow ; but we do not think 
 that they should therefore have been excluded. Let it be considered, 
 that our Reader is designed for the higher classes of academies and 
 schools ; and that in every class there is always a difference of talent 
 and capacity among its members. If, then, there are no more than two 
 or three, in a whole seminary, who are quicker of genius than their fel- 
 lows, yet there should be some pieces in the book, from which they are 
 accustomed to read, calculated not only to fill and gratify their appre- 
 hension, but to excite its powers, and stimulate it forward to increased 
 efforts and victories. The wants of ail should be attended to ; and it is 
 by no means desirable that every lesson should be brought down to the 
 level of every understanding. In a. collection, like ours, of more than 
 two hundred extracts, it is merely proper that there should be a few, 
 which may severely tax the genius of the most forward pupil. Beside 
 this, we would ask, whether the most hackneyed pieces from Shak- 
 speare and Young are not quite as unintelligible to the mass of youthful 
 readers, as any compositions which can be named in the compass of our 
 literature ? What will at last be read in our schools, if nothing must 
 be read there which is not understood by all ? 
 
 We trust that our cabinet will be found to contain a large proportion 
 of new specimens, and to be rich in the products of our native mines. 
 Some of our friends will perhaps regret that we have brought nothing 
 more from the old and long-deserted veins of Milton's prose, of Boyle, 
 of Clarendon, of Jeremy Taylor, and of Bacon. 
 
 We will venture to call the attention of the public to our collection, 
 as a Family Reader, as well as a school-book. For the latter purpose, 
 however, it was designed ; and it is our sincere hope, that it may con- 
 tribute, in some measure, to the instruction of that interesting portion 
 of the community, who are preparing to enter upon the active scenes 
 of life ; and help to imbue them with a generous taste for an elevating, 
 manly, and moral literature. 
 
 F. W. P. GREENWOOD. 
 
 Boston, Oct. 7, 1826. G. B. EMERSON. 
 
 NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The rapid sale of the Classical Reader having induced the publish- 
 ers to offer a stereotyped edition to the public, we have endeavoured 
 to improve it, by substituting a few new lessons in the places of others 
 wliich were thought to be less interesting. This has been done without 
 changing the order of the lessons ; and, as we have thus enabled our- 
 selves to introduce several new authors into our collection, we believe 
 that we have made it more useful, at the same time that we have given 
 it increased variety. 
 
 F. W. P. G. 
 
 Dec. 5, 1827. g'. B.E.' 
 
Q9 f P & 
 
 xJcLrtCUfl-. &' 
 
 ^/a/l/msr^ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LESSONS IN PBOSE. 
 
 The names of American authors are printed in small capitals. 
 
 Lesson. Page. 
 
 1. Early Piety, Thacher. 9 
 
 2. Worldly Honour not a good Principle of Action, Ibid. 11 
 
 6. Life of a Looking-Glass, Jane Taylor. 17 
 
 7. The Discontented Pendulum, Ibid. 23 
 
 10. On Evil Communication, Alison. 31 
 
 11. Reflections on Winter, Ibid. 34 
 
 12. Observations on Milton, Campbell. 36 
 
 14. Description of Roscoe, W. Irving. 40 
 
 15. Visit to the Grave of Shakspeare, Ibid. 43 
 
 18. Embarkation of the Plymouth Pilgrims from England, D. Webster. 48 
 
 19. On the laying of the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, Ibid. 50 
 
 22. Examples of Decision of Character, John Foster. 54 
 
 23. Character of Napoleon Bonaparte, C. Phillips. 58 
 
 27. Extraordinary Escape of Missionaries at Labrador, . . . Southey. 62 
 
 28. Old Fountains and Sundials, Lamb. 67 
 
 30. Alliance between Religion and Liberty, Frothingham. 69 
 
 32. Character of Major Joseph Hawley, Tudor. 73 
 
 34. Character of Luther, Roscoe. 76 
 
 37. Dialogue between Charles II. and William Penn, Friend of Peace. 82 
 
 39. The Moon and Stars. A Fable, Montgomery. 85 
 
 40. Our English Descent, and the Advantages of Adversity to 
 
 our F orefathers, E. Everett. 92 
 
 41. Dangers of Luxury and Ease of the present Times, . . > Dewey. 96 
 
 43. Governments of Will, and Governments of Law, . . . Wayland. 100 
 
 44. Description of the old Sport of Hawking, . . . Sir Walter Scott. 101 
 
 45. Description and Character of King James I Mid. 104 
 
 46. Observations on the Vicar of Wakefield, Ibid. 106 
 
 49. The Elder's Funeral, Wilson. 115 
 
 51. The Glory of God displayed in the Heavens, Cappe. 122 
 
 52. Humanity inculcated from the evanescent Nature of Man, J. Fav:cett. 125 
 
 53. Opportunities of doing Good not confined to the Rich, .... Ibid. 127 
 
 56. Portrait of a worldly Woman, . Freeman. 133 
 
 57. The Indian Summer of New England, Ibid. 136 
 
 58. Steam-boats on the Mississippi , T.Flint. 136 
 
 59. Cypress Swamps of the Mississippi, Ibid. 139 
 
 60. Influence of the Dead on the Living, Norton. 140 
 
 61. Cultivation of moral Taste, Frisbie. 141 
 
 62. Moral Influence of the Writings of Lord Byron and Miss 
 
 Edgeworth, Ibid. 143 
 
 65. Circumstances under which Milton wrote Paradise Lost 
 
 and the Sonnets, Ed. Rexnew. 150 
 
 66. Character of the Puritans, Ibid. 152 
 
 69. What is Poetry t Channing. 158 
 
 70. Character and Pursuits of Ulrich Zwingle, the Swiss Reformer, Hess. 161 
 
 71. The Advantages of Sickness, . Bucrminster. 164 
 
 72. The Government of the Tongue, Ibid. 166 
 
 73. Self-Knowledge, Ibid. 168 
 
 76. Religion a social Principle, Channing. 172 
 
 77. The Banian Tree, Pokhampton's Gallery. 174 
 
 1* 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Lesson. Page. 
 
 79. Parentage of Gen. Lafayette, and his first Visit to the United 
 
 States of America, Ticknor. 179 
 
 80. Address of the President to Lafayette on his Departure 
 
 from the United States, 1825, J. Q. Adams. 182 
 
 81. Reply of Lafayette to the foregoing" Address, .... Lafayette. 186 
 83. Principles of the American Revolution, Quincy. 188 
 
 85. Account of the Quicksilver Mine in Idria, Germany, . . . Russell. 191 
 
 86. The Ocean, Anonymous. 195 
 
 87. The old Servant, Keate. 197 
 
 91. Falls of Niagara, President D wight. 201 
 
 92. Government of the People, G. Bancroft. 205 
 
 93. Industry necessary to form the Orator, H. Ware, Jr. 206 
 
 95. Description of Sand-floods in Arabia, Bruce. 210 
 
 96. Description of the Simoon, or Hot Wind, Ibid. 211 
 
 97. The Vicar of Madely, Anonymous. 212 
 
 98. The Hatefulness of War, . . . Chalmers. 213 
 
 99. History of the English Language, Blair, 215 
 
 T04. May Morning, H. Ware, Jr. 223 
 
 105. Account of eleven Africans rescued from Slavery, . . . Sparks. 225 
 
 106. Danger of bad Habits, Priestley. 228 
 
 107. The Slide of Alpnach, Miss Edgeworth. 230 
 
 108. Against Inconsistency in our Expectations, .... Mrs. Barbaidd. 234 
 
 109. On Plants, Ibid. 131 
 
 112. The Court and Character of Queen Elizabeth, . . . Lucy Ailcin. 241 
 
 113. Female Accomplishments, H. More. 243 
 
 114. Fatal Termination of a Highland Feud, Anonymous. 244 
 
 116. Adventures of a bashful Man, . Anonymous. 248 
 
 117. Education prevents Crime, Ed. Review. 252 
 
 118. Washington's Resignation of the Command of the American 
 
 Army, . . . Marshall. 253 
 
 119. Description of the Natural Bridge in Virginia, .... Jefferson. 256 
 
 120. Extract from President Jefferson's Inaugural Address, . . . . Ibid. 257 
 
 121. President Adams's Opinion of the American Constitution, J. Adams. 259 
 
 122. Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jefferson, . D. Webster. 261 
 
 123. Eloquence of John Adams, Ibid. 263 
 
 1^8. Moses' Bargain of green Spectacles, Goldsmith. 267 
 
 129. The Vicar of Wakefield's Family Picture, Ibid. 270 
 
 132. Affectation of Sentiment and Feeling, Mrs. Chapone. 274 
 
 133. Religious Reflections for Monday, Miss Talbot. 276 
 
 134. Speech in Reply to Mr. Corry, Grattan. 278 
 
 138. Description of Arabia, Gibbon. 283 
 
 139. The Horse and Camel, ' Ibid. 284 
 
 142. Character of Charles Townshend, Burke. 288 
 
 143. The early Increase of American Resources, Ibid. 291 
 
 146. The baneful Effects of Intemperance, . . Kirkland. 296 
 
 150. Dialogue in the Shades, between Pliny the Elder and Pliny 
 
 the Younger, Lord Lyttleton. 304 
 
 151. Admirable Structure of the Mole, . Paley. 307 
 
 152. Instances of Compensation in the Structure of different Animals, Ibid. 308 
 1.54. Sketch of the History of Printing, V. Knox. 313 
 
 155. Exhortation to filial Gratitude and Obedience, . . . . Ogden. 316 
 
 156. The Complaint of the dying Year; an Allegory, . . . Henderson. 317 
 
 157. The Handsome and Deformed Leg, Franklin. 320 
 
 158. Speech on the Question of War with England, . . . P. Henry. 322 
 160 Letter to Lad}' Spencer, on the Scenery in which Milton 
 
 is supposed to have written his smaller Poems, . . . Sir W. Jones. 325 
 
 161. Defence of Literary Studies in Men of Business, .... Mackenzie. 327 
 
 162. Love of Enemies, Ilaivkesivorth. 330 
 
 163. The torrid and frigid Zones, Shaftesbury. 333 
 
 164. Progress of Intemperance, C. Sprague. 334 
 
 166. State of Navigation in the most ancient Times, .... Robertson. 340 
 
 167. The first Landing of Columbus in America, Ibid. 342 
 
 168. Anecdote of King Alfred, Hume. 343 
 
 J 70. The Garden of Hope, Johnson. 346 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 Lesson Page 
 
 171. The Character of Pope as a Poet, Johnson. 349 
 
 175. The Weakness of indulging' a Belief in Apparitions, . . . Addison. 353 
 
 176. On the Immortality of the Soul, Ibid. 355 
 
 178. Need of the Christian Revelation, Locke. 358 
 
 179. Truth better than Dissimulation, Tillolson. 360 
 
 182. On Peace, Clarendon. 365 
 
 183. The Reformation, Milton. 367 
 
 184. Interesting Notice of our Forefathers, Ibid. 368 
 
 185. Truth and Falsehood disguised by the Passions, Ibid. 369 
 
 186. Milton's Account of his Blindness, Ibid. 369 
 
 190. Death active at all Seasons, Jeremy Taylor. 377 
 
 191. Life long enough for the Attainment of Virtue, ibid. 378 
 
 192. On Prayer, Ibid. 379 
 
 194. Orlando and Jaques, SJiakspeare. 381 
 
 198. Of Discourse, Lord Bacon. 388 
 
 199. Of Studies, Ibid. 390 
 
 202. On Duelling, . . Watts. 394 
 
 203. Diogenes at the Isthmian Games. . . . Wakefield's Die Chrysostom. 395 
 
 204. Hypocrisy and irue Religion, Boyle. 397 
 
 205. The inestimable Value of the Sacred Scriptures, . . Wayland. 399 
 
 206. The Righteous and the Wicked, Psalm 1. 402 
 
 207. The Man who is accepted of God, Psalm 15. 402 
 
 208. Instructions to the Young, Solomon. 403 
 
 209. The Beatitudes, Gospel of Matthew. 404 
 
 LESSONS IN VERSE. 
 
 Lesson. Page 
 
 3. Thanatopsis, Bryant. 12 
 
 4. The Murdered Traveller, ; Ibid. 14 
 
 5. The Rivulet, Ibid. 15 
 
 8. The Solitary Reaper, Wordsioorth. 26 
 
 9. The old Cumberland Beggar, Ibid. 27 
 
 13. Patience, Campbell. 39 
 
 16. Consolations of Religion to the Poor, Percival. 46 
 
 17. The Graves of the Patriots, Ibid. 47 
 
 20. An April Day, Longfellow. 52 
 
 21. Woods in Winter, Ibid. 53 
 
 24. Death will enter Palaces, Southey. 59 
 
 25. The old Man's Comforts, Ibid. 60 
 
 26. The Well of St. Keyne, -. . Ibid. 61 
 
 29. The Genius of Death, Croly. 69 
 
 31. Extract from the Airs of Palestine, Pierpont. 72 
 
 33. The Autumn Evening, Peabody. 76 
 
 35. The Butterfly's Birth Day, Roscoe. 79 
 
 36. The Mariner of Life, Miss Roscoe. 81 
 
 38. Night, Montgomery. 84 
 
 42. The Counsel of Ahithophel defeated, '. Hillhouse. 97 
 
 47. Hellvellyn, Sir Walter Scott. 108 
 
 48. The War Gathering of Clan Alpine, Ibid. 109 
 
 50. The Voice of Departed Friendship, Wilson. 121 
 
 54. Pleasures of Memory, Rogers. 130 
 
 55 Saturday Morning, Bowring. 132 
 
 63. Scene from the "Vespers of Palermo," Mrs. Hemans. 145 
 
 64. The Treasures of the Deep, Ibid. 149 
 
 67. Extract from the "Prisoner of Chi lion," ........ Byron. 154 
 
 68. The Immortal Mind, Ibid. 157 
 
 74. Recollections of Childhood, Akenside. 170 
 
 75. The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the Night, . . . II. K. White. Ill 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 Lesson. Page. 
 
 78. Extract from the "Siege of Valencia," Mrs. He.mo.ns. 176 
 
 82. The Fall of Niagara, Brainard. 187 
 
 84. Lines written in a Church yard, Herbert Knowles. 189 
 
 88. Ode to Tranquillity, Coleridge. 198 
 
 89. The Torch of Liberty, T. Moore. 198 
 
 90. The Carrier Pigeon, Ibid. 200 
 
 94. Extract from the Tragedy of Ethwald, Joanna Baillie. 208 
 
 100. The Slave Trade, Covoper. 217 
 
 101. The Mail, Ibid. 218 
 
 102. Recollections, Ibid. 219 
 
 103. Alnwick Castle, Halleck. 220 
 
 110. An Address to the Deity, Mrs. Barbauld. 239 
 
 111. A Thought on Death, Ibid. 241 
 
 115. Home, Bernard Barton. 247 
 
 124. The Sleep of the Brave, Collins. 264 
 
 125. A Thought on Eternity, Gay. 264 
 
 126. Paraphrase on Matthew 6, . . . Tliomson. 265 
 
 127. A Winter Storm at Midnight, Ibid. 266 
 
 130. The Swiss Peasanuy, Goldsmith. 272 
 
 131. The good Pastor, Ibid. 273 
 
 135. Ode to Evening, Joseph Warton. 280 
 
 136. On Procrastination, Young. 281 
 
 137. True and false Grandeur, Ibid. 282 
 
 140. A Water Party in Danger, Crabbe. 285 
 
 141. The Degeneracy of Spain, .Anonymous. 287 
 
 144. Ode to Adversity, Gray. 293 
 
 145. Extract from " The Progress of Poesy," Ibid. 295 
 
 147. Description of Rivers, and Praise of Water, Armstrong. 300 
 
 143. Tendency of all Things to Decay, Ibid. 301 
 
 149. A Hebrew Tale, Mrs. Sigourney. 302 
 
 153. The Charms of Nature to be preferred, Beattie. 312 
 
 159. An Ode, in Imitation of Alceeus, Sir W. Jones. 324 
 
 165. Hagar in the Wilderness, Willis. 336 
 
 169. Friendship, Robert Blair. 346 
 
 172. The Dependence of God's Creatures on each other, Pope. 350 
 
 173. Villa of a tasteless rich Man, Ibid. 352 
 
 174. Virtue alone is the Foundation of Happiness, .... . . Ibid. 352 
 
 177. London, after the Great Fire, 1666, Dryden. 358 
 
 180. The Lady's Looking-Glass, Prior. 363 
 
 181. The Learning of Sir Hudibras, S. Butler. 364 
 
 187. Sonnet on Milton's Blindness, Milton. 371 
 
 188. Adam and Eve commanded to leave Paradise, Ibid. 372 
 
 189. Death of Samson. From " Samson A gonistes " Ibid. 374 
 
 193. Scene from " As you like it," Shakspeare. 380 
 
 195. Meditation of Henry VI. at the Battle of Towton, Ibid. 382 
 
 196. Reflections of Cardinal Wolsey, after his Fall from the 
 
 Favour of Henry VIII. Ibid. 384 
 
 197. Death and Character of Cardinal Wolsey, Ibid. 387 
 
 £00. The Happy Man, Sir Henry Wotton. 391 
 
 201. Description of the Bower of Bliss, Spenser. 392 
 
THE 
 
 CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON I. 
 Early Piety. — Thacher. 
 
 " My son, give me thine heart, and let thine eyes observe 
 my ways." This address of religious wisdom, though appli- 
 cable, no doubt, to us all, seems, from its connexion, to have 
 been designed by the preacher particularly for the \oung. 
 It is intended chiefly for that interesting period of life, when 
 the character is about to take its strongest and most decided 
 direction. When the season of pupilage and discipline is 
 expiring, and the mind is beginning to think, and to prepare 
 to act for itself; when, untaught by experience to distrust the 
 illusions of fancy, and to disbelieve the promises of hope, life 
 seems, to the young enthusiast, to open nothing but a long and 
 gay vista, lined on every side with pleasures and honours ; 
 at this ambiguous age it is, that religion is represented as 
 lifting her mild and sacred voice : — 
 
 " My child, listen to my words, the words of your truest 
 friend. You are about to decide the happiness of your life 
 on earth — it may be of your life beyond the grave. Those 
 happy days of careless innocence, when you could repose en- 
 tirely on others, have now passed away. It was not to be 
 expected that your path was always to be pointed out by a 
 parent's hand, its dangers foreseen for you by a parent's wis- 
 dom, and its difficulties removed by a parent's tenderness 
 and care. It is the order of nature, that each one should, in 
 due time, be called to act from his own mind, and consult 
 for his own well-being. You do not wish it should be other- 
 wise. I see your eye already kindling with hope, and your 
 breast swelling with ardour, at the thought of grasping the 
 reins of self-control, and becoming the arbiter of your own 
 conduct. The world is, at length, all before you, and you 
 see how lavish it is of its promises, to allure your affection, 
 and captivate your young imagination. Life seems to you as a 
 distant and unexplored landscape appears to the eye of one 
 who views it from an eminence. All is beautiful and bright. 
 
10 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The forests wave their green and lofty tops in the western 
 breeze ; the streams glitter in the morning sun ; the moun- 
 tains tower in calm and solemn majesty; the valleys wind 
 among them in luxuriant verdure ; and, as far as the eye can 
 stretch, to where the land seems to touch and mingle with 
 the sky, there is nothing to lessen the delight with which 
 you regard so fair a vision. Here, you say, peace and con- 
 tentment must surely dwell ! what but happiness can find a 
 residence here ? 
 
 " But a nearer approach will undeceive you. You will 
 find that every thing has been softened and improved by dis- 
 tance. You will, no doubt, still see much to admire ; much 
 to vindicate the wisdom and goodness of the Creator and 
 Disposer of all. But you will find, too, that the paths are 
 rougher than you thought. You will meet with difficulties 
 which you did not expect. Where you thought to find only 
 security, you will see that innumerable dangers were lurk- 
 ing. You will find flowers blooming over the precipices 
 which they conceal ; and, unless you take heed to yourself, 
 your feet will slide where you least imagined it, and you 
 may fall never to rise. Do not, however, hastily arraign 
 your Creator for calling you to pass through this scene of 
 dangers. He has wisely, though mysteriously, ordered all 
 things. He does not leave you to explore the dark and 
 doubtful paths of life without a guide. He hath showed 
 you, man, what is good ; and it rests with yourself to say 
 whether you shall obtain it. He has sent me from his own 
 right hand to direct your inexperienced steps, to lead you in 
 ways of pleasantness, and paths of peace. My son, give me, 
 then, thy heart, and let thine eyes observe my ways." 
 
 Such is the invitation which religion makes to the young. 
 And never, in the long annals of time, was there one human 
 being, who, at the close of life, did not rejoice if he had lis- 
 tened to it, and lament, with bitter tears, if he had rejected 
 it. Let us inquire, what is here meant by giving the heart 
 to religion. 
 
 To give your heart to religion means, simply, to give to it 
 the supreme control over your conduct and affections. It 
 does not mean that nothing else is to engage your regard ; 
 that you can have no duties and no pleasures, which are not 
 strictly and exclusively the duties and pleasures of religion. 
 It means only, that you are to seek first and chiefly the king- 
 dom of God ; that every thing in life is to be made subordi- 
 nate to this great object; that you are to do no actions, cher- 
 ish no thoughts, indulge no feelings, gratify no desires, 
 which religion cannot approve ; that, in all your plans in life, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 11 
 
 you are to have respect to the proper ends of your being, 
 and are to reduce all the principles and affections of your na- 
 ture under the guidance of conscience, enlightened by the 
 Gospel. 
 
 In one word, to give your heart to religion must mean, 
 that, since there is a God, you should reverence, worship, 
 and love him ; that, since Christ has come into the world 
 to redeem you, he should always command your affectionate 
 obedience and remembrance ; that, since life has been given 
 you in this world for some important end, you should dili- 
 gently inquire for that end, and faithfully pursue it ; that, 
 since you are born for another world, you should seek to fit 
 yourself for it ; and that, since there is to be a day of judg- 
 ment, you should seriously prepare for it. 
 
 The question is simply this ; whether you shall pass 
 through life with no aims that look beyond it; pursuing 
 merely the pleasures, or riches, or honours, which open be- 
 fore you ; and live and die as if you had no soul to be saved ; 
 or whether, remembering that your nature is immortal, and 
 capable of exalted and imperishable attainments, and that 
 your condition in another life is to be decided by your con- 
 duct in this, you should, by habitual benevolence, incorrupt- 
 ible integrity, and sincere and unaffected piety, springing 
 from Christian principles, and proceeding on Christian max- 
 ims, make sure your calling and election to the favour of 
 God, and to the happiness of eternity. 
 
 LESSON II. 
 Worldly Honour not a good Principle of Action. — Ibid. 
 
 Honour is a word of no very determinate meaning in the 
 mouths of most of those who use it. It is so subtile and 
 volatile as almost to escape the chains of definition, and it 
 is not easy to assail an enemy so mutable in its form and 
 aerial in its nature. 
 
 It is sometimes taken, in its best sense, to signify a certain 
 refinement and delicacy of feeling, beyond what the law of 
 stiict rectitude might appear to exact ; a sensibility, and, as it 
 were, polish of principle, which cannot bear the slightest 
 soil, and which would " feel a stain, like a wound." Now, 
 so far as this sentiment of honour coincides with the laws 
 of virtue, it is no doubt always innocent, and to some 
 men valuable; though it teaches nothing, which is not 
 taught with greater force by the genuine spirit of Christiani- 
 ty. But, when it is talked of as a law of conduct by itself, 
 
12 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 and a substitute for all religious principle, it must be looked 
 into more narrowly. 
 
 What, then, do we find it to be ? As far as it is any thing 
 definite, it seems to be a sort of tacit convention, among men 
 in refined life, to observe certain points of morality, and cer 
 tain particulars of manners, in their common intercourse, 
 with peculiar strictness, and to compensate themselves with 
 more than a proportionate relaxation of others. A man of 
 honour, for example, must not cheat; and, except in some 
 cases, to one greatly inferior, must not lie. In general, he 
 must abstain from all those vices, which Fashion abandons 
 to the vulgar and low, because she can make them neither 
 elegant nor interesting. Within these limits, he is left at lib- 
 erty to lay waste the happiness of society. Honour will 
 permit a man to neglect every duty to his God. Honour will 
 tolerate unbounded sensuality, and the licentious indulgence 
 of every passion. Honour will permit him to lay in the dust 
 the purity and peace of unguarded innocence. Honour will 
 permit, nay, honour will command him, to take on himself 
 the execution of the vengeance, which belongs to God alone, 
 and bathe his hands in an offending brother's blood. 
 
 Need we ask, whether such a principle as this is a basis, on 
 which to raise a character of exalted virtue ? whether this is 
 to be taken as the substitute for the eternal and unvarying 
 rectitude of the commands of God ? 
 
 LESSON III. 
 
 Thanatopsis.* — Bryant. 
 
 To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language : for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — 
 Go forth under the open sky, and list 
 
 * Formed from two Greek words, signifying A Vision of Dzatiu 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 13 
 
 To Nature's teachings, while, from all around — 
 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 
 Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 
 To mix for ever with the elements, 
 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods ; rivers, that move 
 In majesty; and the complaining brooks, 
 That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, 
 Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there; 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
 
 So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou shalt fall 
 Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 2 
 
14 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, — 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
 The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles 
 And beauty of its innocent age cut off,— 
 Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 
 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 LESSON IV. 
 The Murdered Traveller. — Ieid. 
 
 When spring to woods and wastes around 
 
 Brought bloom and joy again, 
 The murdered traveller's bones were found, 
 
 Far down a narrow glen. 
 
 The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
 
 Her tassels in the sky ; 
 And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
 
 And nodded, careless, by. 
 
 The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
 
 His hanging nest o'erhead, 
 And, fearless, near the fatal spot, 
 
 Her young the partridge led. 
 
 But there was weeping far away, 
 
 And gentle eyes, for him, 
 With watching many an anxious day, 
 
 Grew sorrowful and dim. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 15 
 
 They little knew, who loved him so, 
 
 The fearful death he met, 
 When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
 
 Unarmed, and hard beset ; 
 
 Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
 
 The northern dawn was red, 
 The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
 
 To banquet on the dead ; 
 
 Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
 
 They dressed the hasty bier, 
 And marked his grave with nameless stones 
 
 Unmoistened by a tear. 
 
 But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
 
 Within his distant home ; 
 And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
 
 For joy that he was come. 
 
 So long they looked, but never spied 
 
 His welcome step again, 
 Nor knew the fearful death he died 
 
 Far down that narrow glen. 
 
 LESSON V. 
 The Rivulet. — Ibid. 
 
 This little rill, that, from the springs 
 Of yonder grove, its current brings, 
 Plays on the slope awhile, and then 
 Goes prattling into groves again, 
 Oft to its warbling waters drew 
 My little feet when life was new. 
 When woods in early green were drest, 
 And, from the chambers of the west, 
 The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
 Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
 My truant steps from home would stray, 
 Upon its grassy side to play; 
 To crop the violet on its brim, 
 And listen to the throstle's hymn, 
 With blooming cheek and open brow, 
 As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 
 
 And, when the days of boyhood came, 
 And I had grown in love with fame, 
 
16 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
 My first rude numbers by thy side. 
 Words cannot tell how glad and gay 
 The scenes of life before me lay. 
 High visions, then, and lofty schemes^ 
 Glorious and bright as fairy dreams, 
 And daring hopes, that now to speak 
 Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
 Passed o'er me ; and I wrote on high 
 A Dame I deemed should never die. 
 
 Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
 The tall, old maples, verdant still, 
 Yet tell, in proud and grand decay, 
 How swift the years have passed away 
 Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
 I wandered in the forest shade. 
 But thou, gay, merry rivulet, 
 Dost dimple, play, and prattle yet; 
 And, sporting with the sands that pave 
 The windings of thy silver wave, 
 And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
 Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
 The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
 My early childhood loved to hear ; 
 As pure thy limpid waters run; 
 As bright they sparkle to the sun; 
 As fresh the herbs that crowd to drink 
 The moisture of thy oozy brink ; 
 The violet there, in soft May dew, 
 Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
 As green, amid thy current's stress, 
 Floats the scarce-rooted water cress ; 
 And the brown ground bird, in thy glen 
 Still chirps as merrily as then. 
 
 Thou changest not-— but I am change . 
 Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
 And the grave stranger, come to see 
 The play-place of his infancy, 
 Has scarce a single trace of him 
 Who sported once upon thy brim. 
 The visions of my youth are past — 
 Too bright, too beautiful, to last. 
 I've tried the world — it wears no more 
 The colouring of romance it wore. 
 Yet well has nature kept the truth 
 She promised to my earliest youth ; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 17 
 
 The radiant beauty, shed abroad 
 On all the glorious works of God, 
 Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, 
 Each charm it wore in days gone by. 
 
 A few brief years shall pass away, 
 And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
 Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
 My ashes in the embracing mould, 
 (If haply the dark will of fate 
 Indulge my life so long a date,) 
 May come, for the last time, to look 
 Upon my childhood's favourite brook. 
 Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
 The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; 
 And faintty on my ear shall fall 
 Thy prattling current's merry call ; 
 Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
 As when thou met'st my infant sight. 
 
 And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
 As ages after ages glide, 
 Children their early sports shall try, 
 And pass to boary age, and die : 
 But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
 Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 
 Amid young flowers and tender grass 
 Thy endless infancy shall pass ; 
 And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
 Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
 
 «*£^- 
 
 LESSON VI. 
 Life of a Looking- Glass. — Jane Taylor. 
 
 It being very much the custom, as I am informed, even 
 for obscure individuals, to furnish some account of them- 
 selves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be 
 deemed impertinent for calling your attention to a few par- 
 ticulars of my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of any 
 very extraordinary incidents ; but having, during the course 
 of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for observa- 
 tion, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it 
 might be in my power to offer some remarks that may not 
 be wholly unprofitable to your readers. 
 
 My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's work- 
 shop, where I remained for many months, leaning with my 
 face to the wall ; and, having never known any livelier scene, 
 2 * 
 
18 
 
 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 I was very well contented with my quiet condition. The 
 first object that I remember to have arrested my attention, 
 was, what I now believe must have been a large spider, 
 which, after a vast deal of scampering about, began, very de- 
 liberately, to weave a curious web all over my face. This 
 afforded me great amusement, and, not then knowing what 
 far lovelier objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resent 
 the indignity. 
 
 At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, 
 I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and imme- 
 diately afterwards underwent a curious operation, which at 
 the time gave me considerable apprehensions for my safety ; 
 but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding myself 
 arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved and gilt; 
 for you will please to observe, that the period of which I am 
 now speaking was upwards of fourscore years ago. This 
 process being finished, I was presently placed in the shop 
 window, with my face to the street, which was one of the 
 most public in the city. Here my attention was at first dis- 
 tracted by the constant succession of objects that passed be- 
 fore me. But it was not long before I began to remark the 
 considerable degree of attention I myself excited ; and how 
 much I was distinguished, in this respect, from the other 
 articles, my neighbours, in the shop window. I observed 
 that passengers, who appeared to be posting away upon ur- 
 gent business, would often just turn and give me a friendly 
 glance as they passed. But I was particularly gratified to 
 observe, that, while the old, the shabby, and the wretched, 
 seldom took any notice of me, the young, the gay, and the 
 handsome, generally paid me this compliment; and that 
 these good-looking people always seemed best pleased with 
 me ; which I attributed to their superior discernment. I 
 well remember one young lady, who used to pass my mas- 
 ter's shop regularly every morning in her way to school, and 
 w r ho never omitted to turn her head to look at me as she 
 went by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted with 
 each other. I must confess, that, at this period of my life, I 
 was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, from the 
 regards that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I am not the 
 only individual who has formed mistaken notions of the at- 
 tentions he receives in society. 
 
 My vanity, however, received a considerable check from 
 one circumstance ; nearly all the goods by which I was sur- 
 rounded in the shop window (though, many of them, much 
 more homely in their structure, and humble in their destina- 
 tions) were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the mor- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 19 
 
 tification of seeing one after another bargained for and sent 
 away, while I remained, month after month, without a pur- 
 chaser. At last, however, a gentleman and lady from the 
 country (who had been standing some time in the street, in- 
 specting, and, as I perceived, conversing about me) walked 
 into the shop ; and, after some altercation with my master, 
 agreed to purchase me ; upon which I was packed up, and 
 sent off. I was very curious, you may suppose, upon arriving 
 at my new quarters, to see what kind of life I was likely to 
 lead. I remained, however, some time unmolested in my 
 packing case ; and very flat I felt there. Upon being, at last, 
 unpacked, I found myself in the hall of a large lone house 
 in the country. My master and mistress, I soon learned, 
 were new-married people, just setting up house-keeping; 
 and I was intended to decorate their best parlour ; to which 
 I was presently conveyed ; and, after some little discussion 
 between them in fixing my longitude and latitude, I was 
 hung up opposite the fire-place, in an angle of ten degrees 
 from the wall, according to the fashion of those times. 
 
 And there I hung, year after year, almost in perpetual sol- 
 itude. My master and mistress were sober, regular, old- 
 fashioned people ; they saw no company except at fair time 
 and Christmas day ; on which occasions, only, they occupied 
 the best parlour. My countenance used to brighten up, 
 when I saw the annual fire kindled in that ample grate, and 
 when a cheerful circle of country cousins assembled round 
 it. At those times, I always got a little notice from the 
 young folks ; but, those festivities over, and I was condemn- 
 ed to another half year of complete loneliness. How familiar 
 to my recollection at this hour is that large, old-fashioned 
 parlour ! I can remember, as well as if I had seen them but 
 yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson damask chair- 
 covers and window-curtains ; and those curiously carved ta- 
 bles and chairs. I could describe every one of the stories 
 on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate ; the rich China 
 ornaments on the wide mantel-piece ; and the pattern of the 
 paper hangings, which consisted, alternately, of a parrot, a 
 poppy, and a shepherdess, — a parrot, a poppy, and a shep- 
 herdess. 
 
 The room being so little used, the window-shutters were 
 rarely opened ; but there were three holes cut in each, in 
 the shape of a heart, through which, day after day, and year 
 after year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sunbeams 
 streaming across the dark parlour. I should mention, how- 
 ever, that I seldom missed a short visit from my master and 
 mistress on a Sunday morning, when they came down stairs 
 
20 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 ready dressed for church. I can remember how my mistress 
 used to trot in upon her high-heeled shoes, unfold a leaf of 
 one of the shutters ; then come and stand straight before me ; 
 then turn half round to the right and left ; never failing to 
 see if the corner of her well starched handkerchief was pin- 
 ned exactly in the middle. I think I can see her now, in 
 her favourite dove-coloured lustring, (which she wore every 
 Sunday in every summer for seven years at least,) and her 
 long, full ruffles, and worked apron. Then followed my 
 good master, who, though his visit was somewhat shorter, 
 never failed to come and settle his Sunday wig before me. 
 
 Time rolled away ; and my master and mistress, with all 
 that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influ- 
 ence. When I first knew them, they were a young, bloom- 
 ing coUple as you would wish to see ; but I gradually per- 
 ceived an alteration. My mistress began to stoop a little ; 
 and my master got a cough, which troubled him more or less 
 to the end of his days. At first, and for many years, my 
 mistress' foot upon the stairs was light and nimble ; and she 
 would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but at last 
 it was a slow, heavy step ; and even my master's began to 
 totter. And, in these respects, every thing else kept pace 
 with them : the crimson damask, that I remembered so fresh 
 and bright, was now faded and worn ; the dark polished 
 mahogany was, in some places, worm-eaten; the parrot's 
 gay plumage on the walls grew dull ; and I myself, though 
 long unconscious of it, partook of the universal decay. 
 
 The dissipated taste I acquired, upon my first introduction 
 to society, had long since subsided ; and the quiet, sombre 
 life I led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change 
 which I witnessed in all things around me, caused me to re- 
 flect much on their vanity; and when, upon the occasions 
 before mentioned, I used to see the gay, blooming faces of 
 the young saluting me with so much complacency, I would 
 fain have admonished them of the alteration they must soon 
 undergo, and have told them how certainly their bloom also 
 must fade away as a flower. But, alas ! you know, sir, 
 looking-glasses can only reflect. 
 
 After I had remained in this condition, to the best of my 
 knowledge, about five-and-forty years, I suddenly missed 
 my old master ; he came to visit me no more ; and, by the 
 change in my mistress' apparel, I guessed what had happen- 
 ed. Five years more passed away ; and then I saw no more 
 of her ! In a short time after this, several rude strangers en- 
 tered my room ; the long, rusty screw, which had held me 
 up so many years, was drawn out ; and I, together with all 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 21 
 
 the goods and chattels in the house, was put up to auction 
 in that very apartment which I had so long peaceably occu- 
 pied. I felt a good deal hurt at the very contemptuous 
 terms in which I was spoken of by some of the bidders ; 
 for, as I said, I was not aware that I had become as old- 
 fashioned as my poor old master and mistress. At last I was 
 knocked down for a trifling sum, and sent away to a very 
 different destination. 
 
 Before going home to my new residence, I was sent to a 
 workman to be refitted in a new gilt frame ; which, although 
 it completely modernized my appearance, I must confess, at 
 first set very uneasily upon me. And now, although it was 
 not till my old age, I, for the first time, became acquainted 
 with my natural use, capacity, and importance. My new 
 station was no other than the dressing room of a young lady, 
 just come from school. Before I was well fixed in the des- 
 tined spot, she came to survey me, and, with a look of such 
 complacency and good will, as I had not seen for many a 
 day. I was now presently initiated in all the mysteries of 
 the toilet. 0, what an endless variety of laces, jewels, 
 silks, and ribbons ; pins, combs, cushions, and curling-irons ; 
 washes, essences, powders, and patches, were daily spread 
 before me ! If 1 had been heretofore almost tired with the 
 sight of my good old mistress' everlasting lustring, I really 
 felt still more so with the profusion of ornament and prepa- 
 ration. 
 
 I was, indeed, favoured with my fair mistress' constant 
 attentions ; they were so unremitting as perfectly to astonish 
 me, after being so long accustomed to comparative neglect. 
 Never did she enter her room, on the most hasty errand, 
 without vouchsafing me a kind glance ; and at leisure hours 
 I was indulged with much longer visits. Indeed, to confess 
 the truth, I was sometimes quite surprised at their length. 
 But I don't mean to tell tales. During the hour of dressing, 
 when I was more professionally engaged with her, there 
 was, I could perceive, nothing in the room — in the house — ■ 
 nay, I believe, nothing in the world, of so much importance 
 in her estimation as myself. But I have frequently remark- 
 ed, with concern, the different aspect with which she would 
 regard me at those times, and when she returned at night 
 from the evening's engagements. However late it was, or 
 however fatigued she might be, still I was sure of a greeting 
 as soon as she entered ; but, instead of the bright, blooming 
 face I had seen a few hours before, it was generally pale and 
 haggard, and not unfrequently bearing a strong expression of 
 disappointment or chagrin. 
 

 
 22 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 My mistress would frequently bring a crowd of her young 
 companions into her apartment ; and it was amusing to see 
 how they would each in turn come to pay their respects 
 to me. What varied features and expressions in the course 
 of a few minutes I had thus an opportunity of observing ! 
 upon which I used to make my own quiet reflections. 
 
 In this manner I continued some years in the service of 
 my mistress, without any material alteration taking place, 
 either in her or in me ; but, at length, I began to perceive 
 that her aspect towards me was considerably changed, espe- 
 cially when I compared it with my first recollections of her. 
 She now appeared to regard me with somewhat less com- 
 placency ; and would frequently survey me with a mingled 
 expression of displeasure and suspicion, as though some 
 change had taken place in me ; though I am sure it was no 
 fault of mine ; indeed, I could never reflect upon myself for 
 a moment ; with regard to my conduct towards any of my 
 owners, I have ever been a faithful servant ; nor have I once, 
 in the course of my whole life, given a false answer to any 
 one I have had to do with. I am, by nature, equally averse 
 to flattery and detraction ; and this I may say for myself, 
 that I am incapable of misrepresentation. It was with min- 
 gled sensations of contempt and compassion, that I witnessed 
 the efforts my mistress now made, in endeavouring to force 
 me to yield the same satisfaction to her as I had done upon 
 our first acquaintance. Perhaps, in my confidential situa- 
 tion, it would be scarcely honourable to disclose all I saw ; 
 suffice it, then, to hint, that, to my candid temper, it was 
 painful to be obliged to connive at that borrowed bloom, 
 which, after all, was a substitute for that of nature ; time, 
 too, greatly baffled even these expedients, and threatened to 
 render them wholly ineffectual. 
 
 Many a cross and reproachful look I had now to endure ; 
 which, however, I took patiently, being always remarkably 
 smooth and even in my temper. Well remembering how 
 sadly Time had spoiled the face of my poor old mistress, I 
 dreaded the consequences if my present owner should expe- 
 rience, by and by, as rough treatment from him ; and I be- 
 lieve she dreaded it too : but these apprehensions were 
 needless. Time is not seldom arrested in the midst of his 
 occupations ; and it was so in this instance. I was one day 
 greatly shocked, by beholding my poor mistress stretched 
 out in a remote part of the room, arrayed in very different 
 ornaments from those I had been used to see her wear. She 
 was so much altered that I scarcely knew her ; but for this 
 she could not now reproach me. I watched her thus for a 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 23 
 
 few days, as she lay before me, as cold and motionless as 
 myself; but she was soon conveyed away, and I saw her no 
 more ! 
 
 Ever since, I have continued in quiet possession of her 
 deserted chamber ; which is only occasionally visited by 
 other parts of the family. I feel that I am now getting old, 
 and almost beyond further service. I have an ugly crack, 
 occasioned by the careless stroke of a broom, all across my 
 left corner ; my coat is very much worn in several places ; 
 even my new frame is now tarnished and old-fashioned ; so 
 that I cannot expect any new employment. 
 
 Having now, therefore, nothing to reflect on but the past 
 scenes of my life, I have amused myself with giving you this 
 account of them. I said I had made physiognomy my study, 
 and that I had acquired some skill in this interesting sci- 
 ence. The result of my observation will at least be deemed 
 impartial, when I say, that I am generally least pleased with 
 the character of those faces, which appear the most so with 
 mine. And I have seen occasion so far to alter the opinions 
 of my inexperienced youth, that for those who pass the least 
 time with me, and treat me with little consideration, I con- 
 ceive the highest esteem ; and their aspect generally pro- 
 duces the most pleasing reflections. 
 
 LESSON VII. 
 
 The Discontented Pendulum. — Ibid. 
 
 An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's 
 kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint, 
 early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, 
 suddenly stopped. Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may 
 credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm ; the 
 hands made a vain effort to continue their course ; the wheels 
 remained motionless with surprise ; the weights hung speech- 
 less ; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the 
 others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to 
 the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, 
 with one voice, protested their innocence. 
 
 But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, 
 who thus spoke : — " I confess myself to be the sole cause 
 of the present stoppage ; and I am willing, for the general 
 satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am 
 tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became 
 so enraged, that it was on the very point of striking. 
 
24 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial plate, holding up its 
 hands. " Very good !" replied the pendulum ; " it is vastly 
 easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body 
 knows, set yourself up above rue, — it is vastly easy for you, 
 I say, to accuse other people of laziness ! — you, who have 
 had nothing to do all the days of your life, but to stare peo- 
 ple in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that 
 goes on in the kitchen ! Think, I beseech you, how you 
 would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to 
 wag backwards and forwards year after year, as I do." 
 
 " As to that," said the dial, " is there not a window in 
 your house, on purpose for you to look through ?" " For 
 all that," resumed the pendulum, " it is very dark here ; 
 and, although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for 
 an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of 
 my way of life ; and, if you wish, I'll tell you how I took 
 this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning 
 to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in 
 the course of only the next twenty-four hours ; perhaps some 
 of you, above there, can give me the exact sum." 
 
 The minute-hand, being quictc at figures, presently re- 
 plied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times." "Ex- 
 actly so," replied the pendulum. " Well, I appeal to you 
 all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue 
 one ; and, when I began to multiply the strokes of one day 
 by those of months and years, really, it is no wonder if I felt 
 discouraged at the prospect. So, after a great deal of reason- 
 ing and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop." 
 
 The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this 
 harangue ; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied : " Dear 
 Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, 
 industrious person as yourself, should have been overcome 
 by this sudden action. It is true, you have done a great 
 deal of work in your time ; so have we all, and are likely to 
 do ; which although it may fatigue us to think of, the ques- 
 tion is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do 
 me the favour to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate 
 my argument ?" i 
 
 The pendulum complied, and ticked six times in its usual 
 I pace. " Now," resumed the dial, " may I be allowed to 
 
 inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable 
 to you ?" " Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; " it is 
 not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions." 
 "Very good," replied the dial ; "but recollect, that, though 
 you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are re- 
 quired to execute but one ; and that, however often you may 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 25 
 
 hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you 
 to swing in." " That consideration staggers me, I confess," 
 said the pendulum. " Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, 
 " we shall all immediately return to our duty ; for the maids 
 will lie in bed if we stand idling thus." 
 
 Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of 
 light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to pro- 
 ceed ; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, 
 the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, 
 and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; while a red beam 
 of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitch- 
 en, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up, as if 
 nothing had been the matter. 
 
 When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, 
 upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had 
 gained half an hour in the night. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 A celebrated modern writer says, " Take care of the min- 
 utes, and the hours will take care of themselves." This is 
 an admirable remark, and might be very seasonably recol- 
 lected when we begin to be "weary in well-doing" from 
 the thought of having much to do. The present moment is 
 all we have to do with, in any sense ; the past is irrecover- 
 able, the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair to burden one mo- 
 ment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the mo- 
 ment is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hundred 
 miles, we should still have to set but one step at a time, 
 and this process, continued, would infallibly bring us to 
 our journey's end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always 
 increased, by calculating in a minute the exertion of hours. 
 
 Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect 
 that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its suf- 
 ferings, or encounter all its crosses, at once. One moment 
 comes laden with its own little burdens, then flies, and is 
 succeeded by another no heavier than the last : — if one could 
 be borne, so can another and another. 
 
 Even looking forward to a single day, the spirit may some- 
 times faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labours, 
 the trials to temper and patience, that may be expected. 
 Now this is unjustly laying the burden of many thousand 
 moments upon one. Let any one resolve always to do right 
 now, leaving then to do as it can, and, if he were to live to 
 the age of Methuselah, he would never do wrong. But 
 the common errour is, to resolve to act right after break- 
 fast, or after dinner, or to-morrow morning, or next time; 
 3 
 
26 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 but now, just now, this once, we must go on the same as 
 ever. 
 
 It is easy, for instance, for the most ill-tempered person 
 to resolve, that, the next time he is provoked, he will not let 
 his temper overcome him ; but the victory would be to sub- 
 due temper on the present provocation. If, without taking 
 up the burden of the future, we would always make the sin- 
 gle effort at the present moment ; while there would, at any 
 one time, be very little to do, yet, by this simple process, 
 continued, every thing would, at last, be done. 
 
 It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely 
 because we forget that, when to-morrow comes, then will be 
 now. Thus life passes, with many, in resolutions for the fu 
 ture, which the present never fulfils. It is not thus with 
 those, who, "by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for 
 glory, honour, and immortality." Day by day, minute by 
 minute, they execute the appointed task, to which the re- 
 quisite measure of time and strength is proportioned ; and 
 thus, having worked while it was called day, they at length 
 rest from their labours, and their works " follow them." Let 
 us then, " whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our 
 might, recollecting that now is the proper and accepted time." 
 
 LESSON VIII. 
 
 The Solitary Reaper. — Wordsworth. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself: 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain : 
 O listen ! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chant 
 So sweetly to reposing bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands ; 
 I No sweeter voice was ever heard 
 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 27 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago ■ 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again ? 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending : 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened — motionless and still ; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 LESSON IX. 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar. — Ibid. 
 
 I saw an aged beggar in my walk ; 
 And he was seated, by the highway side, 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they, 
 Who lead their horses down the steep, rough road, 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged man 
 Had placed his staff across the broad, smooth stone, 
 That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one, 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 Of idle computation. In the sun, 
 Upon the second step of that small pile, 
 Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills, 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
 That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs, in little showers, 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 Approached within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now. 
 He travels on, a solitary man, 
 So helpless, in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw 
 
28 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 With careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
 But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
 Within the old man's hat ; nor quits him so, 
 But still, when he has given his horse the rein 
 Towards the aged beggar turns a look 
 Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
 The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 The aged beggar in the woody lane, 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if perchance 
 The old man does not change his course, the boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 Lpon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary man, — 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
 They move along the ground ; and, evermore, 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
 Bowbent, his eyes forever on the ground, 
 He plies his weary journey ; seeing, still, 
 And never knowing that he sees, some straw, 
 Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 
 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
 Impressed on the white road, in the same line, 
 At distance still the same. Poor traveller ! 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
 Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 
 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
 Ere he have passed the door, will turn away, 
 Weary of barldng at him. Boys and girls, 
 The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
 And urchin newly breeched, all pass him by : 
 . Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves behind. 
 But deem not this man useless. Statesmen ! ye 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom ; ye 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
 To rid the world of nuisauces ; ye proud, 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
 Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 29 
 
 A burthen of the earth ! 'Tis nature's law 
 
 That none, the meanest of created things, 
 
 Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 
 Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of good, 
 
 A life and soul, to every mode of being 
 
 Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps 
 
 From door to door, the villagers in him 
 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 
 
 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
 
 The kindly mood in hearts, which lapse of years, 
 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 Hamlets and thinly scattered villages, 
 Where'er the aged beggar takes his rounds, 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
 Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
 Doth find itself insensibly disposed 
 To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which, to the end of time, 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle ; minds like these, 
 In childhood, from this solitary being, 
 This helpless wanderer, have perchance received 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
 Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear 
 Which overhangs his head from the green wall, 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
 
30 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 His charters and exemptions : and perchance, 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 The respite of the season, he, at least, — 
 And 'tis no vulgar service, — makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further. Many, I believe, there are 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency ; 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent, 
 Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart 
 Or act of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor, 
 Go, and demand of him if there be here, 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul ? 
 No — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 When they can know and feel that they have been, 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 
 Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause, 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind being known, 
 My neighbour, when, with punctual care, each week, 
 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 
 By her own wants, she from her chest of meal 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 Of this old mendicant, and, from her door 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And while, in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has led him, he appears 
 / To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 
 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant law of heaven 
 Has hung around him : and, while life is his, 
 Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 
 — Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 31 
 
 And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
 The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath 
 Beat his gray locks against his withered face. 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
 Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din, 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, " 
 Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
 Let him be free of mountain solitudes ; 
 And have around him, whether heard or not, 
 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
 Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 
 Been doomed so long to settle on the earth, 
 That not without some effort they behold 
 The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
 Rising or setting, let the light, at least, 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 And let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank 
 Of high-way side, and with the little birds 
 Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 
 LESSON X. 
 
 On Evil Communication. — Alison. 
 
 There is no prospect more painful to a thoughtful mind, 
 than that of the first commencement of vice or folly in the 
 human character. It is pleasing to us to look upon the 
 openings of human nature ; amid the years of infancy, to see 
 the gradual expansion of the youthful mind in benevolence 
 and knowledge ; and to anticipate that future state of matu- 
 rity, when all these promises shall be accomplished, and the 
 character terminate in virtue and in usefulness. How painful, 
 on the contrary, is it, (even to the unconnected spectators,) 
 to see all these hopes disappointed,— to see the spring of 
 life untimely blasted by some malignant power, which with- 
 ers all the blossoms of virtue, and closes all the expectations 
 we had formed of their opening being ! Even of the fee- 
 blest' characters we still lament to see the degradation. If 
 we had formed no hopes of their fame, we at least entertain- 
 
32 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 ed hopes of their goodness ; if they had not been distinguish- 
 ed, we think, they might yet have been innocent. In the 
 obscurity of private virtue, they might have " led the life of 
 the righteous," full of peace and hope, and " their latter end" 
 might at last "have been like his." 
 
 In almost every case the young begin well. They come 
 out of the hand of nature disposed to kindness, to generosi- 
 ty, and to gratitude ; ardent in the acquisition of knowledge, 
 and anxious to deserve the love and the esteem of those who 
 are about them. Such is the character of humanity in its 
 earlier years, until the age of pleasure and of passion ar- 
 rives. 
 
 At that eventful age, a new set of opinions and emotions 
 begin to arise in their minds ; the wish for distinction ex- 
 pands ; desires of pleasure awaken ; temptations surround 
 them on every side, while experience has not yet acquired 
 the power of resistance ; and thus the road opens upon them 
 which leads to folly or to vice. For all this, however, the 
 wisdom of Him who made them hath bountifully prepared, 
 by the timidity and modesty which he hath added to the 
 character of youth. While they are thus tempted to enjoy- 
 ment, they are, at the same time, beyond any other period of 
 life, fearful of doing wrong ; they are fearful of entering up- 
 on scenes where their consciousness of ignorance tells them 
 they are, as yet, unfit to appear ; they are fearful of losing 
 the esteem and love of their early friends ; and, still more, 
 if they have been virtuously brought up, they are fearful of 
 losing the favour of God, and his protection upon their future 
 years. By these wise and simple means, the Almighty hath 
 provided for the weakness of the young ; and, even in the 
 hours of ignorance, hath given them a guardian in their own 
 breasts, superior to all the wisdom of man, to save them 
 from the dangers of passion and inexperience. 
 
 If, accordingly, the young were left only to nature and 
 themselves, it is reasonable to think, that they might pass this 
 important period of life without danger ; and that, whatever 
 might be the strength of their passions, diffidence and con- 
 science would be sufficient to command them. But, unhap- 
 pily for them, and unhappily for the world, it is at this time 
 that " evil communications" begin to assail them ; that they 
 are deceived by the promises of vice and folly ; and that all 
 the purity of early life is sometimes sacrificed, even at their 
 entry upon this important world. 
 
 It is not my purpose, at present, to state the progressive 
 steps of this melancholy history ; to show how the love of 
 pleasure undermines the energy and dignity of the human 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 33 
 
 mind ; how the society and companionship of evil gradually 
 break down all the fine delicacy and timidity of youth ; and 
 how habits of evil gradually assume a power superior to con- 
 science, and wind around the soul those chains of guilt 
 which no common incident can afterwards dissolve. 
 
 A voice more powerful than that of this place, — the voice 
 of experience, — speaks to the young of truths like these : it 
 tells them of many examples of those who began life with 
 every favourable prospect, and who have closed it, in early 
 years, under every circumstance of misery and disgrace ; it 
 tells them, that all this, the most disastrous spectacle upon 
 which their eyes can open, has been the fruit of " evil com- 
 munication ;" and it warns them " to keep their own hearts 
 with all diligence, for out of them must also be the issues of 
 their future lives." 
 
 If such instances can awaken them to thought and medi- 
 tation, there are some reflections which it is wise in them, 
 at this time, to cherish. It is wise in them, in the first 
 place, to remember the importance of that feeling of delicacy 
 and fearfulness of doing wrong, which is the most amiable 
 characteristic of their age. Let not the ridicule or rudeness 
 of the world prevail upon them to abandon this first friend 
 of their youth. It is not the language of men, — it is none 
 other than the voice of God, — the voice of him who made 
 them for happiness and immortality, and who, in these early 
 hours, speaks to them by a secret instinct, to warn them of 
 all that is fatal or disgraceful to their nature ; and, would 
 they attend to it, would they make it the simple standard by 
 which to determine their conduct, the most eventful years 
 of life would pass in security and innocence, and maturity 
 open upon them with every promise of virtue and honour. 
 
 It is wise in them, in the second place, to reflect for what 
 it is that they were born, and in what consists the real happi- 
 ness of mortal life. Youth, as well as age, has its seasons 
 of meditation, and it is ever with a thoughtful and anxious 
 eye that they look down upon the great scene upon which 
 they are about to enter. That scene has two principal inci- 
 dents to show them, — that of those whom evil communica- 
 tion has seduced to ruin and disgrace ; and that of those 
 whom perseverance in good manners has led to honour, to 
 distinction, and to happiness. In viewing this scene, let 
 them never forget, that to one or other of these characters 
 they must belong ; that time and nature are pressing them 
 on to act upon that stage which they now only behold ; and 
 that every thing that is dear to them, every thing for which 
 they would wish to live, depends upon the wise part which 
 

 34 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 they now take, and which, if firmly taken, by the grace of 
 God, will never be taken from them. 
 
 It is wise in them, in the last place, to look beyond the 
 world, and to consider the final destiny of their being. Ev- 
 ery thing tells them, that they were not born for a transitory 
 nature ; and the Gospel has assured them, that u life and 
 immortality are brought to light" by Him who died for 
 them. Let them learn, then, the importance of that exist- 
 ence which is given them, and the magnitude of those hopes 
 and expectations to which they are called. Do they dread 
 (with the natural generosity of youth) to come short of these 
 expectations, to forfeit all these hopes, and, in the awful 
 hour of final judgment, to be excluded from the kingdom of 
 God ? Let them, then, remember, that it is evil conversation 
 which is the deadliest enemy of their peace, the enemy 
 against whom it is most their business to prepare ; that it is 
 this which has so often withered all the promises of youth, 
 which opened as fair as their own ; and which has covered 
 the remainder of life and eternity in gloom and wo. 
 
 LESSON XI. 
 
 Reflections on Winter. — Ibid. 
 
 There are emotions which every where characterize the 
 different seasons of the year. In its progress, the savage is 
 led, as well as the sage, to see the varying attributes of the 
 Divine Mind ; and, in its magnificent circle, it is fitted to 
 awaken, in succession, tjje loftiest sentiments of piety which 
 the heart can feel. When spring appears, when the earth 
 is covered with its tender green, and the song of happiness 
 is heard in every shade, it is a call to us to religious hope 
 and joy. Over the infant year the breath of heaven seems 
 to blow with paternal softness, and the heart of man willing- 
 ly participates in the joyfulness of awakened nature. When 
 summer reigns, and every element is filled with life, and the 
 sun, like a giant, pursues his course through the firmament 
 above, it is the season of solemn adoration : we see then, as 
 it were, the majesty of the present God ; and, wherever we 
 direct our eye, " the glory of the Lord seems to cover the 
 earth, as the waters cover the sea." When autumn comes, 
 and the annual miracle of nature is completed, " when all 
 things that exist have waited upon the God which made 
 them, and he hath given them food in due season," it is the 
 appropriate season of thankfulness and praise. The heart 
 bends with instinctive gratitude before Him, whose benefit- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 35 
 
 cence "neither slumbers nor sleeps," and who, from the 
 throne of glory, " yet remembereth the things that are in 
 heaven and earth." 
 
 The season of winter has, also, similar instructions. To 
 the thoughtful and the feeling mind it comes not without a 
 blessing upon its wings ; and, perhaps, the noblest lessons 
 of religion are to be learned amid its clouds and storms. 
 
 It is a season of solemnity, and the aspect of every thing 
 around us is fitted to call the mind to deep and serious 
 thought. The gay variety of nature is no more, the sounds 
 of joy have ceased, and the flowers, which opened to the ray 
 of summer, are all now returned to dust. The sun himself 
 seems to withdraw his light, or to become enfeebled in his 
 power; and, while night usurps her dark and silent reign, 
 the host of heaven burst with new radiance upon our view, 
 and pursue, through unfathomable space, their bright career. 
 It is the season when we best learn the greatness of Him 
 that made us. The appearances of other seasons confine 
 our regards, chiefly, to the world we inhabit. It is in the 
 darkness of winter that we raise our eyes to " those heavens 
 which declare his power, and to that firmament which shew- 
 eth his handy work." The mind expands while it loses it- 
 self amid the infinity of being ; and, from the gloom of this 
 lower world, imagination anticipates the splendours of "those 
 new heavens and that new earth," which are to be the final 
 seats of the children of God. 
 
 But there is still a greater reflection, which the season is 
 destined to inspire. While we contemplate the decaying 
 sun, while we weep over the bier of nature, and hear the 
 winds of winter desolating the earth, what is it that this an- 
 nual revolution teaches even to the infant mind ? Is it that 
 the powers of nature have failed, that the world waxeth old, 
 and that the night of existence is approaching ? No ! It is, 
 that this reign of gloom and desolation will pass ; it is, that 
 spring will again return, and that nature will resume its robe 
 of beauty. In the multitude of years that have gone before 
 us, this mighty resurrection has annually been accomplished. 
 To our fathers, and the old time before them, the yearly be- 
 neficence of Heaven has been renewed; and, while the 
 night of winter has sunk in heaviness, joy hath as uniform- 
 ly attended the morning of the spring. 
 
 There is no language which can speak more intelligibly 
 to the thoughtful mind than this language of nature ; and it 
 is repeated to us, as it were, every year, to teach us trust 
 and confidence in God. It tells us, that the power which 
 first created existence is weakened by no time, and' subject 
 
i 
 
 36 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 to no decay ; it tells us, that, in the majesty of his reign, " a 
 thousand years are but as one day," while, in the benefi- 
 cenee of it, " one day is as a thousand years ;" — it tells us, 
 still farther, that, in the magnificent system of his govern- 
 ment, there exists no evil; that the appearances, which, to 
 our limited and temporary view, seem pregnant with destruc- 
 tion, are, in the mighty extent of his providence, the sources 
 of returning good ; and that, in the very hours when we 
 might conceive nature to be deserted and forlorn, the spirit 
 of the Almighty is operating with unceasing force, and pre- 
 paring in silence the renovation of the world. 
 
 LESSON XII. 
 Observations on Milton. — Campbell. 
 
 In Milton there may be traced obligations to several mi- 
 nor English poets ; but his genius had too great a supremacy 
 to belong to any school. Though he acknowledged a filial 
 reverence for Spenser as a poet, he left no Gothic, irregular 
 tracery in the design of his own great work, but gave a clas- 
 sical harmony of parts to its stupendous pile. It thus resem- 
 bles a dome, the vastness of which is at first .sight concealed 
 by its symmetry, but which expands more and more to the 
 eye while it is contemplated. 
 
 His early poetry seems to have neither disturbed nor cor- 
 rected the bad taste of his age. Comus came into the world 
 unacknowledged by its author, and Lycidas appeared at first 
 only with his initials. These, and other exquisite pieces, 
 composed in the happiest years of his life, at his father's 
 country-house at Horton, were collectively published, with 
 his name affixed to them, in 1645 ; but that precious vol- 
 ume, which included L'Allegro and II Penseroso, did not, it 
 is believed, come to a second edition, till it was republished 
 by himself at the distance of eight-and-twenty years. Al- 
 most a century elapsed before his minor works obtained their 
 proper fame. Handel's music is said, by Dr. Warton, to 
 have drawn the first attention to them ; but they must have 
 been admired before Handel set them to music ; for he was 
 assuredly not the first to discover their beauty. 
 
 But of Milton's poetry being above the comprehension of 
 his age, we should have a sufficient proof, if we had no oth- 
 er, in the grave remark of Lord Clarendon, that Cowley had, 
 in his time, " taken a flight above all men in poetry." Even 
 when Paradise Lost appeared, though it was not neglected, 
 it attracted no crowd of imitators, and made no visible change 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 37 
 
 in the poetical practice of the age. He stood alone, and 
 aloof above his times, the bard of immortal subjects, and, as 
 far as there is perpetuity in language, of immortal fame. 
 The very choice of those subjects bespoke a contempt for 
 any species of excellence that was attainable by other men. 
 There is something that overawes the mind in conceiving 
 his long-deliberated selection of that theme ; his attempting 
 it when his eyes were shut upon the face of nature ; his de- 
 pendence, we might almost say, on supernatural inspiration ; 
 and in the calm air of strength with which he opens Para- 
 dise Lost, beginning a mighty performance without the ap- 
 pearance of an effort. 
 
 Taking the subject all in all, his powers could nowhere 
 else have enjoyed the same scope. It was only from the 
 height of this great argument, that he could look back upon 
 eternity past, and forward upon eternity to come ; that he 
 could survey the abyss of infernal darkness, open visions of 
 Paradise, or ascend to heaven and breathe empyreal air. 
 Still the subject had precipitous difficulties. It obliged him 
 to relinquish the warm, multifarious interests of human life. 
 For these, indeed, he could substitute holier things ; but a 
 more insuperable objection to the theme was, that it involv- 
 ed the representation of a war between the Almighty and his 
 created beings. To the vicissitudes of such a warfare it was 
 impossible to make us attach the same fluctuations of hope 
 and fear, the same curiosity, suspense, and sympathy, which 
 we feel amidst the battles of the Iliad, and which make eve- 
 ry brave young spirit long to be in the midst of them. 
 
 Milton has certainly triumphed over one difficulty of his 
 subject, the paucity and the loneliness of its human agents ; 
 for no one, in contemplating the garden of Eden, would wish 
 to exchange it for a more populous world. His earthly pair 
 could only be represented, during their innocence, as beings 
 of simple enjoyment and negative virtue, with no other pas- 
 sions than the fear of Heaven, and the love of each other. 
 Yet, from these materials, what a picture has he drawn of 
 their homage to the Deity, their mutual affection, and the 
 horrors of their alienation ! By concentrating all exquisite 
 ideas of external nature in the representation of their abode ; 
 by conveying an inspired impression of their spirits and 
 forms, whilst they first shone under the fresh light of crea- 
 tive heaven ; by these powers of description, he links our 
 first parents, in harmonious subordination, to the angelic na- 
 tures ; he supports them in the balance of poetical impor- 
 tance with their divine coadjutors and enemies, and makes 
 them appear at once worthy of the friendship and envy of gods. 
 4 
 
38 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Id the angelic warfare of the poem, Milton has done 
 whatever human genius could accomplish. But, although 
 Satan speaks of having " put to proof his (Maker's) high su- 
 premacy, in dubious battle, on the plains of heaven," the 
 expression, though finely characteristic of his blasphemous 
 pride, does not prevent us from feeling that the battle can- 
 not for a moment be dubious. Whilst the powers of de- 
 scription and language are taxed and exhausted to portray 
 the combat, it is impossible not to feel, with regard to the 
 blessed spirits, a profound and reposing security that they 
 have neither great dangers to fear, nor reverses to suffer. 
 At the same time it must be said, that, although, in the actu- 
 al contact of the armies, the inequality of the strife becomes 
 strongly visible to the imagination, and makes it a contest 
 more of noise than terror ; yet, while positive action is sus- 
 pended, there is a warlike grandeur in the poem, which is 
 nowhere to be paralleled. When Milton's genius dares to 
 invest the Almighty himself with arms, " his bow and thun- 
 der," the astonished mind admits the image with a mo- 
 mentary credence. It is otherwise when we are involved 
 in the circumstantial details of the campaign. We have 
 then leisure to anticipate its only possible issue, and can feel 
 no alarm for any temporary check that may be given to 
 those who fight under the banners of Omnipotence. 
 
 The warlike part of Paradise Lost was inseparable from 
 its subject. Whether it could have been differently man- 
 aged, is a problem which our reverence for Milton will 
 scarcely permit us to state. I feel that reverence too strong- 
 ly to suggest even the possibility that Milton could have im- 
 proved his poem by having thrown his angelic warfare into 
 more remote perspective ; but it seems to me to be most sub- 
 lime when it is least distinctly brought home to the imagi- 
 nation. What an awful effect has the dim and undefined 
 conception of the conflict, which we gather from the opening 
 of the first book ! There the veil of mystery is left undrawn 
 between us and a subject, which the powers of description 
 were inadequate to exhibit. The ministers of divine ven- 
 geance and pursuit had been recalled, the thunders had 
 ceased 
 
 " To bellow through the vast and boundless deep/' 
 
 (in that line what an image of sound and space is convey- 
 ed !) and our terrific conception of the past is deepened by its 
 indistinctness. In optics there are some phenomena which 
 are beautifully deceptive at a certain distance, but which 
 lose their illusive charm on the slightest approach to them, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 39 
 
 that changes the light and position in which they are viewed. 
 Something like this takes place in the phenomena of fancy. 
 The array of the fallen angels in hell, the unfurling of the 
 standard of Satan, and the march of his troops, 
 
 " In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood 
 Of flutes and soft recorders/' — 
 
 all this human pomp and circumstance of war is magic and 
 overwhelming illusion : the imagination is taken by sur- 
 prise. But the noblest efforts of language are tried with ve- 
 ry unequal effect to interest us in the immediate and close 
 view of the battle itself in the sixth book 5 and the martial 
 demons, who charmed us in the shades of hell, lose some 
 portion of their sublimity when their artillery is discharged 
 in the day-light of heaven. 
 
 If we call diction the garb of thought, Milton, in his style, 
 may be said to wear the costume of sovereignty. The idi- 
 oms even of foreign languages contributed to adorn it. He 
 was the most learned of poets ; yet his learning interferes 
 not with his substantial English purity. His simplicity is 
 unimpaired by glowing ornament, like the bush in the sacred 
 flame, which burnt, but "was not consumed." 
 
 LESSON XIII. 
 
 Patience. — Ibid. 
 Written on visiting a scene in Argyleshire. 
 
 At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, 
 
 I have mused, in a sorrowful mood, 
 On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, 
 
 Where the home of my forefathers stood. 
 All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, 
 
 And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ; 
 And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, 
 Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode 
 
 To his hills that encircle the sea. 
 
 Yet, wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, 
 
 By the dial-stone aged and green, 
 One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 
 
 To mark where a garden had been. 
 Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 
 
 All wild, in the silence of nature, it drew 
 From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace ; 
 For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place, 
 
 Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 
 
40 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all 
 
 That remains in this desolate heart ! 
 The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 
 
 But patience shall never depart ! 
 Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright. 
 
 In the days of delusion by fancy combined 
 With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
 Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 
 
 And leave but a desert behind. 
 
 Be hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns 
 
 When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
 Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 
 Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, 
 
 May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! 
 Yea, even the name I have worshipped in vain 
 Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again : — 
 
 To bear, is to conquer our fate. 
 
 LESSON XIV. 
 Description of Roscoe. — Washington Irving. 
 
 One of the first places, to which a stranger is taken in 
 Liverpool, is the Athenseum. It is established on a liberal 
 and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious 
 reading room, and is the great literary resort of the place. 
 Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled 
 with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
 of newspapers. 
 
 As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my atten~ 
 tion was attracted to a person just entering the room. He 
 was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once 
 have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — 
 perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of counte- 
 nance ; a head that would have pleased a painter ; and, 
 though some slight farrows on his brow showed that wasting 
 thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with 
 the fire of a poetic soul. There was something in his whole 
 appearance that indicated a being of a different order from 
 the bustling race around him. 
 
 I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. 
 I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, 
 then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men, 
 whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 41 
 
 with whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes 
 of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know 
 European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive 
 of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pur- 
 suits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the 
 dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like 
 superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their own 
 genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 
 
 To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici* 
 mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my 
 poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and sit- 
 uation, in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives 
 his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice 
 how some minds seem almost to create themselves, spring- 
 ing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary 
 but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature 
 seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with 
 which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity, and to 
 glory in the vigour and luxuriance of her chance productions. 
 She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and, though 
 some may perish among the stony places of the world, and 
 some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, 
 yet others will, now and then, strike root even in the clefts 
 of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread 
 over their sterile birth-place all the beauties of vegetation. 
 
 Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
 apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the 
 very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connec- 
 tions, or patronage ; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost 
 self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his 
 way to eminence, and, having become one of the ornaments 
 of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and 
 influence to advance and embellish his native town. 
 
 Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given 
 him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particu- 
 larly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his 
 literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished 
 authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, 
 live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their 
 private history presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, 
 a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At 
 best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and com- 
 mon-place of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of 
 lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive 
 enjoyment. 
 
 *Med'e-tche. 
 
 # 
 
42 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- 
 corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no 
 garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth 
 into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted 
 bowers by the way side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim 
 and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the 
 labouring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the 
 day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There 
 is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may med- 
 itate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty, and almost use- 
 less, because inimitable, example of excellence; but pre- 
 sents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, 
 which are within every man's reach, but which not many 
 exercise, or this world would be a paradise. 
 
 But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 
 citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and 
 the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser 
 plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, 
 not on the exclusive, devotion of time and wealth, nor the 
 quickening rays of titled patronage, but on hours and seasons 
 snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests by intelligent 
 and public-spirited individuals. 
 
 He has shown how much may be done for a place in 
 hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely 
 it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like 
 his own Lorenzo De Medici, on whom he seems to have fix- 
 ed his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven 
 the history of his life with the history of his native town, 
 and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of 
 his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive 
 traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He 
 found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of 
 traffic; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh 
 the gardens of literature. By his own example and constant 
 exertions, he has effected that union of commerce and the in- 
 tellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his 
 latest writings ;* and has practically proved how beautifully 
 they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each oth- 
 er. The noble institutions for literary and scientific pur- 
 poses, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving 
 such an impulse to the public mind, have, mostly, been origi- 
 nated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. Ros- 
 coe ; and, when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence 
 and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie, in com- 
 
 * Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 43 
 
 mercial importance, with the metropolis, it will be perceived 
 that, in awakening an ambition of mental improvement 
 among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit to the 
 cause of British literature. 
 
 In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author ; in 
 Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of 
 his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
 him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far 
 above the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the 
 world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of 
 adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by 
 the mutations of fortune. They do but drive him in upon 
 the resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of 
 his own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt, some- 
 times, to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less wor- 
 thy associates. He is independent of the world around him* 
 He lives with antiquity and posterity ; with antiquity, in the 
 sweet communion of studious retirement ; and with posterity, 
 in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude 
 of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then 
 visited by those elevated meditations, which are the proper 
 aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from hea- 
 ven, in the wilderness of this world. 
 
 LESSON XV. 
 
 Visit to the Grave of Shakspeare. — Ibid. 
 
 From the birth-place of Shakspeare, a few paces brought 
 rne to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
 church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
 richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the AVon, on 
 an embowered point, and separated, by adjoining gardens, 
 from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and re- 
 tired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
 yard, and the elms, which grow upon its banks, droop their 
 branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the 
 boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form, in 
 summer, an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of 
 the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with 
 grass ; the gray tomb-stones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
 earth, are half covered with moss, which has, likewise, tint- 
 ed the reverend old building. Small birds have built their 
 nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep 
 up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailing 
 and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 
 
44 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Tn the course of my rambles I met with the grayheaded 
 old sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of 
 the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for 
 eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
 man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the 
 use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cot- 
 tage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; 
 and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which 
 pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low, 
 white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, 
 served for parlour, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and 
 earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken 
 table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and 
 Prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family library, 
 composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
 An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, 
 ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a bright 
 warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's 
 horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. 
 
 The fire-place, as usual, was wide and deep enough to ad- 
 mit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the 
 old man's grand-daughter sewing, — a pretty blue-eyed girl, — 
 and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, 
 whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I 
 found, had been his companion from childhood. They had 
 played together in infancy; they had worked together in 
 manhood ; they were now tottering about, and gossiping 
 away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will, 
 probably, be buried together in the neighbouring church- 
 yard. It is not often that we see two streams of existence 
 running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in 
 such quiet u bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met 
 with. 
 
 I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
 bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing 
 new to impart. The long interval, during which Shakspeare's 
 writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow 
 over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely 
 any thing remains to his biographers but a scanty handful 
 of conjectures. 
 
 The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
 penters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubi- 
 lee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the 
 fete,* who superintended the arrangements, and who, ac- 
 cording to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively 
 
 * Pron. Fate. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 45 
 
 and bustling." John Ange had assisted, also, in cutting down 
 Shakspeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
 pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
 conception. 
 
 I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
 dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare 
 house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
 valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly 
 her remains of the mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even 
 expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her 
 house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion 
 with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter hav- 
 ing, comparatively, but few visitors. Thus it is that histori- 
 ans differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the 
 stream of truth diverge into different channels even at the 
 fountain head. 
 
 We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
 and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with 
 carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 
 the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most 
 country churches. There are several ancient monuments of 
 nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral es- 
 cutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. 
 The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place is 
 solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed 
 windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from 
 the walls, keeps up a low, perpetual murmur. A flat stone 
 marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines 
 inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and 
 which have in them something extremely awful. If they 
 are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet 
 of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
 thoughtful minds : 
 
 Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
 To dig the dust enclosed here. 
 Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
 And curst be he that moves my bones. 
 
 Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
 Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as 
 a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
 finely arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear 
 indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he 
 was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by 
 the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
 at the time of his decease— fifty-three years ; an untimely death 
 for the world : for what fruit might not have been expected 
 
46 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was 
 from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sun- 
 shine of popular and royal favour ? 
 
 The inscription on the tomb-stone has not been without its 
 effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from 
 the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which 
 was, at one time, contemplated. A few years since, also, 
 as some labourers were digging to make an adjoining vault, 
 the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like 
 an arch, through which one might have reached into his 
 grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his re- 
 mains, so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and, lest any 
 of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should 
 be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept 
 watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finish- 
 ed, and the aperture closed again. He told me, that he had 
 made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin 
 nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, 
 to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. 
 
 LESSON XVI. 
 Consolations of Religion to the Poor. — Percival. 
 
 There is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; 
 She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; 
 Her only hope is in that sacred token 
 Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er; 
 She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more 
 Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight 
 Of her Redeemer. Sceptics ! would you pour 
 Your blasting vials on her head, and blight [night? 
 
 Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's 
 
 She lives in her affections ; for the grave 
 Has closed upon her husband, children ; all 
 Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save 
 Her treasured jewels ; though her views are small, 
 Though she has never mounted high, to fall 
 And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring 
 Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall 
 Her unperverted palate, but will bring 
 A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. 
 
 Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave 
 Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er 
 With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, 
 The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 47 
 
 Of matted grass and flowers, — so softly pour 
 
 The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, 
 
 Low-bowed, before her Maker ; then no more 
 
 She muses on the griefs of former days ; 
 
 Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays. 
 
 And faith can see a new world, and the eyes 
 Of saints look pity on her : Death will come — 
 A few short moments over, and the prize 
 Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb 
 Becomes her fondest pillow ; all its gloom 
 Is scattered. What a meeting there will be 
 To her and all she loved here S and the bloom 
 Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee : 
 Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity. 
 
 LESSON XVII. 
 The Graves of the Patriots. — Ibid. 
 
 Here rest the great and good ; here they repose 
 After their generous toil. A sacred band, 
 They take their sleep together, while the year 
 Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves, 
 And gathers them again, as winter frowns. 
 Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre : green sods 
 Are all their monument, and yet it tells 
 A nobler history than pillared piles, 
 Or the eternal pyramids. They need 
 No statue nor inscription to reveal 
 Their greatness. It is round them ; and the joy 
 With which their children tread the hallowed ground 
 That holds their venerated bones, the peace 
 That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth 
 That clothes the land they rescued ; these, though mute,- 
 As feeling ever is when deepest, — these 
 Are monuments more lasting than the fanes 
 Reared to the kings and demigods of old. 
 
 Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade 
 Over their lowly graves ; beneath their boughs 
 There is a solemn darkness, even at noon, 
 Suited to such as visit at the shrine 
 Of serious liberty. No factious voice 
 Called them unto the field of generous fame, 
 But the pure, consecrated love of home. 
 No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes 
 In all its greatness. It has told itself 
 
48 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, 
 At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, 
 Where first our patriots sent the invader back 
 Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all 
 To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. 
 Their feelings were all nature, and they need 
 No art to make them known. They live in us, 
 While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, 
 Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts 
 And the one universal Lord. They need 
 No column, pointing to the heaven they sought, 
 To tell us of their home. The heart itself, 
 Left to its own free purpose, hastens there, 
 And there alone reposes. Let these elms 
 Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves, 
 And build, with their green roof, the only fane, 
 Where we may gather, on the hallowed day, 
 That rose to them in blood, and set in glory. 
 Here let us meet ; and, while our motionless lips 
 Give not a sound, and all around is mute 
 In the deep sabbath of a heart too full 
 For words or tears, here let us strew the sod 
 With the first flowers of spring, and make to them 
 An offering of the plenty nature gives, 
 And they have rendered ours — perpetually. 
 
 LESSON XVIII. 
 
 Embarkation of the Plymouth Pilgrims from England.— 
 
 D. Webster. 
 
 It is certain, that, although many of them were republi- 
 cans in principle, we have no evidence that our New-Eng- 
 land ancestors would have emigrated, as they did, from their 
 own native country, become wanderers in Europe, and, fi- 
 nally, undertaken the establishment of a colony here, merely 
 from their dislike of the political systems of Europe. They 
 fled, not so much from the civil government, as from the hi- 
 erarchy, and the laws which enforced conformity to the 
 church establishment. Mr. Robinson had left England as 
 early as sixteen hundred and eight, on account of the prose- 
 cutions for non-conformity, and had retired to Holland. Lie 
 left England, from no disappointed ambition in affairs of 
 state, from no regrets at the want of preferment in the church, 
 nor from any motive of distinction, or of gain. Uniformity, 
 in matters of religion, was pressed with such extreme rigour, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 49 
 
 that a voluntary exile seemed the most eligible mode of es- 
 caping from the penalties of non-compliance. The acces- 
 sion of Elizabeth had, it "is true, quenched the fires of 
 Smithfield, and put an end to the easy acquisition of the 
 crown of martyrdom. Her long reign had established the 
 reformation, but toleration was a virtue beyond her concep- 
 tion, and beyond the age. She left no example of it to her 
 successor ; and he was not of a character which rendered it 
 probable that a sentiment, either so wise or so liberal, should 
 originate with him. 
 
 At the present period, it seems incredible, that the learn- 
 ed, accomplished, unassuming, and inoffensive Robinson 
 should neither be tolerated in his own peaceable mode of 
 worship, in his own country, nor suffered quietly to depart 
 from it. Yet such was the fact. He left his country by 
 stealth, that he might elsewhere enjoy those rights which 
 ought to belong to men in all countries. The embarkation 
 of the Pilgrims for Holland is deeply interesting, from its 
 circumstances, and also as it marks the character of the 
 times, independently of its connexion with names now in- 
 corporated with the history of empire. The embarkation 
 was intended to be in the night, that it might escape the 
 notice of the officers of government. Great pains had been 
 taken to secure boats, which should come undiscovered to 
 the shore, and receive the fugitives ; and frequent disap- 
 pointments had been experienced in this respect. At length 
 the appointed time came, bringing with it unusual severity 
 of cold and rain. An unfrequented and barren heath, on the 
 shores of Lincolnshire, was the selected spot, where the 
 feet of the Pilgrims were to tread, for the last time, the land 
 of their fathers. 
 
 The vessel which was to receive them did not come un- 
 til the next dav, and in the mean time the little band was 
 collected, and men, and women, and children, and baggage, 
 were crowded together, in melancholy and distressed confu- 
 sion. The sea was rough, and the women and children already 
 sick, from their passage down the river to the place of em- 
 barkation. At length the wished-for boat silently and fear- 
 fully approaches the shore, and men, and women, and children, 
 shaking with fear and with cold, as many as the small ves- 
 sel could bear, venture off on a dangerous sea. Immedi- 
 ately the advance of horses is heard from behind, armed 
 men appear, and those not yet embarked are seized, and 
 taken into custody. In the hurry of the moment, there had 
 been no regard to the keeping together of families, in the 
 first embarkation ; and, on account of the appearance of the 
 5 
 
50 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 horsemen, the boat never returned for the residue. Those 
 who had got away, and those who had not, were in equal 
 distress. A storm, of great violence, and long duration, 
 arose at sea, which not only protracted the voyage, render- 
 ed distressing by the want of all those accommodations 
 which the interruption of the embarkation had occasioned, 
 but also forced the vessel out of her course, and menaced 
 immediate shipwreck ; while those on shore, when they 
 were dismissed from the custody of the officers of justice, 
 having no longer homes or houses to retire to, and their 
 friends and protectors being already gone, became objects 
 of necessary charity, as well as of deep commiseration. 
 
 As this scene passes before us, we can hardly forbear ask- 
 ing whether this be a band of malefactors and felons flying 
 from justice ? What are their crimes, that they hide them- 
 selves in darkness ? To what punishment are they exposed, 
 that, to avoid it, men, and women, and children, thus en- 
 counter the surf of the North Sea, and the terrors of a night 
 storm ? What induces this armed pursuit, and this arrest of 
 fugitives, of all ages and both sexes ? — Truth does not allow 
 us to answer these inquiries in a manner that does credit to 
 the wisdom or the justice of the times. This was not the 
 flight of guilt, but of virtue. It was an humble and peacea- 
 ble religion, flying from causeless oppression. It was con- 
 science, attempting to escape from the arbitrary rule of the 
 Stuarts. It was Robinson and Brewster, leading off their 
 little band from their native soil, at first to find shelter on 
 the shores of the neighbouring continent, but ultimately to 
 come hither ; and, having surmounted all difficulties, and 
 braved a thousand dangers, to find here a place of refuge 
 and of rest. Thanks be to God, that this spot was honour- 
 ed as the asylum of religious liberty. May its standard, 
 reared here, remain forever ! May it rise up as high as 
 heaven, till its banner shall fan the air of both continents, 
 and wave as a glorious ensign of peace and security to the 
 nations ! 
 
 LESSON XIX. 
 
 On the laying of the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monu- 
 ment. — Ibid. 
 
 The society, whose organ I am, was formed for the pur- 
 pose of rearing some honourable and durable monument to 
 the memory of the early friends of American Independence. 
 They have thought, that, for this object, no time could be 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 51 
 
 more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful 
 period ; that no place could claim preference over this mem- 
 orable spot ; and that no day could be more auspicious to 
 the undertaking than the anniversary of the battle which 
 was here fought. The foundation of that monument we 
 have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, 
 with prayers to Almighty God for his blessing, and in the 
 midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun the work. 
 We trust it will be prosecuted ; and that, springing from a 
 broad foundation, rising high in massive solidity and una- 
 dorned grandeur, it may remain, as long as Heaven permits 
 the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events 
 in memory of which it is raised, and of the gratitude of 
 those who have reared it. 
 
 We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is 
 most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of man- 
 kind. We know, that, if we could cause this structure to 
 ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced 
 them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, 
 which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread 
 over the earth, and which history charges itself with mak- 
 ing known to all future times. We know that no inscrip- 
 tion, on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can 
 carry information of the events we commemorate where it 
 has not already gone ; and that no structure, which shall 
 not outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among 
 men, can prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this 
 edifice, to show our own deep sense of the value and im- 
 portance of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by 
 presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive 
 similar sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the 
 principles of the revolution. Human beings are composed, 
 not of reason only, but of imagination, also, and sentiment ; 
 and that is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appro- 
 priated to the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, 
 and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate 
 national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. 
 It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the 
 spirit of national independence, and we wish that the light 
 of peace may rest upon it forever. We rear a memorial of 
 our conviction of that unmeasured benefit, which has been 
 conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences, 
 which have been produced, by the same events, on the gen- 
 eral interests of mankind. We come, as Americans, to 
 mark a spot, which must forever be dear to us and our pos- 
 
52 1HE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 terity. We wish, that whosoever, in all corning time, shall 
 turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not undis- 
 tinguished, where the first great battle of the revolution was 
 fought. We wish, that this structure may proclaim the 
 magnitude and importance of that event to every class and 
 every age. We wish, that infancy may learn the purpose of 
 its erection from maternal lips, and that weary and withered 
 age may behold it, and be solaced by the recollections which 
 it suggests. We wish, that labour may look up here, and 
 be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish, that, in those 
 days of disaster, which, as they come on all nations, must 
 be expected to come on us also, desponding patriotism may 
 turn its eyes hitherward, and be assured that the foundations 
 of our national power still stand strong. We wish, that this 
 column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of 
 so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute, also, to 
 produce, in all minds, a pious feeling of dependence and grat- 
 itude. We wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of 
 him who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden his 
 who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him 
 of the liberty and the glory of his country. Let it rise, till it 
 meet the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of the morn- 
 ing gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit. 
 
 LESSON XX. 
 An April Day. — Longfellow. 
 
 When the warm sun, that brings 
 Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 
 
 The first flower of the plain. 
 
 I love the season well 
 When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
 Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
 
 The coming-in of storms. 
 
 From the earth's loosened mould 
 The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : 
 Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 
 
 The drooping tree revives. 
 
 The softly-warbled song 
 Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
 Are glancing in the golden sun along 
 
 The forest openings. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 53 
 
 And, when bright sunset fills 
 The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
 Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 
 
 And wide the upland glows. 
 
 And, when the day is gone, 
 In the blue lake the sky o'erreaching far 
 Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 
 
 And twinkles many a star. 
 
 Inverted in the tide 
 Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw ; 
 And the fair trees look over, side by side, 
 
 And see themselves below. 
 
 Sweet April ! many a thought 
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
 Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 
 
 Life's golden fruit is shed. 
 
 LESSON XXI. 
 Woods in Winter. — Ibid. 
 
 When winter winds are piercing chill, 
 
 And through the white-thorn blows the gale, 
 
 With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
 That over-brows the lonely vale. 
 
 O'er the bare upland, and away 
 
 Through the long reach of desert woods, 
 
 The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
 And gladden these deep solitudes. 
 
 On the gray maple's crusted bark 
 Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ; 
 
 Whilst in the frozen fountain — hark ! — 
 His piercing beak the bittern dips. 
 
 Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
 The summer vine in beauty clung, 
 
 And summer winds the stillness broke, — ■ 
 The crystal icicle is hung. 
 
 Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
 
 Pour out the river's gradual tide, 
 Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 
 
 And voices fill the woodland side. 
 
 5 * 
 
54 . THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
 When birds sang out their mellow lay ; 
 
 And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
 And the song ceased not with the day ! 
 
 But still wild music is abroad, 
 
 Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
 And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, 
 
 Amid the vocal reeds, pipe loud. 
 
 Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
 Has grown familiar with your song ; 
 
 I hear it in the opening year — 
 I listen, and it cheers me long. 
 
 LESSON XXII. 
 Examples of Decision of Character. — John Foster. 
 
 I have repeatedly remarked to you, in conversation, the 
 effect of what has been called a ruling passion. When its ob- 
 ject is noble, and an enlightened understanding directs its 
 movements, it appears to me a great felicity ; but, whether 
 its object be noble or not, it infallibly creates, where it exists 
 in great force, that active, ardent constancy, which I describe 
 as a capital feature of the decisive character. The subject 
 of such a commanding passion wonders, if indeed he were 
 at leisure to wonder, at the persons who pretend to attach 
 importance to an object which they make none but the most 
 languid efforts to secure. The utmost powers of the man 
 are constrained into the service of the favourite cause by 
 this passion, which sweeps away, as it advances, all the triv- 
 ial objections and little opposing motives, and seems al- 
 most to open a way through impossibilities. This spirit 
 comes on him in the morning as soon as he recovers his 
 consciousness, and commands and impels him through the 
 day with a power from which he could not emancipate him- 
 self if he would. When the force of habit is added, the de- 
 termination becomes invincible, and seems to assume rank 
 with the great laws of nature, making it nearly as certain 
 that such a man will persist in his course, as that, in the 
 morning, the sun will rise. 
 
 A persisting, untameable efficacy of soul, gives a seduc- 
 tive and pernicious dignity even to a character and a 
 course, which every moral principle forbids us to approve 
 Often, in the narrations of history and fiction, an agent of 
 the most dreadful designs compels a sentiment of deep re- 
 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 55 
 
 spect for the unconquerable mind displayed in their execu- 
 tion. While we shudder at his activity, we say with regret, 
 mingled with an admiration which borders on partiality, 
 What a noble being this would have been, if goodness had 
 been his destiny ! The partiality is evinced in the very 
 selection of terms, by which we show that we are tempted 
 to refer his atrocity rather to his destiny than to his choice. 
 In some of the high examples of ambition, we almost revere 
 the force of mind which impelled them forward through the 
 longest series of action, superior to doubt and fluctuation, 
 and disdainful of ease, of pleasures, of opposition, and of 
 hazard. We boW to the ambitious spirit, which reached the 
 true sublime in the reply of Poinpey to his friends, who dis- 
 suaded him from venturing on a tempestuous sea, in order 
 to be at Rome on an important occasion : " It is necessary 
 for me to go — it is not necessary for me to live." 
 
 You may recollect the mention, in one of our conversa- 
 tions, of a young man who wasted, in two or three years, a 
 large patrimony, in profligate revels with a number of worth- 
 less associates, who called themselves his friends, and who, 
 when his last means were exhausted, treated him, of course, 
 with neglect or contempt. Reduced to absolute want, he 
 one day went out of the house with an intention to put an 
 end to his life ; but, wandering a while almost unconsciously, 
 he came to the brow of an eminence which overlooked what 
 were lately his estates. Here he sat down, and remained 
 fixed in thought a number of hours, at the end of which he 
 sprang from the ground with a vehement, exulting emotion. 
 He had formed his resolution, which was, that all these 
 estates should be his again : he had formed his plan, too, 
 which he instantly began to execute. 
 
 He walked hastily forward, determined to seize the very 
 first opportunity, of however humble a kind, to gain any 
 money, though it were ever so despicable a trifle, and re- 
 solved absolutely not to spend, if he could help it, a farthing 
 of whatsoever he might obtain. The first thing that drew 
 his attention was a heap of coals shot out of carts on the 
 pavement before a house. He offered himself to shovel or 
 wheel them into the place where they were to be laid, and 
 was employed. He received a few pence for the labour, 
 and then, in pursuance of the saving part of his plan, re- 
 quested some small gratuity of meat and drink, which was 
 given him. He th^n looked out for the next thing that 
 might chance to offer, and went, with indefatigable industry, 
 through a succession of servile employments in different 
 places, of longer and shorter duration, still scrupulously 
 
56 THE CLASSICAL .READER. 
 
 avoiding, as far as possible, the expense of a penny. He 
 promptly seized every opportunity which could advance his 
 design, without regarding the meanness of occupation or 
 appearance. 
 
 By this method he had gained, after a considerable time, 
 money enough to purchase, in order to sell again, a few 
 cattle, of which he had taken pains to understand the value. 
 He speedily, but cautiously, turned his first gains into second 
 advantages ; retained, without a single deviation, his extreme 
 parsimony ; and thus advanced by degrees into larger trans- 
 actions and incipient wealth. I did not hear, or have for- 
 gotten, the continued course of his life ; but the final result 
 was, that he more than recovered his lost possessions, and 
 died an inveterate miser, worth £60,000. I have always 
 recollected this as a signal instance, though in an unfortunate 
 and ignoble direction, of decisive character, and of the extra- 
 ordinary effect which, according to general laws, belongs to 
 the strongest form of such a character. 
 
 But not less decision has been displayed by men of virtue. 
 In this distinction no man ever exceeded, for instance, or 
 ever will exceed, the late illustrious Howard. The energy 
 of his determination was so great, that if, instead of being 
 habitual, it had been shown only for a short time, on par- 
 ticular occasions, it would have appeared a vehement im- 
 petuosity ; but, by being unintermitted, it had an equability 
 of manner, which scarcely appeared to exceed the tone of a 
 calm constancy, it was so totally the reverse of any thing 
 like turbulence or agitation. It was the calmness of an 
 intensity kept uniform by the nature of the human mind 
 forbidding it to be more, and by the character of the indi- 
 vidual forbidding it to be less. The habitual passion of his 
 mind was a measure of feeling almost equal to the temporary 
 extremes and paroxysms of common minds : as a great river 
 in its customary state is equal to a small or moderate one 
 when swollen to a torrent. 
 
 The moment of finishing his plans in deliberation, and 
 commencing them in action, was the same. I wonder what 
 must have been the amount of that bribe, in emolument or 
 pleasure, that would have detained him a week inactive 
 after their final adjustment. The law which carries water 
 down a declivity was not more unconquerable and invariable 
 than the determination of his feelings towards the main ob- 
 ject. The importance of this object held his faculties in a 
 state of excitement, which was too rigid to be affected by 
 lighter interests, and on which, therefore, the beauties of 
 nature and of art had no power. He had no leisure feeling, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 57 
 
 which he could spare to be diverted among the innumerable 
 varieties of the extensive scene which he traversed ; all his 
 subordinate feelings lost their separate existence and opera- 
 tion, by falling into the grand one. 
 
 There have not been wanting trivial minds, to mark this 
 as a fault in his character. But the mere men of taste ought 
 to be silent -respecting such a man as Howard ; he is above 
 their sphere of judgment. The invisible spirits, who fulfil 
 their commission of philanthropy among mortals, do not care 
 about pictures, statues, and sumptuous buildings ; and no 
 more did he, when the time, in which he must have inspected 
 and admired them, would have been taken from the work to 
 which he had consecrated his life. The curiosity which he 
 might feel was reduced to wait till the hour should arrive, 
 when its gratification should be presented by conscience, 
 which kept a scrupulous charge of all his time, as the most 
 sacred duty of that hour. If he was still at every hour, when 
 it came, fated to feel the attractions of the fine arts but the 
 second claim, they might be sure of their revenge ; for no 
 other man will ever visit Rome under such a despotic con- 
 sciousness of duty, as to refuse himself time for surveying the 
 magnificence of its ruins. Such a sin against taste is very 
 far beyond the reach of common saintship to commit. It 
 implied an inconceivable severity of conviction, that he 
 had one thing to do, and that he who would do some great 
 thing in this short life, must apply himself to the work with 
 such a concentration of his forces, as, to idle spectators, who 
 live only to amuse themselves, looks like insanity. 
 
 His attention was so strongly and tenaciously fixed on his 
 object, that, even at the greatest distance, as the Egyptian 
 pyramids to travellers, it appeared to him with a luminous 
 distinctness, as if it had been nigh, and beguiled the toilsome 
 length of labour and enterprise by which he was to reach it. 
 It was so conspicuous before him, that not a step deviated 
 from the direction, and every movement, and every day, was 
 an approximation. As his method referred every thing he 
 did and thought to the end, ard as his exertion did not relax 
 for a moment, he made the trial, so seldom made, what is 
 the utmost effect which may be granted to the last possible 
 efforts of a human agent ; and," therefore, what he did not 
 accomplish he might conclude to be placed beyond the 
 sphere of mortal activity, and calmly leave to the immediate 
 disposal of Omnipotence. 
 
68 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XXIII. 
 
 Character of Napoleon Bonaparte. — C. Phillips. 
 
 Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount — space 
 no opposition that he did not spurn : and, whether amid Alpine 
 rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed proof against 
 peril, and empowered with ubiquity ! The whole continent 
 of Europe trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, 
 and the miracle of their execution. Scepticism bowed to the 
 prodigies of his performance ; romance assumed the air of his- 
 tory ; nor was there ought too incredible for belief, or too fanci- 
 ful for explanation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsi- 
 ca waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. 
 All the visions of antiquity became common-places in his con- 
 templation; kings were his people; nations were his out- 
 posts ; and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, 
 and churches, and cabinets, as if they were the titular digni- 
 taries of the chess-board ! 
 
 Amid all these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. 
 It mattered little whether in the field or the drawing-room, — 
 with the mob or the levee, — wearing the jacobin bonnet or 
 the iron crown, — banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Haps- 
 burg, — dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or con- 
 templating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic, — he was still the 
 same military despot ! Cradled in the camp, he was to the 
 last hour the darling of the army; and, whether in the camp 
 or the cabinet, he never forsook a friend or forgot a favour. 
 Of all his soldiers, not one abandoned him till affection was 
 useless, and their first stipulation was for the safety of their 
 favourite. They knew well, that, if he was lavish of them, 
 he was prodigal of himself ; and that, if he exposed them to 
 peril, he repaid them with plunder. 
 
 For the soldier, he subsidized every body; to the people he 
 made even pride pay tribute. The victorious veteran glitter- 
 ed with his gains ; and the capital, gorgeous with the spoils 
 of art, became the miniature metropolis of the universe. In 
 this wonderful combination, his affectation of literature must 
 not be omitted. The gaoler of the press, he affected the pat- 
 ronage of letters, — the proscriber of books, he encouraged phi- 
 losophy, — the persecutor of authors, and the murderer of 
 printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learning! — the 
 assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the denouncer 
 of Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the benefactor of 
 De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of 
 England.* 
 
 * Sir II. Davy. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 59 
 
 Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such 
 an individual consistency, were never before united in the 
 same character. A Royalist, a Republican, and an Emperor, 
 — -a Mahometan, a Catholic, and a patron of the Synagogue, 
 —a Subaltern and a Sovereign, — a Traitor and a Tyrant, — a 
 Christian and an Infidel, — he was, through all his vicissitudes, 
 the same stern, impatient, inflexible original, — the same mys- 
 terious, incomprehensible self, — the man without a model, 
 and without a shadow. 
 
 His fall, like his life, baffled all speculation ; in short, his 
 whole history was like a dream to the world, and no man can 
 tell how or why he was awakened from the reverie. Such is 
 a faint and feeble picture of Napoleon Bonaparte. 
 
 That he has done much evil, there is little doubt ; that he 
 has been the origin of much good, there is just as little. 
 Through his means, intentional or not, Spain, Portugal, and 
 France, have risen to the blessings of a free constitution ; Su- 
 perstition has found her grave in the ruins of the Inquisition ; 
 and the feudal system, with its whole train of tyrannic satel- 
 lites, has fled for ever. Kings may learn from him, that their 
 safest study, as well as their noblest, is the interest of the 
 people; the people are taught by him, that there is no despo- 
 tism so stupendous, against which they have not a resource ; 
 and, to those who would rise upon the ruins of both, he is 
 a living lesson, that, if ambition can raise them from the low- 
 est station, it can also prostrate them from the highest. 
 
 LESSON XXIV 
 
 Death will enter Palaces. — Southey. 
 
 And now the king's command went forth 
 Among the people, bidding old and young, 
 Husband and wife, the master and the slave, 
 All the collected multitudes of Ad, 
 Here to repair, and hold high festival, 
 That he might see his people, they behold 
 Their king's magnificence and power. 
 
 The day of festival arrived ; 
 Hither they came, the old man and the boy, 
 Husband and wife, the master and the slave, 
 Hither they came. From yonder high tower top, 
 The loftiest of the palace, Shedad looked 
 Down on his tribe : their tents on yonder sands 
 Rose like the countless billows of the sea ; 
 
60 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Their tread and voices like the ocean roar, 
 
 One deep confusion of tumultuous sounds. 
 They saw their king's magnificence ; beheld 
 
 His palace sparkling like the angel domes 
 Of paradise ; his garden like the bowers 
 Of early Eden ; and they shouted out, 
 
 Great is the king, a god upon the earth ! 
 
 Intoxicate with joy and pride, 
 He heard their blasphemies ; 
 And, in his wantonness of heart, he bade 
 The prophet Houd be brought ; 
 And o'er the marble courts, 
 And o'er the gorgeous rooms 
 Glittering with gems and gold, 
 He led the man of God. 
 u Is not this a stately pile ?" 
 Cried the monarch in his joy. 
 " Hath ever eye beheld, 
 Hath ever thought conceived, 
 Place more magnificent ? 
 Houd, they say that Heaven imparted 
 To thy lips the words of wisdom ! 
 Look at the riches round, 
 And value them aright, 
 If so thy wisdom can." 
 
 The prophet heard his vaunt, 
 And, with an awful smile, he answered him, 
 
 " Shedad ! only in the hour of death 
 We learn to value things like these aright." 
 
 " Hast thou a fault to find 
 In all thine eyes have seen ?" 
 
 Again the king exclaimed. 
 " Yea !" said the man of God ; 
 " The walls are weak, the building ill secured ; 
 Azrael can enter in ! 
 The Sarsar can pierce through, 
 The icy wind of Death !" 
 
 LESSON XXV. 
 
 The old Mart's Comforts. — Ibid. 
 You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 
 
 The few locks which are left you are gray ; 
 You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ; 
 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 61 
 
 In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
 
 I remembered that youth would fly fast, 
 And abused not my health and my vigour at first, 
 
 That I never might need them at last. 
 
 You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 
 
 And pleasures with youth pass away, 
 And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; 
 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
 
 I remembered that youth could not last ; 
 I thought of the future, whatever I did, 
 
 That I never might grieve for the past. 
 
 You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 
 
 And life must be hastening away ; 
 You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ! 
 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied ; 
 
 Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
 In the days of my youth I remembered my God ! 
 
 Ana He hath not forgotten my age. 
 
 LESSON XXVI. 
 The Well of St. Keyne. — Ibid. 
 
 A well there is in the west country, 
 
 And a clearer one never was seen ; 
 There is not a wife in the west country 
 
 But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 
 
 -An oak and an elm tree stand beside, 
 
 And behind does an ash tree grow, 
 And a willow, from the bank above, 
 
 Droops to the water below. 
 
 A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 
 
 Joyfully he drew nigh, 
 For from cock-crow he had been travelling, 
 
 And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
 He drank of the water so cool and clear, 
 
 For thirsty and hot was he, 
 And he gat down upon the bank 
 
 Under the willow tree. 
 
 There came a man from the neighbouring town 
 At the Well to fill his pail ; 
 6 
 
62 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 On the Well-side he rested it, 
 And he bade the stranger hail. 
 
 " Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he, 
 
 " For an if thou hast a wife, 
 The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
 
 That ever thou didst in thy life. 
 
 " Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, 
 
 Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
 For an if she have, I'll venture my life 
 
 She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." 
 
 " I have left a good woman who never was here," 
 
 The stranger he made reply, 
 " But that my draught should be better for that, 
 
 I pray you answer me why." 
 
 " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time, 
 
 Drank of this crystal Well, 
 And before the angel summoned her, 
 
 She laid on the water a spell. 
 
 " If the husband, of this gifted Well, 
 
 Shall drink before his wife, 
 A happy man henceforth is he, 
 
 For he shall be master for life. 
 
 " But if the wife should drink of it first, 
 
 Lord help the husband then !" 
 The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, 
 
 And drank of the water again. 
 
 " You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ?" 
 
 He to the Cornish-man said ; 
 But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, 
 
 And sheepishly shook his head. 
 
 " I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, 
 
 And left my wife in the porch ; 
 But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me, 
 
 For she took a bottle to church." 
 
 LESSON XXVII. 
 
 Extraordinary Escape of Missionaries at Labrador. — Ibid. 
 
 The following narrative is from the periodical account of 
 the Moravian missions. It contains some of the most im- 
 pressive description I ever remember to have read. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 63 
 
 Brother Samuel Liebisch (now a member of the Elders' 
 Conference of the Unity) being at that time intrusted with 
 the general care of the brethren's missions on the coast of 
 Labrador, the duties of his office required a visit to Okkak, 
 the most northern of our settlements, and about one hundred 
 and. fifty English miles distant from Nain, the place where 
 he resided. Brother William Turner being appointed to 
 accompany him, they left Nain on March the 11th, 1782, 
 early in the morning, with very clear weather, the stars 
 shining with uncommon lustre. The sledge was driven by 
 the baptized Esquimaux Mark, and another sledge with 
 Esquimaux joined company. 
 
 An Esquimaux sledge is drawn by a species of dogs, not 
 unlike a wolf in shape. Like them, they never bark, but 
 howl disagreeably. They are kept by the Esquimaux in 
 greater or lesser packs or teams, in proportion to the afflu- 
 ence of the master. They quietly submit to be harnessed 
 for their work, and are treated with little mercy by the 
 heathen Esquimaux, who make them do hard duty for the 
 small quantity of food they allow them. This consists 
 chiefly in offal, old skins, entrails, such parts of whale-flesh 
 as are unfit for other use, rotten whale-fins, &c. and if they 
 are not provided with this kind of dog's meat, they leave 
 them to go and seek dead fish or muscles upon the beach. 
 
 When pinched with hunger, they will swallow almost any 
 thing, and, on a journey, it is necessary to secure the harness 
 within the snow-house over night, lest, by devouring it, they 
 should render it impossible to proceed in the morning. 
 When the travellers arrive at their night quarters, and the 
 dogs are unharnessed, they are left to burrow in the snow, 
 where they please, and in the morning are sure to come at 
 their drivers' call, when they receive some food. Their 
 strength and speed, even with a hungry stomach, are astonish- 
 ing. In fastening them to the sledge, care is taken not to 
 let them go abreast. They are tied, by separate thongs of 
 unequal lengths, to a horizontal bar on the fore part of the 
 sledge ; an old knowing one leads the way, running ten or 
 twenty paces ahead, directed by the driver's whip, which is 
 of great length, and can be well managed only by an Esqui- 
 maux. The other dogs follow like a flock of sheep. If one 
 of them receives a lash, he generally bites his neighbour, 
 and the bite goes round. 
 
 To return to our travellers : the two sledges contained 
 five men, one woman, and a child. All were in good spirits, 
 and, appearances being much in their favour, they hoped to 
 reach Okkak in safety in two or three days. The track 
 
64 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 over the frozen sea was in the best possible order, and they 
 went with ease at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. 
 After they had passed the islands in the Bay of JN"ain, they 
 kept at a considerable distance from the coast, both to gain 
 the smoothest part of the ice, and to weather the high rocky 
 promontory of Kiglapeit. 
 
 About eight o'clock they met a sledge with Esquimaux 
 turning in from the sea. After the usual salutation, the 
 Esquimaux, alighting, held some conversation, as is their gen- 
 eral practice, the result of which was, that some hints were 
 thrown out by the strange Esquimaux, that it might be bet- 
 ter to return. However, as the missionaries saw no reason 
 whatever for it, and only suspected that the Esquimaux 
 wished to enjoy the company of their friends a little longer, 
 they proceeded. After some time, their own Esquimaux 
 hinted, that there was a ground swell under the ice. It was 
 then hardly perceptible, except on lying down and applying 
 the ear close to the ice, when a hollow, disagreeably grating 
 and roaring noise was heard, as if ascending from the abyss 
 The weather remained clear, except towards the east, where 
 a bank of light clouds appeared, interspersed with some dark 
 streaks. But, the wind being strong from the north-west, 
 nothing less than a sudden change of weather was expected. 
 
 The sun had now reached its height, and there was as yet 
 little or no alteration in the appearance of the sky. But the 
 motion of the sea under the ice had grown more perceptible, 
 so as rather to alarm the travellers, and they began to think 
 it prudent to keep closer to the shore. The ice had cracks 
 and large fissures in many places, some of which formed 
 chasms of one or two feet wide ; but, as they are not uncom- 
 mon even in its best state, and the dogs easily leap over 
 them, the sledge following without danger, they are only 
 terrible to new comers. 
 
 As soon as the sun declined towards the west, the wind 
 increased and rose to a storm, the bank of clouds from the 
 east began to ascend, and the dark streaks to put themselves 
 in motion against the wind. The snow was violently driven 
 about by partial whirlwinds, both on the ice and from off 
 the peaks of the high mountains, and filled the air. At the 
 same time the ground swell had iu creased so much, that its 
 effect upon the ice became very extraordinary and alarming. 
 The sledges, instead of gliding along smoothly upon an even 
 surface, sometimes ran with violence after the dogs, and 
 shortly after seemed with difficulty to ascend the rising hill ; 
 for the elasticity of so vast a body of ice, of many leagues 
 square, supported by a troubled sea, though in some places 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 65 
 
 three or four yards in thickness, would in some degree occa- 
 sion an undulatory motion, not unlike that of a sheet of paper 
 accommodating itself to the surface of a rippling stream 
 Noises were now likewise distinctly heard in many directions, 
 like the report of cannon, owing to the bursting of the ice at 
 some distance. 
 
 The Esquimaux, therefore, drove with all haste towards 
 the shore, intending to take up their night quarters on the 
 south side of the Nivak. But, as it plainly appeared that the 
 ice would break and disperse in the open sea, Mark advised 
 to push forward to the north of the Nivak, from whence he 
 hoped the track to Okkak might still remain entire. To 
 this proposal the company agreed ; but when the sledges 
 approached the coast, the prospect before them was truly 
 terrific. The ice, having broken loose from the rocks, was 
 forced up and down, grinding and breaking into a thousand 
 pieces against the precipices, with a tremendous noise, which, 
 added to the raging of the wind, and the snow driving about 
 in the air, deprived the travellers almost of the power of 
 hearing and seeing any thing distinctly. 
 
 To make the land at any risk, was now the only hope 
 left ; but it was with the utmost difficulty the frighted dogs 
 could be forced forward, the whole body of ice sinking fre- 
 quently below the surface of the rocks, then rising above it. 
 As the only moment to land was that, when it gained the 
 level of the coast, the attempt was extremely nice and 
 hazardous. However, by God's mercy, it succeeded ; both 
 sledges gained the shore, and were drawn up the beach with 
 much difficulty. 
 
 The travellers had hardly time to reflect with gratitude to 
 God on their safety, when that part of the ice, from which 
 they had just now made good their landing, burst asunder, 
 and the water, forcing itself from below, covered and pre- 
 cipitated it into the sea. In an instant, as if by a signal 
 given, the whole mass of ice, extending for several miles 
 from the coast, and as far as the eye could reach, began to 
 burst, and be overwhelmed by the immense waves. The 
 sight was tremendous and awfully grand ; the large fields of 
 ice, raising themselves out of the water, striking against each 
 other, and plunging into the deep, with a violence not to be 
 described, and a noise like the discharge of innumerable 
 batteries of heavy guns. The darkness of the night, the 
 roaring of the wind and sea, and the dashing of the waves 
 and ice against the rocks, filled the travellers with sensations 
 of aAve and horror, so as almost to deprive them of the power 
 of utterance. They stood overwhelmed with astonishment 
 6* 
 
 ' Ik 
 
66 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 at their miraculous escape, and even the heathen Esquimaux 
 expressed gratitude to God for their deliverance. 
 
 The Esquimaux now began to build a snow-house, about 
 thirty paces from the beach ; but, before they had finished 
 their work, the waves reached the place where the sledges 
 were secured, and they were with difficulty saved from being 
 washed into the sea. About nine o'clock all of them crept 
 into the snow-house, thanking God for this place of refuge ; 
 for the wind was piercingly cold, and so violent that it re- 
 quired great strength to be able to stand against it. 
 
 Before they entered this habitation, they could not help 
 once more turning to the sea, which was now free from ice, 
 and beheld, with horror mingled with gratitude for their 
 safety, the enormous waves, driving furiously before the 
 wind, like huge castles, and approaching the shore, where, 
 with dreadful noise, they dashed against the rocks, foaming 
 and filling the air with the spray. The whole company now 
 got their supper, and, having sung an evening hymn in the 
 Esquimaux language, lay down to rest about ten o'clock. 
 They lay so close, that if any one stirred, his neighbours 
 were roused by it. The Esquimaux were soon fast asleep, 
 but brother Liebisch could not get any rest, partly on account 
 of the dreadful roaring of the wind and sea, and partly owing 
 to a sore throat, which gave him great pain. Both mission- 
 aries were, also, much engaged in their minds, in contem- 
 plating the dangerous situations into which they had been 
 brought, and, amidst all thankfulness for their great deliver- 
 ance from immediate death, could not but cry unto the Lord 
 for his help in this time of need. 
 
 The wakefulness of the missionaries proved the deliver- 
 ance of the whole party from sudden destruction. About 
 two o'clock in the morning, brother Liebisch perceived some 
 salt water to drop from the roof of the snow house upon his 
 lips. Though rather alarmed on tasting the salt, which could 
 not proceed from a common spray, he kept quiet, till, the 
 same dropping being more frequently repeated, just as he 
 was about to give the alarm, on a sudden a tremendous surf 
 broke close to the house, discharging a quantity of water 
 into it ; a second soon followed, and carried away the slab 
 of snow placed as a door before the entrance. The mission- 
 aries immediately called aloud to the sleeping Esquimaux 
 to rise and quit the place. They jumped up in an instant ; 
 one of them, with a large knife, cut a passage through the 
 side of the house, and each seizing some part of the baggage, 
 it was thrown out upon a higher part of the beach, brother 
 Turner assisting the Esquimaux. Brother Liebisch, and the 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 67 
 
 woman and child, fled to a neighbouring eminence. The 
 latter were wrapt up by the Esquimaux in a large skin, and 
 the former took shelter behind a rock, for it was impossible 
 to stand against the wind, snow, and sleet. Scarcely had 
 the company retreated to the eminence, when an enormous 
 wave carried away the whole house ; but nothing of conse- 
 quence was lost. 
 
 They now found themselves a second time delivered from 
 the most imminent danger of death ; but the remaining part 
 of the night, before the Esquimaux could seek and find 
 another more safe place for a snow-house, were hours of 
 great trial to mind and body, and filled every one with pain- 
 ful reflections. Before the day dawned, the Esquimaux cut 
 a hole into a large drift of snow, to screen the woman and 
 child, and the two missionaries. 
 
 Brother Liebisch, however, could not bear the closeness 
 of the air, and was obliged to sit down at the entrance, 
 where the Esquimaux covered him with skins, to keep him 
 warm, as the pain in his throat was very great. As soon as 
 it was light, they built another snow-house, and, miserable 
 as such an accommodation is at all times, they were glad and 
 thankful to creep into it. It was about eight feet square 
 and six or seven feet high. They now congratulated each 
 other on their deliverance, but found themselves in very bad 
 plight. 
 
 The narrative goes on to state, that, after six days of ex- 
 treme toil, suffering, and danger, the missionaries effected 
 their return to Nain, where they were welcomed by their 
 family with praise and thanksgiving to God for their signal 
 deliverances. 
 
 LESSON XXVIII. 
 Old Fountains and Sundials. — Lamb. 
 
 From a description of the Inner Temple. 
 
 What a collegiate aspect has that fine Elizabethan hall, 
 where the fountain plays, which I have made to rise and 
 fall, how many times ! to the astoundment of the young 
 urchins, my cotemporaries, who, not being able to guess at 
 its recondite machinery, were almost tempted to hail the 
 wondrous work as magic. What an antique air had the 
 now almost effaced sundials, with their moral inscriptions, 
 seeming coevals with that time which they measured, and 
 to take their revelations of its flight immediately from hea- 
 ven, holding correspondence with the fountain of light ! 
 
68 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 How would the dark line steal imperceptibly on, watched 
 by the eye of childhood, eager to detect its movement, never 
 catched, nice as an evanescent cloud, or the first arrests of 
 sleep ! 
 
 Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial -hand, 
 Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ! 
 
 What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embow- 
 elments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dulness of 
 communication, compared with the simple, altar-like struc- 
 ture, and silent, heart-language of the old dial ! It stood as 
 the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost every 
 where vanished ? If its business-use be superseded by more 
 elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have 
 pleaded for its continuance. It spoke of moderate labours, 
 of pleasures not protracted after sunset, of temperance, and 
 good hours. It was the primitive clock, the horologe of the 
 first world. Adam could scarce have missed it in Paradise 
 It was the measure appropriate for sweet plants and flowers 
 to spring by, for the birds to apportion their silver warblings 
 by, for flocks to pasture and be led to fold by. The shep- 
 herd " carved it out quaintly in the sun ;" and, turning philo- 
 sopher by the very occupation, provided it with mottos more 
 touching than tombstones. 
 
 The artificial fountains of the metropolis are, in like man- 
 ner, fast vanishing. Most of them are dried up, or bricked 
 over. Yet, where one is left, as in that little green nook 
 behind the South Sea House, what a freshness it gives to 
 the dreary pile ! Four little winged marble boys used +o 
 play their virgin fancies, spouting out ever-fresh streams 
 from their innocent- wanton lips, in the square of Lincoln's 
 Inn, when I was no bigger than they were figured. They 
 are gone, and the spring choked up. The fashion, they tell 
 me, is gone by, and these things are esteemed childish. 
 Why not, then, gratify children by letting them stand ? 
 Lawyers, I suppose, were children once. They are awa- 
 kening images to them at least. Why must every thing 
 smack of man, and mannish ? Is the world all grown up ? 
 Is childhood dead ? Or is there not, in the bosoms of the 
 wisest and the best, some of the child's heart left, to respond 
 to its earliest enchantments ? The figures were grotesque. 
 Are the stiff-wigged, living figures, that still flitter and chat- 
 ter about that area, less Gothic in appearance ? or is the 
 splutter of their hot rhetoric one half so refreshing and 
 innocent as the little, cool, playful streams, those exploded 
 cherubs uttered ? 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 69 
 
 LESSON XXIX. 
 
 The Genius of Death. — Croly. 
 
 What is death ? 'Tis to be free ! 
 
 No more to love, or hope, or fear — 
 To join the great equality : 
 All alike are humbled there ! 
 The mighty grave 
 Wraps lord and slave ; 
 Nor pride, nor poverty, dares come 
 Within that refuge-house, the tomb ! 
 
 Spirit with the drooping wing, 
 And the ever-weeping eye, 
 Thou of all earth's kings art king ! 
 Empires at thy footstool lie ! 
 Beneath thee strewed, 
 Their multitude 
 Sink, like waves upon the shore ; 
 Storms shall never rouse them more ! 
 
 What's the grandeur of the earth, 
 
 To the grandeur round thy throne ! 
 Riches, glory, beauty, birth, 
 To thy kingdom all have gone. 
 Before thee stand 
 The wondrous band ; 
 Bards, heroes, sages, side by side, 
 Who darkened nations when they died ! 
 
 Earth has hosts ; but thou canst show 
 
 Many a million for her one ; 
 Through thy gates the mortal flow 
 Has for countless years rolled on. 
 Back from the tomb 
 No step has come ; 
 There fixed, till the last thunder's sound 
 Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound. 
 
 LESSON XXX. 
 
 Alliance between Religion and Liberty. — Frothingham. 
 
 Religion is an ennobling principle. It tells us that we 
 are of a divine origin, and lie in the arms of a universal 
 Providence ; that we are connected with immortal powers 
 by our dependence, and with an immortal life by our hopes 
 
70 THE CLASSICAL, READER. 
 
 and our destiny. It sets at a far higher elevation than could 
 else be thought of, the dignity of our race, and the worth of 
 the intelligence that is within us. It inspires the convic- 
 tion, that we are made for no mean purposes ; and that they 
 should not live as slaves on the earth, who are encouraged 
 to expect something beyond its highest distinctions. It gives 
 that moral courage and noble intent, which are the way to 
 the inheritance of the best advantages. How often has it 
 been seen in advance of prevailing opinions and manners, 
 leading them forward ! How often has it furnished the first 
 occasion for bold inquiries to go forth, and liberal truths to 
 make themselves felt and recognised ! The reply has been 
 well pressed on those, who have wished that the African 
 slaves might be instructed in the Christian faith — You will 
 thus make them impatient of their subjection ; you will 
 teach them to be free ; you cannot drive and scourge the 
 bodies of a population, after you have emancipated their 
 souls ; keep them, if you would keep them at all, in the 
 deepest ignorance, — an ignorance as dark as God has made 
 their skin, and as abject as you have made their fate. 
 
 Religion is an equalising principle. It treats with utter 
 disregard those differences among men, which are produced 
 by necessity, altered by accident, destroyed by time. It 
 tells those in the humblest condition, that they are of one 
 blood with the proudest ; and that the common Father, who 
 has made the light to fall as sweet, and the courses of nature 
 to roll as gloriously, round one as another, has appointed a 
 world, in which the only distinction is righteousness. It 
 tells the great, and the most fully prospered, and the most 
 brilliantly endowed, that God looks not on the outward ap- 
 pearance, but searches the heart. It binds all by the same 
 obligations, and invites all to the same blessings. It in- 
 cludes all under sin. It offers the same consolations for 
 troubles, from which the most favoured classes are not 
 exempted. It points to an impartial Sovereign, before 
 whom the high and low, they who govern and they who 
 serve, stand on the common level of humanity. It maintains 
 just those truths, which exalt the poor in spirit, and the 
 depressed in circumstances, and bring down the haughty 
 imaginations of those who would lord it over their fellows. 
 It shows so many respects, in which we are alike and de- 
 pendent, as to forbid presumption on one side ; and, on the 
 other, so many circumstances by which we are alike dis- 
 tinguished, as to raise the lowest above base compliances. 
 It bows us down together in prayer, and who then will boast 
 of his superiority? It assigns us our rest together in the 
 
 
THE CLASSICAL READElt. 71 
 
 dust, and what then will become of the superiority ? It ranges 
 us together before the judgment seat, and how will the 
 oppressor appear there ? 
 
 Religion is a moral principle — essentially and vitally so ; 
 and, in this view, its importance to the cause of freedom is 
 incalculable. That it has been refined away into unprofita- 
 ble subtilties, that its records have been misinterpreted into 
 all abomination, and its services fooled into mummery and a 
 masque, there is no denying. But it is equally undeniable 
 that good sentiments and conduct are the very signs of its 
 life. Its great law is duty. Its crowning glory is moral ex- 
 cellence. In spite of all the corruptions, which ignorance 
 and fraud, ambition and frenzy, have heaped upon it, it has 
 been always accomplishing much in the work of a spiritual 
 regeneration. It has spread itself through the masses of so- 
 ciety like a refiner's fire. That it does no more for the com- 
 munity we may wonder, perhaps ; but there is cause of thank- 
 fulness that it does so much. It is the most precious auxil- 
 iary of liberty, then ; for, without moral cultivation, what 
 would that be but lawlessness, a wild state of insecurity and 
 excesses ? It is righteousness that makes a people fit to be 
 free, and noble in its freedom. 
 
 Religion is an independent principle. It ill bears dicta- 
 tion and control. It is jealous of its freedom. It dwells in 
 its own world of thought, and hope, and sensibility, and re- 
 fuses to yield there to the hand of a master. It sets up its 
 altars and holy usages ; and has it not always been one of 
 the most perilous attempts of tyranny to violate or overthrow 
 them ? " And, when they saw the sanctuary desolate, and 
 the altar profaned, they blew an alarm with the trumpets, 
 and appealed to heaven." Many of the earliest resistances 
 to oppression sprang from indignation at an abridged liberty 
 here. The rights of conscience were among the first to be 
 discerned and acted on. The maintaining of them long pre- 
 ceded the abstract discussions of political rights, and prepar- 
 ed men for the understanding and defence of those also. 
 The patriot has taken copy of the martyr. The struggle for 
 free thought has led on the struggle for free government. 
 There is a force in religious conviction and feeling, that is 
 the most expansive of all forces. It cannot be restrained by 
 any arbitrary impositions. It owns obedience to nothing but 
 the truth, and the truth, in both a political and moral sense, 
 makes men free. 
 
72 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XXXI. 
 
 Extract from the Airs of Palestine. — Pierpont. 
 
 Where lies our path ? — Though many a vista call, 
 We may admire, but cannot tread them all. 
 Where lies our path ? — A poet, and inquire 
 What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre? 
 See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow ; 
 See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow; 
 There Ossa rises ; there Olympus towers ; 
 Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers, 
 Forever verdant ; and there Peneus glides 
 Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. 
 Your theme is Music : — Yonder rolls the wave, 
 Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, 
 Enchanted by his lyre : — Cithaeron's shade 
 Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played 
 Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth, 
 Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth. 
 And fast by Haemus, Thracian Hebrus creeps 
 O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps, 
 Whose gory head, borne by the stream along, 
 Was still melodious, and expired in song. 
 There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell ; 
 There be thy path — for there the muses dwell. 
 
 No, no — a lonelier, lovelier path be mine ; 
 Greece and her charms I leave, for Palestine. 
 There, purer streams through happier valleys flow, 
 And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow. 
 I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm ; 
 I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; 
 I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews ; 
 I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse : 
 In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose, 
 And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose. 
 
 Here arching vines their leafy banner spread, 
 Shake their green shields, and purple odours shed ; 
 At once repelling Syria's burning ray, 
 And breathing freshness on the sultry day. 
 Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing, 
 Pants on the rock,. or sips the silver spring ; 
 And here, — as musing on my theme divine, 
 I gather flowers to bloom along my line, 
 And hang my garlands in festoons around, 
 Iu wreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 73 
 
 And fondly, warmly, humbly hope the Power, 
 That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower, 
 Drew living water from this rocky shrine, 
 Purpled the clustering honours of the vine, 
 And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither, 
 To weave a garland, will not let it wither ; — 
 Wond'ring, I listen to the strain sublime, 
 That flows,' all freshly, down the stream of time, 
 Wafted in grand simplicity along, 
 The undying breath, the very soul of song. 
 
 LESSON XXXII. 
 Character of Major Joseph Hawley, — Tudor. 
 
 The legislature of this year* received an accession of three 
 eminent members, who were returned to it for the first time ; 
 Joseph Hawley, John Hancock, and Samuel Adams. Major 
 Hawley, a representative from Northampton, acquired a very 
 remarkable influence in the public councils. Perhaps Mas- 
 sachusetts can boast of no citizen, in all her annals, more esti- 
 mable. He continued in the legislature till 1776, and, during 
 that period, it has been said, that no vote, on any public 
 measure, either was, or could have been, carried without his 
 assent. 
 
 Joseph Hawley was born in 1724, educated at Yale College, 
 and followed the profession of the law in Northampton, where 
 he died in 1788, aged 64 years. As a lawyer he was possess- 
 ed of great learning ; able as a reasoner, and a very manly, 
 impressive speaker. He was at the head of the bar in the 
 western counties of the province. He had studied with dili- 
 gence the principles of law", as connected with political insti- 
 tutions. This had prepared him for a clear perception of the 
 effects, that would have resulted from the execution of the 
 ministerial plans against the colonies ; and caused him to take 
 the most ardent and decisive part against the Stamp Act, and 
 the whole series of arbitrary measures that followed it. The 
 adherents of the administration dreaded him more than any 
 individual in his part of the country, and, as usual, endeav- 
 oured, though most completely in vain, to injure his character. 
 They succeeded, indeed, in their official persecution, in throw- 
 ing him over the bar, to which he was, however, soon re- 
 stored. 
 
 The almost unexampled influence acquired by Major Haw- 
 ley, was owing not only to his great talents, but still more, 
 
 * 1766. 
 
 7 
 
74 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 perhaps, to his high-minded, unsullied, unimpeachable integ- 
 rity. His enemies sought to undermine his reputation by 
 calumniating his motives, as was their manner towards every 
 distinguished man on the patriotic side. They said, his con- 
 duct was factious, and principles ruinous, and that the only 
 object, which he and his coadjutors had in view, was, to bring 
 themselves into power under a new order of things. The 
 imputation of selfish, sordid views, was insupportable to a 
 man of his character. He, therefore, at once, resolved, and 
 pledged himself, never to accept of any promotion, office, or 
 emolument, under any government. This pledge he severely 
 redeemed. He refused even all promotion in the militia, 
 was several times chosen a counsellor, but declined ; and 
 would accept of no other public trust, than the nearly gra- 
 tuitous one of representing his town. A modest estate, which 
 descended to him from his father and uncle, was adequate to 
 support his plain style of living, and he had no desire to ac- 
 cumulate wealth. 
 
 His character was so noble and consistent, that his fellow 
 citizens reposed unhesitating confidence in his integrity ; they 
 believed that all the honours and wealth of the mother coun- 
 try would be insufficient to corrupt him, while they saw dai- 
 ly that he sought nothing from his own party. His talents, 
 judgment, and firmness, came in aid of this reputation for dis- 
 interestedness, and gave him, on all occasions, the power of 
 an umpire. The weight of his character was sufficient to 
 balance all the interest, which several gentlemen of great re- 
 spectability in the western counties exerted in favour of the 
 administration. The country members, especially, followed 
 his opinions implicitly, and the most powerful leaders in the 
 legislature would probably have been unsuccessful, if they 
 had attempted to carry any measure against his opinion. 
 
 The ascendency which was allotted him by the deference 
 of others was a fortunate circumstance for his countrv. Nev- 
 er was influence exercised with more singleness of heart, 
 with more intelligent, devoted, and inflexible patriotism. He 
 made up his mind earlier than most men, that the struggle 
 against oppression would lead to war, and that our rights at 
 last must be secured by our arms. As the crisis approached, 
 when some persons urged upon him the danger of a contest, 
 so apparently unequal, his answer was, "We must put to 
 sea ; Providence will bring us into port !" 
 
 Major Hawley was a sincerely religious and pious man ; 
 but here, as in politics, he loathed all tyranny and fanatical 
 usurpation. He was, near the close of his life, chosen into 
 the senate of Massachusetts. Though he would not have 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 75 
 
 taken the trust at any rate, he seized the opportunity to give 
 his testimony against the test act, which, till a recent period, 
 was a stain in the constitution of that state. In a letter upon 
 the subject, he asked if it was necessary that he should be 
 called upon to renounce the authority of the king of Great 
 Britain, and every foreign potentate ; and whether it could 
 be expected, that, having been a member of the church for 
 forty years, he should submit to the insult of being called to 
 swear, that he believed in the truth of the Christian religion, 
 before he could take his seat. 
 
 With all these powerful talents and noble feelings, he was 
 not exempt from a misfortune, that occasionally threw its dark 
 shadows over them. He was subject, at particular times, to 
 an hypochondriac disorder, that would envelope him in gloom 
 and despondency. At these seasons he was oppressed with 
 melancholy, and would lament every action and exertion 
 of his life. When his mind recovered its tone, the recollec- 
 tion of these sufferings was painful, and he disliked to have 
 them remembered. 
 
 Major Hawley was a patriot without personal animosities, 
 an orator without vanity, a lawyer without chicanery, a gen- 
 tleman without ostentation, a statesman without duplicity, 
 and a Christian without bigotry. As a man of commanding 
 talents, his firm renunciation and self-denial of all ambitious 
 views, would have secured him that respect, which such 
 strength of mind inevitably inspires ; while his voluntary and 
 zealous devotion to the service of his countrymen, estab- 
 lished him in their affection. His uprightness and plain- 
 ness, united to his ability and disinterestedness, gave the most 
 extensive influence to his opinions, and in a period of doubt, 
 divisions, and danger, men sought relief from their perplexi- 
 ties in his authority, and suffered their course to be guided 
 by him, when they distrusted their own judgments, or the 
 counsels of others. He, in fine, formed one of those manly, 
 public-spirited, and generous citizens, ready to share peril 
 and decline reward, who illustrate the idea of a common- 
 wealth ; and who, through the obstructions of human passions 
 and infirmities, being of rare occurrence, will always be the 
 most admired, appropriate, and noble ornaments of a free gov- 
 ernment. 
 
76 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XXXIII. 
 
 The Autumn Evening. — Peabody. 
 
 Behold the western evening light ! 
 
 It melts in deepening gloom ; 
 So calmly Christians sink away 
 
 Descending to the tomb. 
 
 The winds breathe low — the withering leaf 
 Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
 
 So gently flows the parting breath, 
 When good men cease to be. 
 
 How beautiful on all the hills 
 
 The crimson light is shed ! 
 ? Tis like the peace the Christian gives 
 
 To mourners round his bed. 
 
 How mildly on the wandering cloud 
 
 The sunset beam is cast ! 
 5 Tis like the memory left behind 
 
 When loved ones breathe their last. 
 
 And now, above the dews of night, 
 
 The yellow star appears ; 
 So faith springs in the heart of those 
 
 Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 
 
 But soon the morning's happier light 
 
 Its glory shall restore ; 
 And eyelids that are sealed in death 
 
 Shall wake to close no more. 
 
 LESSON XXXIV. 
 
 Character of Luther. — Roscoe. 
 
 In order to form a proper estimate of the conduct and char- 
 acter of Luther, it is necessary to consider him in two prin- 
 cipal points of view. First, as an opponent to the haughty 
 assumptions and gross abuses of the Roman see; and, second- 
 ly, as the founder of a new church, over which he may be 
 said to have presided until the time of his death, in 1546, an 
 interval of nearly thirty years. 
 
 In the former capacity, we find him endeavouring to substi- 
 tute the authority of reason and of scripture for that of coun- 
 cils and of popes, and contending for the utmost latitude in 
 the perusal and construction of the sacred writings, which, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 77 
 
 as he expressed it, could not be chained, but were open to 
 the interpretation of every individual. 
 
 For this great and daring attempt he was peculiarly quali- 
 fied. A consciousness of his own integrity, and the natural 
 intrepidity of his mind, enabled him not only to brave the 
 most violent attacks of his adversaries, but to treat them with 
 a degree of derision and contempt, which seemed to prove 
 the superiority of his cause. Fully sensible of the importance 
 and dignity of his undertaking, he looked with equal eyes on 
 all worldly honours and distinctions ; and emperors, and pon- 
 tiffs, and kings, were regarded by him as men and as equals, 
 who might merit his respect or incur his resentment, accord- 
 ing as they were inclined to promote or obstruct his views. 
 
 Nov was he more firm against the stern voice of authority, 
 than against the blandishments of flattery, and the softening 
 influence of real or of pretended friendship. The various 
 attempts, which were made to induce him to relax in his op- 
 position, seem in general to have confirmed rather than sha- 
 ken his resolution ; and if at any time he showed a disposition 
 towards conciliatory measures, it was only a symptom that his 
 opposition would soon be carried to a greater extreme. The 
 warmth of his temperament seldom, however, prevented 
 the exercise of his judgment, and the various measures, to 
 which he resorted for securing popularity to his cause, were 
 the result of a thorough knowledge of the great principles of 
 human nature, and of the peculiar state of the times in which 
 he lived. 
 
 The injustice and absurdity of resorting to violence instead 
 of convincing the understanding by argument, were shown by 
 him. in the strongest light. Before the imperial diet he as- 
 serted his own private opinion, founded, as he contended, on 
 reason and scripture, against all the authorities of the Roman 
 church ; and the important point which he incessantly labour- 
 ed to establish, was the right of private judgment in matters 
 of faith. To the defence of this proposition, he was at all 
 times ready to devote his learning, his talents, his repose, 
 his character, and his life ; and the great and imperishable 
 merit of this reformer consists in his having demonstrated it 
 by such arguments as neither the efforts of his adversaries, 
 nor his own subsequent conduct, have been able either to 
 refute or invalidate. 
 
 As the founder of a new church, the character of Luther 
 appears in a very different light. After having effected a 
 separation from the see of Rome, there yet remained the still 
 more difficult task of establishing such a system of religious 
 faith and worship, as, without admitting the exploded doc 
 
78 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 trines of the papal church, would prevent that licentiousness 
 which, it was supposed, would be the consequence of a total 
 absence of all ecclesiastical restraints. In this task Luther 
 engaged, with a resolution equal to that with which he had 
 braved the authority of the Romish church ; but with this 
 remarkable difference, that, in the one instance, he effected 
 his purpose by strenuously insisting on the right of private 
 judgment in matters of faith ; whilst, in the other, he suc- 
 ceeded by laying down new doctrines, to which he expected 
 that all those who espoused his cause should implicitly 
 submit. 
 
 It would too far exceed the necessary limits of these pages 
 to dwell upon the dissensions to which this inflexible ad- 
 herence of Luther to certain opinions gave rise, or on the 
 severity with which he treated those who, unfortunately, 
 happened to believe too much on the one hand, or too little 
 on the other, and could not walk steadily on the hair-breadth 
 line which he had prescribed. Without attributing to the 
 conduct of Luther all those calamities, which a diversity of 
 religious opinions occasioned in Europe, during the greater 
 part cf the sixteenth century, and in which thousands of in- 
 nocent and conscientious persons were put to death, many 
 of them with the most horrid torments, for no other reason 
 than a firm adherence to those doctrines which appeared to 
 them to be true, it is sufficient, on the present occasion, to 
 remark the wonderful inconsistency of the human mind, 
 which the character of Luther so strongly exemplifies. 
 Whilst he was engaged in his opposition to the church of 
 Rome, he asserted the right of private judgment in matters 
 of faith with the confidence and courage of a martyr ; but 
 no sooner had he freed his followers from the chains of pa- 
 pal domination, than he forged others, in many respects 
 equally intolerable ; and it was the employment of his latter 
 years, to counteract the beneficial effects produced by his 
 former labours. 
 
 The great example of freedom which he had exhibited 
 could not, however, be so soon forgotten ; and many, who 
 had thrown off the authority of the Romish see, refused to 
 submit their consciences to the control of a monk, who had 
 arrogated to himself the sole right of expounding those scrip 
 tures, which he had contended were open to all. The mod- 
 eration and candour of Melancthon in some degree mitigated 
 the severity of his doctrines ; but the example of Luther de- 
 scended to his followers, and the uncharitable spirit evinced 
 by the Lutheran doctors, in prescribing the articles of their 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 79 
 
 faith, has often been the subject of just and severe repre- 
 hension. 
 
 Happy indeed had it been for mankind, had this great re- 
 former discovered, that between perfect freedom and perfect 
 obedience there can be no medium ; that he who rejects one 
 kind of human authority in matters of religion, is not likely 
 to submit to another ; and that there cannot be a more dan- 
 gerous nor a more odious encroachment on the rights of an 
 individual, than, officiously and unsolicited, to interfere with 
 the sacred intercourse that subsists between him and his God. 
 
 LESSON XXXV. 
 The Butterfly^s Birthday. — Ibid. 
 
 The shades of night had scarcely fled, 
 The air was soft, the winds were still j 
 
 And slow the slanting sunbeams spread,"* 
 O'er wood and lawn, o'er heath and hill ; 
 
 From floating clouds of pearly hue, 
 
 Had dropped a short but balmy shower, 
 
 That hung, like gems of morning dew, 
 On every tree and every flower ; 
 
 And from the blackbird's mellow throat, 
 Was poured so long and loud a swell, 
 
 As echoed with responsive note, 
 
 From mountain side and shadowy dell ; 
 
 When, bursting forth to light and life, 
 The offspring of enraptured May, 
 
 The Butterfly, on pinions bright, 
 
 Launched in full splendour on the day. 
 
 Unconscious of a mother's care, 
 No infant wretchedness she knew ; 
 
 But, as she felt the vernal air, 
 At once to full perfection grew. 
 
 Her slender form, ethereal light, 
 Her velvet-textured wings infold, 
 
 With all the rainbow's colours bright, 
 
 And dropped with spots of burnished gold. 
 
 Trembling with joy, awhile she stood, 
 And felt the sun's enlivening ray ; 
 
 Drank from the skies the vital flood, 
 And wondered at her plumage gay. 
 
80 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 And balanced oft her broidered wings, 
 Through fields of air prepared to sail ; 
 
 Then on her venturous journey springs, 
 And floats along the rising gale. 
 
 Go, child of pleasure, range the fields ; 
 
 Share all the joys that Spring can give ; 
 Partake what bounteous Summer vields, 
 
 And live, while yet 'tis thine to live ! 
 
 Go, sip the rose's fragrant dew, 
 The lily's honied cup explore ; 
 
 From flower to flower the search renew, 
 And rifle all the woodbine's store ! 
 
 And let me trace thy vagrant flight, 
 Thy moments, too, of short repose ; 
 
 And mark thee then, with fresh delight, 
 Thy golden pinions ope and close. 
 
 But, hark ! whilst thus I musing stand, 
 Swells on the gale an airy note ; 
 
 And, breathing from a viewless band, 
 Soft silvery tones around me float. 
 
 They cease — but still a voice I hear — 
 A whispered voice of hope and joy ! — 
 
 " Thy hour of rest approaches near ; 
 Prepare thee, mortal ; thou must die ! 
 
 " Yet start not; on thy closing eyes 
 Another day shall still unfold ; 
 
 A sun of milder radiance rise, 
 A happier age of joys untold. 
 
 " Shall the poor worm that shocks thy sight, 
 The humblest form in nature's train, 
 
 Thus rise in newborn lustre bright, 
 And yet the emblem teach in vain ? 
 
 " Ah ! where were once her golden eyes ? 
 
 Her beauteous wings of purple pride ? 
 Concealed beneath a rude disguise, 
 
 A shapeless mass, to earth allied. 
 
 " Like thee the hapless reptile lived ; 
 
 Like thee he toiled, like thee he spun ; 
 Like thine his closing hour arrived, 
 
 His labours ceased, his web was done. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 81 
 
 " And shalt thou, numbered with the dead, 
 
 No happier state of being know ? 
 And shall no future morrow shed 
 
 On thee a beam of brighter glow ? 
 
 " Is this the bound of power divine, 
 
 To animate an insect frame ? 
 Or shall not He, who moulded thine, 
 
 Wake, at his will, the vital flame ? 
 
 " Go, mortal, in thy reptile state, 
 
 Enough to know to thee is given ; 
 Go, and the joyful truth repeat — 
 
 Frail child of earth — high heir of heaven." 
 
 LESSON XXXVI. 
 
 The Mariner of Life. — Miss Roscoe. 
 
 When the young mariner of life 
 First launches on its stormy sea, 
 
 Amid that hurricane of strife, 
 God ! his refuge is in thee. 
 
 His eager spirits fear no shock, 
 
 First rushing on those untried seas ; 
 
 He does not see the fatal rock, 
 
 Which stands to wreck his future peace. 
 
 But when, by swift winds borne along, 
 It bursts upon his troubled view, 
 
 In thee, alone, he then is strong, 
 'Tis then he finds thy promise true. 
 
 Secure in trust, secure in faith, 
 Temptation shall assail in vain, 
 
 And Christian courage, strong as death, 
 The glorious warfare shall maintain. 
 
 In vain shall passion's billows rage, — 
 A tempest in the struggling soul ; — 
 
 Thy word that tempest can assuage ; 
 The spirit owns thy blest control. 
 
 O Father ! spread thy guardian arm 
 Around the guileless breast of youth ; 
 
 With life's first generous feeling warm, 
 Oh ! stamp it with thy heavenly truth ,- 
 
82 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 That, when these trying scenes depart, 
 Unspotted he may turn to thee, 
 
 And, innocent in lips and heart, 
 Adore thee through eternity. 
 
 LESSON XXXVII. 
 
 Dialogue between Charles II. and William Perm. 
 Friend of Peace. 
 
 It is said that, when William Perm was about to sail from England for Pennsyl- 
 vania, he went to take leave cf the king, and the following conversation took 
 place : 
 
 Charles. Well, friend William ! I have sold you a noble 
 province in North America ; but still I suppose you have no 
 thoughts of going thither yourself. 
 
 Penn. Yes I have, I assure thee, friend Charles, and I 
 am just come to bid thee farewell. 
 
 Charles. What ! venture yourself among the savages of 
 North America ! Why, man, what security have you that 
 you will not be in their war-kettle in two hours after setting 
 foot on their shores ? 
 
 Penn. The best security in the world. 
 
 Charles. I doubt that, friend William ; I have no idea of 
 any security, against those cannibals, but in a regiment of 
 good soldiers, with their muskets and bayonets. And mind 
 I tell you beforehand, that, with all my good will for you 
 and your family, to whom I am under obligations, I will not 
 send a single soldier with you. 
 
 Penn. I want none of thy soldiers, Charles ; I depend on 
 something better than thy soldiers. 
 
 Charles. Ah ! and what may that be ? 
 
 Penn. Why, I depend upon themselves — on the workings 
 of their own hearts — on their notions of justice — on their 
 moral sense. 
 
 Charles. A fine thing, this same moral sense, no doubt ; 
 but I fear you will not find much of it among the Indians of 
 North America. 
 
 Penn. And why not among them, as well as others ? 
 
 Charles. Because, if they had possessed any, they would 
 not have treated my subjects so barbarously as they have 
 done. 
 
 Penn. That is no proof to the contrary, friend Charles. 
 Thy subjects were the aggressors. When thy subjects first 
 went to North America, they found these poor people the 
 fondest and kindest creatures in the world. Every day they 
 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 83 
 
 would watch for them to come ashore, and hasten to meet 
 them, and feast them on the best fish, and venison, and corn, 
 which was all that they had. In return for this hospitality 
 of the savages , as we call them, thy subjects, termed Chris- 
 tians^ seized on their country and rich hunting grounds, for 
 farms for themselves ! Now is it to be wondered at, that 
 these much injured people should have been driven to des- 
 peration by. such injustice ; and that, burning with revenge, 
 they should have committed some excesses ? 
 
 Charles. Well, then, I hope you will not complain when 
 they come to treat you in the same manner. 
 
 Perm. I am not afraid of it. 
 
 Charles. Ay ! How will you avoid it ? You mean to get 
 their hunting grounds too, I suppose ? 
 
 Penn. Yes, but not by driving these poor people away 
 from them. 
 
 Charles. No, indeed! How then will you get the 
 lands ? 
 
 Penn. I mean to buy their lands of them. 
 
 Charles. Buy their lands of them ! Why, man, you have 
 already bought them of me. 
 
 Penn. . Yes, I know I have, and at a dear rate too ; but 
 [ did it only to get thy good will, not that I thought thou 
 hadst any right to their lands. 
 
 Charles. Zounds, man ! no right to their lands ! 
 
 Penn. No, friend Charles, no right at all : what right 
 hast thou to their lands ? 
 
 Charles. Why, the right of discovery, to be sure ; the 
 right which the pope and all Christian kings have agreed to 
 give one another. 
 
 Penn. The right of discovery ! A strange kind of right, 
 indeed ! Now suppose, friend Charles, that some canoe 
 loads of these Indians, crossing the sea, and discovering thy 
 island of Great Britain, were to claim it as their own, and 
 set it up for sale over thy head, — what wouldst thou think 
 of it? 
 
 Charles. Why — why — why — I must confess, I should 
 think it a piece of great impudence in them. 
 
 Penn. Well, then, how canst thou, a Christian, and a 
 Christian prince too, do that which thou so utterly condemn- 
 est in these people whom thou callest savages ? Yes, friend 
 Charles ; and suppose, again, that these Indians, on thy refu- 
 sal to give up thy island of Great Britain, were to make war 
 on thee, and, having weapons more destructive than thine, 
 were to destroy many of thy subjects, and to drive the rest 
 away, — wouldst thou not think it horribly cruel ? 
 
84 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Charles. I must say that I should, friend William : how 
 can I say otherwise ? 
 
 Penn. Well, then, how can I, who call myself a Chris- 
 tian, do what I should abhor even in heathens ? No, I will 
 not do it. But I will buy the right of the proper owners, 
 even of the Indians themselves. By doing this, I shall imi- 
 tate God himself, in his justice and mercy, and thereby en- 
 sure his blessing on my colony, if I should ever live to plant 
 one in North America. 
 
 LESSON XXXVIII. 
 
 Night. — Montgomery. 
 
 Night is the time for rest : 
 
 How sweet, when labours close, 
 To gather round our aching breast 
 The curtain of repose ; 
 Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
 Upon our own delightful bed ! 
 
 Night is the time for dreams, — 
 
 The gay romance of life, — 
 When truth that is, and truth that seems, 
 Blend in fantastic strife ; 
 Ah, visions less beguiling far 
 Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 
 
 Night is the time for toil ; 
 
 To plough the classic field, 
 Intent to find the buried spoil 
 Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
 Till all is ours that sages taught, 
 That poets sang, or heroes wrought. 
 
 Night is the time to weep ; 
 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 Those graves of memory, where sleep 
 The joys of other years ; / 
 Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
 But perished young, like things of earth. 
 
 Night is the time to watch ; 
 On ocean's dark expanse 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 The full moon's earliest glance, 
 That brings into the home-sick mind 
 All we loved, and left behind. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 85 
 
 Night is the time for care ; 
 
 Brooding on hours mispent, 
 To see the spectre of despair 
 Come to our lonely tent; 
 Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, 
 Startled by Caesar's stal worth ghost. 
 
 Night is the time to muse : 
 
 Then from the eye the soul 
 Takes flight, and, with expanding views, 
 Beyond the starry pole, 
 Descries athwart the abyss of night 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 Night is the time to pray : 
 
 Our Saviour oft withdrew 
 To desert mountains far away : 
 So will his followers do ; 
 Steal from the throng to hauuts untrod, 
 And hold communion there with God ! 
 
 Night is the time for death ; 
 When all around is peace, 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath, 
 From sin and suffering cease ; 
 Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
 To parting friends : — Such death be mine 
 
 LESSON XXXIX. 
 
 The Moon and Stars. A Fable. — Ibid. 
 
 On the fourth day of Creation, when the sun, after a glo- 
 rious but solitary course, went down in the evening, and 
 darkness began to gather over the face of the uninhabited 
 globe, already arrayed in exuberance of vegetation, and pre- 
 pared, by the diversity of land and water, for the abode of 
 uncreated animals and man, — a star, single and beautiful, 
 stepped forth into the firmament. Trembling with wonder and 
 delight in new-found existence, she looked abroad, and be- 
 held nothing- in heaven or on earth resembling, herself. But 
 she was not long alone ; now one, then another, here a 
 third, and there a fourth, resplendent companion had joined 
 her, till, light after light stealing through the gloom, in the 
 lapse of an hour, the whole hemisphere was brilliantly be- 
 spangled. 
 8 
 
8G THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The planets and stars, with a superb comet flaming in the 
 zenith, for a while contemplated themselves and each other ; 
 and every one, from the largest to the least, was so perfectly 
 well pleased with himself, that he imagined the rest only 
 partakers of his felicity, — he being the central luminary of 
 his own universe, and all the hosts of heaven beside display- 
 ed around him in graduated splendour. Nor were any un- 
 deceived with regard to themselves, though all saw their 
 associates in their real situations and relative proportions, 
 self-knowledge being the last knowledge acquired, either in 
 the s.ky or below it; till, bending over the ocean in their 
 turns> they discovered what they imagined, at first, to be a 
 new lieaven, peopled with beings of their own species ; but, 
 when they perceived, further, that no sooner had any one of 
 their company touched the horizon than he instantly disap- 
 peared, they then recognised themselves in their individual 
 forms, reflected beneath according to their places and config- 
 urations above, from seeing others, whom they previously 
 knew, reflected in like manner. 
 
 By an attentive but mournful self-examination in that mir- 
 ror, they slowly learned humility ; but every one learned it 
 only for himself, none believing what others insinuated re- 
 specting their own inferiority, till they reached the western 
 slope, from whence they could identify their true images in 
 the nether element. Nor was this very surprising : stars 
 being only visible points, without any distinction of limbs, 
 each was all eye, and, though he could see others most cor- 
 rectly, he could neither see himself, nor any part of himself, 
 till he came to reflection ! The comet, however, having a 
 long train of brightness streaming sunward, could review that, 
 and did review it with ineffable self-complacency : — indeed, 
 after all pretensions to precedence, he was at length ac- 
 knowledged king of the hemisphere, if not by the universal 
 assent, by the silent envy of all his rivals. 
 
 But the object which attracted most attention and aston- 
 ishment, too, was a slender thread of light, that scarcely 
 could be discerned through the blush of evening, and van- 
 ished soon after night-fall, as if ashamed to appear in so 
 scanty a form, like an unfinished work of creation. It was 
 the moon, — the first new moon. Timidly she looked around 
 upon the glittering multitude, that crowded through the dark 
 serenity of space, and filled it with life and beauty. Minute, 
 indeed, they seemed to her, but perfec t in symmetry, and 
 formed to shine for ever; while she was unshapen, incom- 
 plete, and evanescent. In her humility she was glad to hide 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 87 
 
 herself from their keen glances in the friendly bosom of the 
 ocean, wishing for immediate extinction. 
 
 When she was gone, the stars looked one at another with 
 inquisitive surprise, as much as to say, "What a figure !' 5 It 
 was so evident that they all thought alike, and thought con- 
 temptuously of the apparition, (though at first they almost 
 doubted whether they should not be frightened,) that they 
 soon began to talk freely concerning her ; of course not with 
 audible accents, but in the language of intelligent sparkles, 
 in which stars are accustomed to converse, with telegraphic 
 precision, from one end of heaven to the other, and which no 
 dialect on earth so nearly resembles as the language of the 
 eyes, — the only one, probably, that has survived in its puri- 
 ty, not only the confusion of Babel, but the revolutions of all 
 ages. — Her crooked form, which they deemed a violation of 
 the order of nature, and her shyness, equally unlike the frank 
 intercourse of stars, were ridiculed and censured from pole 
 to pole ; for what good purpose such a monster could have 
 been created, not the wisest could conjecture ; yet, to tell 
 the truth, every one, though glad to be countenanced in the 
 affectation of scorn by the rest, had secret misgivings con- 
 cerning the stranger, and envied the delicate brilliancy of her 
 light, while she seemed but the fragment of a sunbeam, — 
 they, indeed, knew nothing about the sun, — detached from a 
 long line, and exquisitely bended. 
 
 All the gay company, however, quickly returned to the 
 admiration of themselves and the inspection of each other. 
 What became of them, when they descended into the ocean, 
 they could not determine ; some imagined that they ceased 
 to be ; others that they transmigrated into new forms ; while 
 a third party thought it probable, as the earth was evidently 
 convex, that their departed friends travelled through an un- 
 der-arching sky, and might hereafter reascend from the op- 
 posite quarter. In this hypothesis they were confirmed by 
 the testimony of the stars that came from the east, who unan- 
 imously asserted, that they had been pre-existent for several 
 hours in a remote region of sky, over continents and seas 
 now invisible to them ; and, moreover, that, when they rose 
 here, they had actually seemed to set there. 
 
 Thus the first night passed awa)r. But, when the east be- 
 gan to dawn, consternation seized the whole army of celes- 
 tials, each feeling himself fainting into invisibility, and, as he 
 feared, into nothingness, while his neighbours were, one af- 
 ter another, totally disappearing. At length the sun arose, 
 and filled the heavens, and clothed the earth with his glory. 
 How he spent that day belongs not to this history ; but it is 
 
88 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 elsewhere recorded, that, for the first time from eternity, the 
 lark, on the wings of the morning, sprang up to salute him, 
 the eagle, at noon, looked undazzled on his splendour, and, 
 when he went down beyond the deep, leviathan was sport- 
 ing amidst the multitude of waves. 
 
 Then again, in the evening, the vanished constellations 
 awoke gradually, and, on opening their eyes, were so re- 
 joiced at meeting together, — not one being wanting of last 
 night 1 s levee, — that they were in the highest good humour 
 with themselves and one another. Tricked in all their beams, 
 and darting their benignest influence, they exchanged smiles 
 and endearments, and made vows of affection eternal and 
 unchangeable ; while, from this nether orb, the song of the 
 nightingale rose out of darkness, and charmed even the stars 
 in their courses, being the first sound, except the roar of 
 ocean, that they had ever heard. u The music of the 
 spheres" may be traced to the rapture of that hour. 
 
 The little gleaming horn was again discerned, leaning 
 backward over the western hills. This companionless lumi- 
 nary, they thought, — but they must be mistaken, — it could 
 not be, — and yet they were afraid that it was so, — appeared 
 somewhat stronger than on the former occasion. The moon 
 herself, still only blinking at the scene of magnificence, early 
 escaped beneath the horizon, leaving the comet in proud 
 possession of the sky. 
 
 About midnight, the whole congregation, shining in quiet 
 and amicable splendour, as they glided, with unfelt and in- 
 visible motion, through the pure blue fields of ether, were 
 suddenly startled by a phantom cf fire, on the approach of 
 which the comet himself turned pale, the planets dwindled 
 into dim specks, and the greater part of the stars swooned 
 utterly away. Shooting upwards, like an arrow of flame, 
 from the east, — in the zenith it was condensed to a globe, 
 with scintillating spires diverging on every side, — it paused 
 not a moment there, but rushing, with accelerated velocity, 
 towards the west, burst into a thousand coruscations, that 
 swept themselves into annihilation before it could be said 
 that they were. 
 
 The blaze of this meteor was so refulgent, that passing 
 blindness struck the constellations, and, after they were 
 conscious of its disappearance, it took many twinklings of 
 their eyes before they could see distinctly again. Then 
 with one accord they exclaimed, " How beautiful ! how 
 transient!" — After gravely moralizing for a good while on 
 its enviable glory, but unenviable doom, they were all re- 
 conciled to their own milder but more permanent lustre. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 89 
 
 One pleasant effect was produced by the visit of the stran- 
 ger ; the comet thenceforward appeared less illustrious in 
 their eyes by comparison with this more gorgeous phenome- 
 non, which, though it came in an instant, and went as it 
 came, never to return, ceased not to shine in their remem- 
 brance night after night. 
 
 On the third evening, the moon was so obviously increas- 
 ed in size and splendour, and stood so much higher in the 
 firmament than at first, though she still hastened out of sight, 
 that she was the sole subject of conversation on both sides of 
 the galaxy, till the breeze, that awakened newly-created 
 man from his first slumber in paradise, warned the stars to 
 retire, and the sun, with a pomp never witnessed in our de- 
 generate days, ushered in the great Sabbath of creation, 
 when " the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the 
 host of them.'' 
 
 The following night the moon took her station still higher, 
 and looked brighter than before ; insomuch that it was re- 
 marked of the lesser stars in her vicinity, that many of them 
 were paler, and some no longer visible. As their associates 
 knew not how to account for this, they, naturally enough, 
 presumed that her light was fed by the accession and ab- 
 sorption of theirs ; and the alarm became general, that she 
 would thus continue to thrive by consuming her neighbours, 
 till she had incorporated them all with herself. 
 
 Still, however, she preserved her humility and shame- 
 facedness, till her crescent had exceeded the first quarter. 
 Hitherto she had only grown lovelier, but now she grew 
 prouder at every step of her preferment. Her rays, too, be- 
 came so intolerably dazzling, that fewer and fewer of the 
 stars could endure their presence, but shrouded themselves 
 in her light as behind a veil of darkness. When she verg- 
 ed to maturity, the heavens seemed too small for her ambi- 
 tion. She "rose in clouded majesty," but the clouds melt- 
 ed at her approach, or spread their garments in her path, 
 of many a rich and rainbow tint. 
 
 She had crossed the comet in her course, and left him as 
 wan as a vapour behind her. On the night of her fulness 
 she triumphed gloriously in mid heaven, smiled on the earth, 
 and arrayed it in a softer day ; for she had repeatedly seen 
 the sun, and, though she could not rival him when she was 
 above the horizon, she fondly hoped to make his absence 
 forgotten. Over the ocean she hung, enamoured of her own 
 beauty reflected in the abyss. The few stars, that still could 
 stand amidst her overpowering effulgence, converged their 
 rays, and shrunk into bluer depths of ether, to gaze at a safe 
 8 * 
 
90 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 distance upon her. " What more can she be ?" — thought 
 these scattered survivors of myriads of extinguished spark- 
 lers ; for the " numbers without number" that thronged the 
 milky way had altogether disappeared. Again thought these 
 remnants of the host of heaven, "As hitherto she has in- 
 creased every evening, to-morrow she will do the same, and 
 we must be lost, like our brethren, in her all-conquering re- 
 splendence." 
 
 The moon herself was not a little puzzled to imagine 
 what might become of her; but vanity readily suggested, 
 that, although she had reached her full form, she had net 
 reached her full size; consequently, by a regular nightly ex- 
 pansion of her circumference, she would finally cover the 
 whole convexity of sky, not only to the exclusion of the 
 stars, but the sun himself, since he occupied a superior re- 
 gion of space, and certainly could not shine through her; — 
 till man, and his beautiful companion woman, looking up- 
 ward from the bowers of Eden, would see all moon above 
 them, and walk in the light of her countenance forever. 
 In the midst of this self-pleasing illusion, a film crept upon 
 her, which spread from her utmost verge athwart her centre, 
 till it had completely eclipsed her visage, and made her a 
 blot on the tablet of the heavens. In the progress of this 
 disaster, the stars, which were hid in her pomp, stole forth 
 to witness her humiliation ; but their transport and her 
 shame lasted not long; the shadow retired as gradually as it 
 had advanced, leaving her fairer by contrast than before. 
 Soon afterwards the day broke, and she withdrew, marvel- 
 ling what would next befall her. 
 
 Never had the stars been more impatient to resume their 
 places, nor the moon more impatient to rise, than on the 
 following evening. With trembling hope and fear, the 
 planets that came out first after sunset espied her disk, 
 broad and dark red, emerging from a gulf of clouds in the 
 east. At the first glance, their keen celestial sight dis- 
 covered that her western limb was a little contracted, and 
 her orb no longer perfect. She herself was too much elated 
 to suspect any failing, and fondly imagined, by that species 
 of self-measurement, whereby earthly as well as heavenly 
 bodies are apt to deem themselves greater than they are, 
 that she must have continued to increase all round, — till she 
 had got above the Atlantic ; but even then she was only 
 chagrined to perceive that her image was no larger than it 
 had been last night. There was not a star in the horoscope, 
 — no, not the comet himself, — durst tell her she was less. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 91 
 
 Another day went, and anotlier night came. She rose, as 
 usual, a little later. Even while she travelled above the 
 land, she was haunted with the idea, that her lustre was 
 rather feebler than it had been ; but, when she beheld her 
 face in the sea, she could no longer overlook the unwelcome 
 defect. The season was boisterous ; the wind rose sudden- 
 ly, and the waves burst into foam ; perhaps the tide, for the 
 first time, then was affected by sympathy with the moon ; 
 and, what had never happened before, an universal tempest 
 mingled heaven and earth in rain, and lightning, and dark- 
 ness. She plunged among the thickest of the thunder-clouds, 
 and, in the confusion that hid her disgrace, her exulting ri- 
 vals were all, likewise, put out of countenance. 
 
 On the next evening, and every evening afterwards, the 
 moon came forth later, and less, and dimmer ; while, on each 
 occasion, more and more of the minor stars, which had former- 
 ly vanished from her eye, re-appeared to witness her fading- 
 honours and disfigured form. Prosperity had made her 
 vain ; adversity brought her to her mind again, and humility 
 soon compensated the loss of glaring distinction with softer 
 charms, that won the regard which haughtiness had repelled ; 
 for, when she had worn off her uncouth, gibbous aspect, and 
 through the last quarter her profile waned into a hollow 
 shell, she appeared more graceful than ever in the eyes of 
 all heaven. When she was originally seen among them, the 
 stars contemned her; afterwards, as she grew in beauty, 
 they envied, feared, hated, and finally fled from her. As she 
 relapsed into insignificance, they first rejoiced in her decay, 
 then endured her superiority because it could not last long ; 
 but, when they marked bow she had wasted away every time 
 they met, compassion succeeded, and on the three last 
 nights, (like a human fair one in the latest stage of decline, 
 growing lovelier and dearer to her friends till the close,) she 
 disarmed hostility, conciliated kindness, and secured affec- 
 tion; she was admired, beloved, and unenvied by all. 
 
 At length there came a night when there was no moon. 
 There was silence in heaven all that night. In serene med- 
 itation on the changes of a month, the stars pursued their 
 journey from sunset to daybreak. The comet had, like- 
 wise, departed into unknown regions. His fading lustre 
 had been attributed, at first, to the bolder radiance of the 
 moon in her meridian, but, during her wane, while inferior 
 luminaries were brightening around her, he was growing 
 fainter and smaller every evening, and now he was no more. 
 Of the rest, planets and stars, all were unimpaired in their 
 light, and the former only slightly varied in their positions. 
 
92 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The whole multitude, wiser by experience, and better for 
 their knowledge, were humble, contented, and grateful, 
 each for his lot, whether splendid or obscure. 
 
 Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of all, the moon, 
 with a new crescent, was descried in the west ; and instant- 
 ly, from every quarter of the pole, she was congratulated on 
 her happy resurrection. Just as she went down, while her 
 bow was yet recumbent on the dark purple horizon, it is 
 said that an angel appeared, standing between her horns. 
 Turning his head, his eye glanced rapidly over the universe, 
 — the sun far sunk behind him, the moon under his feet, the 
 earth spread in prospect before him, and the firmament all 
 glittering with constellations above. He paused a moment, 
 and then, in that tongue wherein, at the accomplishment of 
 creation, a the morning stars sang together, and all the sons 
 of God shouted for joy," he thus brake forth : — "Great and 
 marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty ! In wisdom 
 hast thou made them all. — Who would not fear thee, Lord, 
 and glorify thy name, for thou only art holy ?" — He ceas- 
 ed, — and from that hour there has been harmony in heaven. 
 
 LESSON' XL. 
 
 Our English Descent^ and the Advantages of Adversity to our 
 Forefathers. — E. Everett. 
 
 I am not, — I need not say I am not, — the panegyrist of 
 England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed by her 
 power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the coronet, stars, gar- 
 ters, and blue ribbons, seem to me poor things for great men 
 to contend for. Nor is my admiration awakened by her ar- 
 mies, mustered for the battles of Europe ; her navies, over- 
 shadowing the ocean ; nor her empire, grasping the farthest 
 east. It is these, and the price of guilt and blood by which 
 they are maintained, which are the cause why no friend of 
 liberty can salute her with undivided affections. But it is 
 the refuge of free principles, though often persecuted ; the 
 school of religious liberty, the more precious for the struggles 
 to which it has been called ; the tombs of those who have 
 reflected honour on all who speak the English tongue ; it is 
 the birthplace of our fathers, the home of the pilgrims ; it is 
 these which I love and venerate in England. I should feel 
 ashamed of an enthusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not 
 also feel it for a land like this. In an American it would 
 seem to me degenerate and ungrateful to hang with passion 
 upon the traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow without 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 93 
 
 emotion the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakspeare and 
 Milton ; and I should think him cold in his love for his na- 
 tive land, who felt no melting in his heart for that other na- 
 tive land, which holds the ashes of his forefathers. 
 
 But it was not enough that our fathers were of England : 
 the masters of Ireland and the lords of Hindostan are of Eng- 
 land too. But our fathers were Englishmen, aggrieved, per- 
 secuted, and banished. It is a principle amply borne out by 
 the history of the great and powerful nations of the earth, 
 and by that of none more than the country of which we 
 speak, that the best fruits, and choicest action of the com- 
 mendable qualities of the national character, are to be found 
 on the side of the oppressed few, and not of the triumphant 
 many. As, in private character, adversity is often requisite 
 to give a proper direction and temper to strong qualities, so 
 the noblest traits of national character, even under the freest 
 and most independent of hereditary governments, are com- 
 monly to be sought in the ranks of a protesting minority, or 
 of a dissenting sect. Never was this truth more clearly il- 
 lustrated than in the settlement of New England. 
 
 Could a common calculation of policy have dictated the 
 terms of that settlement, no doubt our foundations would have 
 been laid beneath the royal smile. Convoys and navies 
 would have been solicited to waft our fathers to the coast; 
 armies, to defend the infant communities ; and the flatter- 
 ing patronage of princes and lords, to espouse their interests 
 in the councils of the mother country. Happy, that our fa- 
 thers enjoyed no such patronage ; happy, that they fell into 
 no such protecting hands; happy, that our foundations were 
 silently and deeply cast in quiet insignificance, beneath a 
 charter of banishment, persecution, and, contempt; so that, 
 when the royal arm was at length outstretched against us, 
 instead of a submissive child, tied down by former graces, 
 it found a youthful giant in the land, born amidst hardships, 
 and nourished on the rocks; indebted for no favours, and 
 owing no duty. 
 
 From the dark portals of the star-chamber, and in the 
 stern text of the acts of uniformity, the pilgrims received a 
 commission, more efficient than any that ever bore the royal 
 seal. Their banishment to Holland was fortunate; the de- 
 cline of their little company in the strange land was fortu- 
 nate ; the difficulties which they experienced in getting the 
 royal consent to banish themselves to this wilderness were 
 fortunate; all the tears and heart-breakings of that ever 
 memorable parting at Delfthaven had the happiest influence 
 on the rising destinies of New England. All this purified 
 
 * 
 
94 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 the ranks of the settlers. These rough touches of fortune 
 brushed off the light, uncertain, selfish spirits. They made 
 it a grave, solemn, self-denying expedition, and required of 
 those who engaged in it to be so too. They cast a broad 
 shadow of thought and seriousness over the cause; and, if this 
 sometimes deepened into melancholy and bitterness, can we 
 find no apology for such a human weakness ? 
 
 It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters which the little 
 band of pilgrims encountered ; sad to see a portion of them, 
 the prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously embarked in 
 an unsound, unseaworthy ship, which they are soon obliged 
 to abandon, and crowd themselves into one vessel ; one hun- 
 dred persons, besides the ship's company, in a vessel of one 
 hundred and sixty tons. One is touched at the story of the 
 long, cold, and weary autumnal passage ; of the landing on 
 the inhospitable rocks at this dismal season ; where they are 
 deserted, before long, by the ship which had brought them, 
 and which seemed their only hold upon the world of fellow 
 men, a prey to the elements and to want, and fearfully igno- 
 rant of the numbers, the power, and the temper of the sav-. 
 age tribes, that filled the unexplored continent, upon whose 
 verge they had ventured. 
 
 But all this wrought together for good. These trials of 
 wandering and exile, of the ocean, the winter, the wilder- 
 ness, and the savage foe, were the final assurances of suc- 
 cess. It was these that put far away from our fathers' cause 
 all patrician softness, all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. 
 No effeminate nobility crowded into the dark and austere 
 ranks of the pilgrims. No Carr nor Villiers would lead on 
 the ill-provided band of despised Puritans. No well endow 
 ed clergy were on the alert to quit their cathedrals, and set 
 up a pompous hierarchy in the frozen wilderness. No crav- 
 ing governors were anxious to be sent over to our cheerless 
 El Dorados of ice and of snow. No ; they could not say they 
 had encouraged, patronised, or helped the pilgrims; their 
 own cares, their own labours, their own councils, their own 
 blood, contrived all, achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They 
 could not afterwards fairly pretend to reap where they had 
 not strewn ; and, as our fathers reared this broad and solid 
 fabric with pains and watchfulness, unaided, barely tolerated, 
 it did not fall when the favour, which had always been 
 withholden, was changed into wrath ; when the arm, which 
 had never supported, was raised to destroy. 
 
 Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous ves- 
 sel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the pros- 
 pects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 95 
 
 I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncer- 
 tain, the tedious vo) 7 age. Suns rise and set, and weeks and 
 months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but 
 brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see 
 them now scantily supplied with provisions; crowded almost 
 to suffocation in their ill-stored prison ; delayed by calms, 
 pursuing a circuitous route, — and now driven in fury before 
 the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. The aw- 
 ful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The la- 
 bouring masts seem straining from their base ; the dismal 
 sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, 
 madly, from billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, and settles 
 with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats, 
 with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered ves- 
 sel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their 
 all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five 
 months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak 
 and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provis- 
 ioned, depending on the charity of their ship-master for a 
 draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but water on 
 shore, — without shelter, without means, — surrounded by hos- 
 tile tribes. 
 
 Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any prin- 
 ciple of human probability, what shall be the fate of this 
 handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, 
 in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty 
 savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New 
 England ? Tell me, politician, how long did A this shadow of a 
 colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not 
 smiled, languish on the distant coast ? Student of history, 
 compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, 
 the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the paral- 
 lel of this. Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the 
 houseless heads of women and children; was it hard labour 
 and spare meals ; was it disease ; was it the tomahawk ; was 
 it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, 
 and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recol- 
 lection of the loved and left beyond the sea ; was it some, or 
 all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to 
 their melancholy fate ? And is it possible that neither of 
 these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this 
 bud of hope ? Is it possible, that, from a beginning so feeble, 
 so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there 
 has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an 
 expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to 
 be fulfilled, so glorious ? 
 
96 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XLI. 
 
 Dangers of Luxury and Ease of the present Times. — Dewey. 
 
 The common measure of national intelligence and virtue 
 is no rule for us. It is not enough for us to be as wise and 
 improved, as virtuous and pious, as other nations. Prov- 
 idence, in giving to us an origin so remarkable and signally- 
 favoured, demands of us a proportionate improvement. We 
 are in our infancy, it is true ; but our existence began in an 
 intellectual maturity. Our fathers' virtues were the virtues 
 of the wilderness, yet without its wildness ; hardy, and vig- 
 orous, and severe, indeed, but not rude, nor mean. Le; 
 us beware, lest we become more prosperous than they, more 
 abundant in luxuries and refinements, only to be less temper- 
 ate, upright, and religious. Let us beware, lest the stern and 
 lofty features of primeval rectitude should be regarded with 
 less respect among us. Let us beware, lest their piety should 
 fall with the oaks of their forests \ lest the loosened bow of 
 early habits and opinions, which was once strung in the wil- 
 derness, should be too much relaxed. 
 
 We are accustomed to speak of the early days of our his- 
 tory as times of danger. But there are dangers still to be en- 
 countered: the dangers of comparative abundance and luxury, 
 of comparative ease and safety, of sensuality, of intemper- 
 ance and effeminacy ; dangers to the full as alarming as those*, 
 that beset our forefathers. Nay, the single evil of intemper- 
 ance is, at this moment, more to be dreaded in the land than 
 all the hardships and perils of the sea and the wilderness. 
 
 The time has been, indeed, when our villages were girded 
 about with palisades, and fear held its nightly watch in all 
 the dwellings of the land ; when, at every howl of the faith- 
 ful guardian without, the mother pressed more closely to her 
 bosom the unconscious babe; when, at every faint and distant 
 note of danger, the father sprung from his couch, and seized 
 the ready weapon of defence ; — but, oh ! better were this, 
 than for that father to become himself an invader of the mid- 
 night silence of his dwelling, as he returns from the revels of 
 the dissolute and profane; and more gently fell the blow of the 
 savage invader than the insane imprecations of a husband's 
 wrath, or the blasting stroke of a friend's dishonour. 
 
 The zeal of our religion, too, may decline from the earnest- 
 ness of former days : and if it does ; if, in rooting up old preju- 
 dices, we tear away the very stock on which these prejudices 
 grew ; if our religion becomes little better than a religion of 
 objection and scorn at the faults and errors of those who have 
 gone before us ; if the mind and heart of the people, as they 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 97 
 
 become cultivated and refined, become cold and dead to all 
 the aims and influences of a fervent piety ; — it were little to 
 say, that famine, and cotd, and nakedness, that houseless and 
 unsheltered poverty and want, are nothing to be dreaded in the 
 comparison. 
 
 LESSON XLII. 
 
 The Counsel of Ahithophel defeated. — Hillhouse. 
 
 After the revolt of Absalom, and the flight of David from Jerusalem, Ahithophel 
 advises Absalom to pursue his father immediately ; but another counsellor, 
 Hushai, who pretends to favour the usurper, though he is in reality faithful to 
 the old king, recommends delay. His advice is taken, and Absalom is, on 
 the next day, overthrown. The scene here represented is the council-hall, in 
 which Absalom, Ahithophel, Manasses, Malchiah, Hushai, and 
 others, are engaged in debate. 
 
 Ahith. My lord, you know them not — you wear, to-day, 
 The diadem, and hear yourself proclaimed, 
 With trump and timbrel, Israel's joy, and deem 
 Your lasting throne established. Canst thou bless, 
 Or blast, like Him who rent the waters, clave 
 The rock, whose awful clangour shook the world 
 When Sinai quaked beneath his majesty ? 
 Yet Jacob's seed forsook this thundering guide, 
 Even at the foot of the astonished mount ! — 
 If benefits could bind them, wherefore flames 
 The Ammonitish spoil upon thy brows, 
 While David's locks are naked to the night dew ? 
 ^ Canst thou transcend thy father ? Is thy arm 
 Stronger than his who smote from sea to sea, 
 And girt us like a band of adamant ? — 
 Trust not their faith. Thy father's root is deep ; 
 His stock will bourgeon with a single sun ; 
 And many tears will flow to moisten him. — 
 Pursue, this night, or ruin will o'ertake thee. 
 
 Ab. What say'st thou, Hushai ? Speak to this, once more. 
 
 Hash. I listen to my lord Ahithophel, 
 As to a heaven-instructed oracle ; 
 But what he urges more alarms my fears. 
 Thou seest, king, how night envelopes us ; 
 Amidst its 'perils, whom must we pursue ? 
 The son of Jesse is a man of war, 
 Old in the field, hardened to danger, skilled 
 In every wile and stratagem ; the night 
 More welcome than the day. Each mountain path 
 He treads instinctive as the ibex ; sleeps, 
 9 
 
98 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Moistened with cold, dank drippings of the rock, 
 
 As underneath the canopy. Some den 
 
 Will be his bed to-night. No hunter knows, 
 
 Like him, the caverns, cliffs, and treacherous passes, 
 
 Familiar to his feet, in former days, 
 
 As 'twixt the court and tabernacle. What ! 
 
 Know ye not how his great heart swells in danger, 
 
 Like the old lion's from his lair by Jordan 
 
 Rising against the strong? Beware of him by night, 
 
 While anger chafes him. Never hope 
 
 Surprisal. While we talk, they lurk in ambush, 
 
 Expectant of their prey ; the Cherethites, 
 
 And those blood-thirsty Gittites, crouch around him 
 
 Like evening wolves ; fierce Joab darts his eyes, 
 
 Keen as the leopard's, out into the night, 
 
 And curses our delay ; Abishai raves ; 
 
 Benaiah, Ittai, and the Tachmonite, 
 
 And they, the mighty three, who broke the host 
 
 Of the Philistines, and from Bethlehem's well 
 
 Drew water, when the king but thirsted, now 
 
 Raven like beasts bereaved of their young. — 
 
 We go not after boys, but the Gibborim, 
 
 Whose bloody weapons never struck but triumphed. 
 
 Malchi. It were a doubtful quest. 
 
 Hush. Hear me, O king. 
 Go not to-night, but summon, with the dawn, 
 Israel's ten thousands ; mount thy conquering car, 
 Surrounded by innumerable hosts, 
 And go, their strength, their glory, and their king, 
 Almighty, to the battle ; for what might 
 Can then resist thee ? Light upon this handful, 
 Like dew upon the earth ; or, if they bar 
 Some city's gates against thee, let the people 
 Level its puny ramparts, stone by stone, 
 And cast them into Jordan. Thus my lord 
 May bind his crown with wreaths of victory, 
 And owe his kingdom to no second arm. 
 
 Ahith. O blindness ! lunacy ! 
 
 Hush. I would retire ; 
 Ye have my counsel. 
 
 Ahith. Would thou hadst not come, 
 To linger out with thy pernicious talk 
 The hours of action. 
 
 Hush. Wise Ahithophel, 
 
 No longer I'll offend thee. Please the king • 
 
 [Absalom waves him to resume his seat. ] 
 
THE CLASSICAL READEK. 99 
 
 Ahith. By all your hopes, my lord, of life and glory, 
 I do adjure thee shut thine ears to him ! 
 His counsel's fatal, if not treacherous. 
 I see its issue clearly as I see 
 The badge of royalty, — not long to sit 
 Where now it sparkles, if his words entice thee. 
 Never was prudence in my tongue, or now. 
 Blanched as* I am, weak, withered, winter-stricken, 
 Grant but twelve thousand men, and I'll go forth. 
 Weary, weak-handed, what can they, if taken 
 Now, in their first alarm ? 
 
 Ab. Were this resolved, 
 We would not task thy age. What think ye, sirs ? 
 
 Manass. My lord, the risk is great : a night assault 
 Deprives us of advantage from our numbers, 
 Which in the open field ensure success ; 
 And news of a disaster, blown about 
 And magnified, just now, when all are trembling, 
 Might lose a tribe, might wound us fatally. 
 Hushai's advice appears most prudent. 
 
 Ahith. Fate ! 
 
 Malchi. I think so too, my lord. 
 
 Others. And I. And I. 
 
 Ahith. Undone ! 
 
 Ab. The council are agreed, this once, 
 Against you, and with them the king accords. 
 
 Ahith. (Stretching his hands towards Absalom.) 
 Against thyself, thy throne, thy life, thy all ! 
 Darkness has entered thee ! confusion waits thee ! 
 Death brandishes his dart at thee, and grins 
 At thy brief diadem ! — Farewell ! Farewell ! — 
 
 Remember me! I'll not be checked and rated, 
 
 Branded with treason, see my hoary hairs 
 Hooted and scoffed at, — if they're spared, indeed, 
 For such indignity. — : — Thou'lt follow soon. [Exit.] 
 
 Ab. Or win or lose, we walk not by thy light. 
 
 Malchi. The old man's strangely moved. 
 
 Manass. His fury seemed 
 Prophetical. 
 
 Ab. The council is dissolved, 
 Here to assemble in the morning early, 
 To order for our absence. Leave us now 
 To private business. 
 
 Counsellors. Save our lord the king. 
 
 UtfCL 
 
100 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XLIII. 
 Governments of Will, and Governments of Law.- — Wayland 
 
 The various forms of government, under which society has 
 existed, may, with sufficient accuracy, be reduced to two ; 
 governments of will, and governments of law. 
 
 A government of will supposes that there are created two 
 classes of society, the rulers and the ruled, each possessed of 
 different and very dissimilar rights. It supposes all power to 
 be vested, by divine appointment, in the hands of the rulers ; 
 that they alone may say under what form of governments the 
 people shall live ; that law is nothing other than an expression 
 of their will ; and that it is the ordinance of Heaven that such a 
 constitution should continue unchanged to the remotest gener- 
 ations ; and that to all this the people are bound to yield 
 passive and implicit obedience. Thus say the Congress of 
 Sovereigns, which has been styled the Holy Alliance : " All 
 useful and necessary changes ought only to emanate from the 
 free will and intelligent conviction of those, whom God has 
 made responsible for power." You are well aware, that on 
 principles such as these rest most of the governments of con- 
 tinental Europe. 
 
 The government of law rests upon principles precisely the 
 reverse of all this. It supposes that there is but one class of 
 society, and that this class is the people ; that all men are cre- 
 ated equal, and, therefore, that civil institutions are voluntary 
 associations, of which the sole object should be to promote 
 the happiness of the whole. It supposes the people to have 
 a perfect right to select that form of government, under which 
 they shall live, and to modify it, at any subsequent time, as 
 they shall think desirable. Supposing all power to emanate 
 from the people, it considers the authority of rulers purely a 
 delegated authority, to be exercised in all cases according to a 
 written code, which code is nothing more than an authentic 
 expression of the people's will. It teaches that the ruler is 
 nothing more than the intelligent organ of enlightened public 
 opinion, and declares that, if he ceases to be so, he shall be a 
 ruler no longer. Under such a government may it with truth 
 be said of Law, that " her seat is the bosom" of the people, 
 " her voice the harmony" of society ; " all men, in every 
 station, do her reverence ; the very least as feeling her care, 
 and the very greatest as not exempted from her power ; and, 
 though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uni- 
 form consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace and 
 joy." I need not add, that our own is an illustrious example 
 of the government of law. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 101 
 
 Now which of these two is the right notion of government, 
 I need not stay to inquire. It is sufficient for my purpose to 
 remark, that, whenever men have become enlightened by the 
 general diffusion of intelligence, they have universally prefer- 
 red the government of law. The doctrines of what has been 
 called legitimacy have not been found to stand the scrutiny 
 of unrestrained examination. And, besides this, the love of 
 power is as inseparable from the human bosom as the love 
 of life. Hence men will never rest satisfied with any civil 
 institutions, which confer exclusively upon a part of society 
 that power, which they believe should justly be vested in the 
 whole ; and hence it is evident that no government can be 
 secure from the effects of increasing intelligence, which is 
 not conformed in its principles to the nature of the human 
 heart, and which does not provide for the exercise of this 
 principle, so inseparable from the nature of man. 
 
 LESSON XLIV. 
 Description of the old Sport of Hawking. — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Apprehensive of no evil, and riding gayly on, with the 
 sensation of one escaped from confinement, Eveline moved 
 forward on her lively jennet, as light as a lark ; the plumes 
 with which Dame Gillian had decked her riding bonnet 
 dancing in the wind, and her attendants galloping behind 
 her, with dogs, pouches, lines, and all other appurtenances 
 of the royal sport of hawking. After passing the river, the 
 wild greensward path which they pursued began to wind 
 upward among small eminences, sometimes bare and craggy, 
 sometimes overgrown with hazel, sloe-thorn, and other dwarf 
 shrubs, and at length, suddenly descending, brought them to 
 the verge of a mountain rivulet, that, like a lamb at play, 
 leapt merrily from rock to rock, seemingly uncertain which 
 way to run. 
 
 " This little stream was always my favourite, Dame Gil- 
 lian," said Eveline, " and now methinks it leaps the lighter 
 that it sees me again." 
 
 " Ah! lady," said Dame Gillian, whose turn for conversa- 
 tion never extended in such cases beyond a few phrases of 
 gross flattery, " many a fair knight would leap shoulder-height 
 for leave to look on you as free as the brook may ! more 
 especially now that you have donned that riding-cap, which, 
 in exquisite delicacy of invention, methinks is a bowshot 
 before aught that I ever invented. What thinkest thou, 
 Raoul?" 
 
 9 * 
 
102 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 " 1 think," answered her well-natured helpmate, " that 
 women's tongues were contrived to drive all the game out 
 of the country. Here we come near to the spot where we 
 hope to speed, or nowhere ; wherefore, pray, my sweet lady, 
 be silent yourself, and let us steal along the bank of the 
 pool, under the wind, with our hawks' hoods cast loose, all 
 ready for a flight." 
 
 As he spoke, they advanced about a hundred yards up the 
 brawling stream, until the little vale through which it flowed, 
 making a very sudden turn to one side, showed them the Red 
 Pool, the superfluous water of which formed the rivulet it 
 self. 
 
 This mountain lake, or tarn, as it is called in some coun- 
 tries, was a deep basin, of about a mile in circumference, but 
 rather oblong than circular. On the side next to our falconers 
 arose a ridge of rock, of a dark red hue, giving name to the 
 pool, which, reflecting this massive and dusky barrier, ap- 
 peared to partake of its colour. On the opposite side was a 
 heathy hill, whose autumnal bloom had not yet faded from 
 purple to russet ; its surface was varied by the dark green 
 furze and the fern, and in many places gray cliffs, or loose 
 stones of the same colour, formed a contrast to the ruddy 
 precipice to which they lay opposed. A natural road of 
 beautiful sand was formed by a beach, which, extending all 
 the way around the lake, separated its waters from the pre- 
 cipitous rock on the one hand, and on the other from the 
 steep and broken hill ; and being nowhere less than five or 
 six yards in breadth, and in most places greatly more, oifered, 
 around its whole circuit, a tempting opportunity to the rider, 
 who desired to exercise and breathe the horse on which he 
 was mounted. The verge of the pool, on the rocky side, was 
 here and there strewed with fragments of large size, de- 
 tached from the precipice above, but not in such quantity as 
 to encumber this pleasant horse-course. Many of these 
 rocky masses, having passed the margin of the water in their 
 fall, lay immersed there like small islets ; and, placed amongst 
 a little archipelago, the quick eye of Raoul detected the 
 heron which they were in search of. 
 
 A moment's consultation was held to consider in what 
 manner they should approach the sad and solitary bird, 
 which, unconscious that itself was the object of a formidable 
 ambuscade, stood motionless on a stone, by the brink of the 
 lake, watching for such small fish or water reptiles as might 
 chance to pass by its lonely stance. A brief debate took 
 place betwixt Raoul and the hawk-merchant on the best 
 mode of starting the quarry, so as to allow Lady Eveline and 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 103 
 
 her attendants the most perfect view of the flight. The fa- 
 cility of killing the heron at the far jettee, or at the jettee 
 ferre — that is, upon the hither or farther side of the pool — 
 was anxiously debated in language of breathless importance, 
 as if some great and perilous enterprise was about to be ex- 
 ecuted 
 
 At length the arrangements were fixed, and the party be- 
 gan to advance towards the aquatic hermit, who, by this time 
 aware of their approach, drew himself up to his full height, 
 erected his long, lean neck, spread his broad, fan-like wings, 
 uttered his usual clanging cry, and, projecting his length of 
 thin legs far behind him, rose upon the gentle breeze. It was 
 then, with a loud whoop of encouragement, that the merchant 
 threw off the noble hawk he bore, having first unhooded 
 her, to give her a view of her quarry. 
 
 Eager as a frigate in chase of some rich galleon, darted 
 the falcon towards the enemy, which she had been taught to 
 pursue ; while, preparing for defence, if he should be unable 
 to escape by flight, the heron exerted all his powers of speed 
 to escape from an enemy so formidable. Plying his almost 
 unequalled strength of wing, he ascended higher and higher 
 in the air, by short gyrations, that the hawk might gain no 
 vantage ground for pouncing at him ; while his piked beak, 
 at the extremity of so long a neck as enabled him to strike an 
 object at a yard's distance in every direction, possessed, for 
 any less spirited assailant, all the terrors of a Moorish javelin. 
 
 Another hawk was now thrown off, and encouraged by 
 the halloos of the falconer to join her companion. Both kept 
 mounting, or scaling the air, as it _ were, by a succession of 
 small circles, endeavouring to gain that superior height, which 
 the heron, on his part, was bent to preserve ; and, to the ex- 
 quisite delight of the spectators, the contest was continued 
 until all three were well nigh mingled with the fleecy clouds, 
 from which was occasionally heard the harsh and plaintive 
 cry of the quarry, appealing, as it were, to the heaven, which 
 he was approaching, against the wanton cruelty of those by 
 whom he was persecuted. 
 
 At length one of the falcons had reached a pitch, from 
 which she ventured to stoop at the heron ; but so judiciously 
 did the quarry maintain his defence, as to receive on his beak 
 the stroke which the falcon, shooting down at full descent, 
 had made against his right wing ; so that one of his enemies, 
 spiked through the body by his own weight, fell, fluttering, 
 into the lake, very near the land, on the side farthest from 
 the falconers, and perished there. 
 
104 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 " There goes a gallant falcon to the fishes," said Raoul. 
 "Merchant, thy cake is dough." 
 
 Even as he spoke, however, the remaining bird had 
 avenged the fate of her sister ; for the success which the her- 
 on met with on one side did aot prevent his being assailed 
 on the other wing; and the falcon, stooping boldly, and 
 grappling with, or, as it is termed in falconry, binding his 
 prey, both came tumbling down together, from a great height 
 in the air. It was then no small object, on the part of the 
 falconers, to come in as soon as possible, lest the falcon 
 should receive hurt from the beak or talons of the heron ; 
 and the whole party, the men setting spurs, and the females 
 switching their palfreys, went off like the wind, sweeping 
 along the fair and smooth beach betwixt the rock and the 
 water. 
 
 Lady Eveline, far better mounted than any of her train, 
 her spirits elated by the sport, and by the speed at which she 
 moved, was much sooner than any of her attendants at the 
 spot, where the falcon and heron, still engaged in their mor- 
 tal struggle, lay fighting upon the moss ; the wing of the lat- 
 ter having been broken by the stoop of the former. The 
 duty of a falconer, in such a crisis, was to rush in and assist 
 the hawk, by thrusting the heron's bill into the earth, and 
 breaking his legs, and then permitting the falcon to despatch 
 him on easy terms. 
 
 Neither would the sex nor quality of the Lady Eveline 
 have excused her becoming second to the falcon in this cruel 
 manner ; but, just as she had dismounted for that purpose, 
 she was surprised to find herself seized on by a wild form, 
 who exclaimed in Welsh, that he seized her as a waif, for 
 hawking on the demesnes of Dawfyd with the one eye. At 
 the same time many others, to the number of more than a 
 score, showed themselves from behind crags and bushes, all 
 armed at point with the axes called Welsh hooks, long 
 knives, darts, and bows and arrows. 
 
 LESSON XLV. 
 
 Description and Character of King James. I. — Ibid. 
 
 The scene of confusion, amid which G. Heriot found the 
 king seated, was no bad picture of the state and quality of 
 King James's own mind. There was much that was rich 
 and costly in cabinet pictures, and valuable ornaments : but 
 they were slovenly arranged, covered with dust, and lost 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 105 
 
 half their value, or at least their effect, from the manner in 
 which they were presented to the eye. The table was 
 loaded with huge folios, amoDgst which lay light books of 
 jest and ribaldry; and amongst notes of unmercifully long 
 orations, and essays on king-craft, were mingled miserable 
 roundels and ballads by the Royal Prentice, as he styled 
 himself, in the art of poetry ; and schemes for the general 
 pacification of Europe, with a list of the names of the king's 
 hounds, and remedies against canine madness. 
 
 The king's dress was of green velvet, quilted so full as to 
 be dagger-proof, which gave him the appearance of clumsy 
 and ungainly protuberance ; while its being buttoned awry 
 communicated to his figure an air of distortion. Over his 
 green doublet he wore a sad-coloured night-gown, out of the 
 pocket of which peeped his hunting-horn. His high-crown- 
 ed gray hat lay on the floor, covered with dust, but encircled 
 by a carcanet of large balas rubies ; and he wore a blue 
 velvet night cap, in the front of which was placed the plume 
 of a heron, which had been struck down by a favourite hawk, 
 in some critical moment of the flight, in remembrance of 
 which the king wore this highly-honoured feather. 
 
 But such inconsistencies in dress and appointments were 
 mere outward types of those which existed in the royal char- 
 acter, rendering it a subject of doubt amongst his cotempo- 
 raries, and bequeathing it as a problem to future historians. 
 He was deeply learned, without possessing useful knowledge , 
 sagacious in many individual cases, without having real wis- 
 dom ; fond of his power, and desirous to maintain and aug- 
 ment it, yet willing to resign the direction of that and of 
 himself to the most unworthy favourites ; a big and bold as- 
 sertor of his rights in words, yet one who tamely saw them 
 trampled on in deeds ; a lover of negotiations, in which he 
 was always outwitted ; and a fearer of war, where conquest 
 might have been easy. He was fond of his dignity, while 
 he was perpetually degrading it by undue familiarity; capable 
 of much public labour, yet often neglecting it for the mean- 
 est amusement; a wit, though a pedant; and a scholar, 
 though fond of the conversation of the ignorant and unedu- 
 cated. Even his timidity of temper was not uniform ; and 
 there were moments of his life, and those critical, in which 
 he showed the spirit of his ancestors. He was laborious in 
 trifles, and a trifler where serious labour was required ; de- 
 vout in his sentiments, and yet too often profane in his lan- 
 guage ; just and beneficent by nature, he yet gave way to 
 the iniquities and oppression of others. He was penurious 
 respecting money which he had to give from his own hand, 
 
106 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 yet inconsiderately and unboundedly profuse of that which 
 he did not see. In a word, those good qualities, which dis- 
 played themselves in particular cases and occasions, were 
 not of a nature sufficiently firm and comprehensive to regu- 
 late his general conduct ; and, showing themselves, as they 
 occasionally did, only entitled James to the character bestow- 
 ed on him by Sully — that he was the wisest fool in Chris- 
 tendom. 
 
 That the fortunes of this monarch might be as little of a 
 piece as his character, he, certainly the least able of the Stu- 
 arts, succeeded peaceably to that kingdom, against the pow- 
 er of which his predecessors had, with so much difficulty, 
 defended his native throne. And, lastly, although his reign 
 appeared calculated to ensure to Great Britain that lasting 
 tranquillity and internal peace, which so much suited the 
 king's disposition, yet, during that very reign, were sown 
 those seeds of dissension, which, like the teeth of the fabu- 
 lous dragon, had their harvest in a bloody and universal civil 
 war. 
 
 LESSON XLVI. 
 Observations on the Vicar of Wakefield. — Ibid. 
 
 Excepting some short tales, Goldsmith gave to the depart- 
 ment of the novelist only one work, the inimitable Vicar of 
 Wakefield. It was suppressed for nearly two years, until 
 the publication of the Traveller had fixed the author's fame. 
 Goldsmith had, therefore, time for revisal, but he did not 
 employ it. He had been paid for his labour, as he observed, 
 and could have profited nothing by rendering the work ever 
 so perfect. 
 
 This, however, was false reasoning, though not unnatural 
 in the mouth of the author, who must earn daily bread by 
 daily labour. The narrative, which in itself is as simple as 
 possible, might have been cleared of certain improbabilities, 
 or rather impossibilities, which it now exhibits. We cannot, 
 for instance, conceive how Sir William Thornhill should 
 continue to masquerade under the name of Burchell, among 
 his own tenantry, and upon his own estate ; and it is abso- 
 lutely impossible to see how his nephew, the son, doubtless, 
 of a younger brother, (since Sir William inherited both title 
 and property,) should be nearly as old as the baronet him- 
 self. 
 
 It may be added, that the character of Burchell, or Sir 
 William Thornhill, is in itself extravagantly unnatural. A 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 107 
 
 man of his benevolence would never have so long left his 
 nephew in the possession of wealth which he employed to the 
 worst of purposes. Far less would he have permitted his 
 scheme upon Olivia in a great measure to succeed, and that 
 upon Sophia also to approach consummation ; for, in the first 
 instance, he does not interfere at all, and, in the second, his 
 intervention is accidental. These, and some other little cir- 
 cumstances in the progress of the narrative, might easily have 
 been removed upon revisal. 
 
 But, whatever defects occur in the tenor of the story, the 
 admirable ease and grace of the narrative, as well as the 
 pleasing truth with which the principal characters are de- 
 signed, make the Vicar of Wakefield one of the most deli- 
 cious morsels of fictitious composition on which the human 
 mind was ever employed. The principal character, that of 
 the simple pastor himself, with all the worth and excellency 
 which ought to distinguish the ambassador of God to man, 
 and yet with just so much of pedantry and literary vanity as 
 serves to show that he is made of mortal mould, and subject 
 to human feelings, is one of the best and most pleasing pic- 
 tures ever designed. It is, perhaps, impossible to place frail 
 humanity before us in an attitude of more simple dignity 
 than the vicar, in his character of pastor, of parent, and of 
 husband. 
 
 His excellent help-mate, with ail her motherly cunning, 
 and housewifely prudence, loving and respecting her hus- 
 band, but counterplotting his wisest schemes, at the dictates 
 of maternal vanity, forms an excellent counterpart. Both, 
 with their children around them, their quiet labour and do- 
 mestic happiness, compose a fireside picture of such a perfect 
 kind, as, perhaps, is no where else equalled. It is sketched, 
 indeed, from common life, and is a strong contrast to the ex- 
 aggerated and extraordinary characters and incidents which 
 are the resource of those authors, who, like Bayes, make it 
 their business to elevate and surprise ; but the very simplici- 
 ty of this charming book renders the pleasure it affords more 
 permanent. 
 
 We read the Vicar of Wakefield in youth and in age. 
 We return to it again and again, and bless the memory of an 
 author who continues so well to reconcile us to human na- 
 ture. Whether we choose the pathetic and distressing inci- 
 dents of the fire, and the scenes at the jail, or the lighter 
 and humorous parts of the story, we find the best and tru- 
 est sentiments enforced in the most beautiful language ; and 
 perhaps few characters of purer dignity have been described 
 than that of the excellent pastor rising above sorrow and op- 
 pression, and labouring for the conversion of those felons 
 
J 08 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 into whose company he had been thrust by his villanous 
 creditor. 
 
 In too many works of this class, the critics must apolo- 
 gize for, or censure, particular passages in the narrative, as 
 unfit to be perused by youth and innocence. But the wreath 
 of Goldsmith is unsullied ; he wrote to exalt virtue and ex- 
 pose vice ; and he accomplished his task in a manner which 
 raises him to the highest rank among British authors. We 
 close his volume with a sigh that such an author should have 
 written so little from the stores of his own genius, and that 
 he should have been so prematurely removed from the sphere 
 of literature which he adorned. 
 
 LESSON XLVII. 
 Hellvellyn. — Ibid. 
 
 In tne spring of 1805, a young 1 gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable dis- 
 position, perished hy losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains 
 were not discovered till three months afterwards, when thej'were found guard- 
 ed by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles 
 through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. 
 
 I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn — 
 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide.; 
 All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, 
 
 And starting around me the echoes replied. 
 On the right, Studen-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, 
 And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, 
 One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
 
 When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. 
 
 Dark green was the spot, mid the brown mountain-heather, 
 Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, 
 
 Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, 
 Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
 
 Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended ; 
 
 For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, 
 
 The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
 And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 
 
 How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? 
 
 When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou 
 start ? 
 How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, 
 
 Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
 And, oh ! was it meet, that, — no requiem read o'er him, 
 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 
 And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, — 
 
 Unhonoured, the pilgrim from life should depart ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 109 
 
 When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, 
 The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; 
 
 With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, 
 And the pages stand mute by the canopied pall ; 
 
 Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are 
 gleaming ; 
 
 In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming ; 
 
 Far down the long aisle sacred music is streaming, 
 Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 
 
 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, 
 
 To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, 
 When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, 
 
 And draws his last sob by the side of his dam : 
 And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, 
 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, 
 With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, 
 In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. 
 
 LESSON XLVIII. 
 The War Gathering of Clan-Alpine. — Ibid. 
 
 Then Roderick, with impatient look, 
 From Brian's hand the symbol took : 
 " Speed, Maiise, speed !" he said, and gave 
 The Crosslet to his hench-man brave. 
 " The muster-place be Lanrick mead — 
 Instant the time — speed, Maiise, speed !" 
 Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, 
 A barge across Loch-Katrine flew : 
 High stood the hench-man on the prow. 
 So rapidly the barge-men row, 
 The bubbles, where they launched the boat, 
 Were all unbroken and afloat, 
 Dancing in foam and ripple still, 
 When it had neared the mainland hill ; 
 And from the silver beach's side 
 Still was the prow three fathom wide, 
 When lightly bounded to the land 
 The messenger of blood and brand. 
 
 Speed, Maiise, speed ! the dun deer's hide 
 On fleeter foot was never tied. 
 Speed, Maiise, speed ! such cause of haste 
 Thine active sinews never brace(L 
 
 10 
 
110 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast ; 
 Burst down like torrent from its crest ; 
 With short and springing footstep pass 
 The trembling bog and false morass ; 
 Across the brook like roe-buck bound, 
 And thread the brake like questing hound. 
 The crag is high, the scaur is deep, 
 Yet shrink not from the desperate leap : 
 Parched are thy burning lips and brow, 
 Yet by the fountain pause not now ; 
 Herald of battle, fate, and fear, 
 Stretch onward in thy fleet career ! 
 The wounded hind thou track'st not now, 
 Pursuest not maid through green-wood bough 5 
 Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace 
 With rivals in the mountain race ; 
 But danger, death, and warrior deed, 
 Are in thy course : speed, Malise, speed ! 
 
 Fast as the fatal symbol flies, 
 In arms the huts and hamlets rise ; 
 From winding glen, from upland brown, 
 They poured each hardy tenant down. 
 Nor slacked the messenger his pace; 
 He showed the sign, he named the place, 
 And, pressing forward like the wind, 
 Left clamour and surprise behind. 
 The fisherman forsook the strand, 
 The swarthy smith took dirk and brand ; 
 With changed cheer, the mower blithe 
 Left in the half-cut swath his sithe ; 
 The herds without a keeper strayed, 
 The plough was in mid-furrow staid, 
 The falc'ner tossed his hawk away, 
 The hunter left the stag at bay ; 
 Prompt at the signal of alarms, 
 Each son of Alpine rushed to arms ; 
 So swept the tumult and affray 
 Along the margin of Achray. 
 Alas ! thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
 Thy banks should echo sounds of fear ! 
 The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
 So stilly on thy bosom deep, 
 The lark's blithe carol from the cloud 
 Seems for the scene too gayly loud. 
 
 Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past, 
 Duncraggan's huts appear at last, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. Ill 
 
 And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen, 
 Half hidden, in the copse so green ; 
 There may'st thou rest, thy labour done, 
 Their lord shall speed the signal on. — 
 As stoops the hawk upon his prey, 
 The hench-man shot him down the way. 
 What woful accents load the gale ! 
 The funeral yell, the female wail ! 
 A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, 
 A valiant warrior fights no more. 
 Who, in the battle or the. chase, 
 At Roderick's side shall fill his place ! 
 Within the hall, where torch's ray 
 Supplies the excluded beams of day, , 
 
 Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, 
 And o'er him streams his widow's tear. 
 His stripling son stands mournful by, 
 His youngest weeps, but knows not why ; 
 The village maids and matrons round 
 The dismal coronach* resound : 
 
 CORONACH. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font, re-appearing, 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary, 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory ; 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest, 
 But our flower was in flushing, 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi,f 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber ! 
 
 * Funeral song 1 . 
 
 t Or corri. The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. 
 
112 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 Thou art gone, and forever ! 
 
 See Stumah,* who, the bier beside, 
 His master's corpse with wonder eyed, — 
 Poor Stumah ! whom his least halloo 
 Could send like lightning o'er the dew, — 
 Bristles his crest, and points his ears, 
 As if some stranger step he hears. 
 'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, 
 Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 
 But headlong haste, or deadly fear, 
 Urge the precipitate career. 
 All stand aghast : — unheeding all, 
 The hench-man bursts into the hall ; 
 Before the dead man's bier he stood, 
 Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood ; 
 " The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; 
 Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed !" 
 
 Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 
 Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 
 In haste the stripling to his side 
 His father's dirk and broad-sword tied : 
 But, when he saw his mother's eye 
 Watch him in speechless agony, 
 Back to her opened arms he flew, 
 Pressed on her lips a fond adieu — 
 " Alas !" she sobbed, — " and yet be gone, 
 And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son !" 
 One look he cast upon the bier, 
 Dashed from his eye the gathering tear, 
 Breathed deep, to clear his labouring breast, 
 And tossed aloft his bonnet crest, 
 Then, like the high-bred colt when freed 
 First he essays his fire and speed, 
 He vanished, and o'er moor and moss 
 Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 
 Suspended was the widoAv's tear, 
 While yet his footsteps she could hear ; 
 And, when she marked the hench-man's eye 
 Wet with unwonted sympathy, 
 " Kinsman," she said, " his race is run, 
 That should have sped thine errand on ; 
 
 * Faithful. The name of a dog. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 113 
 
 The oak has fallen, — the sapling bough 
 
 Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 
 
 Yet trust I well, his duty done, 
 
 The orphan's God will guard my son. 
 
 And you, in many a danger true, 
 
 At Duncan's hest your blades that drew, 
 
 To arms, and guard that orphan's head ! 
 
 Let babes and women wail the dead." — 
 
 Then weapon-clang, and martial call, 
 
 Resounded through the funeral hall, 
 
 While from the walls the attendant band 
 
 Snatched sword and targe, with hurried hand ; 
 
 And short and flitting energy 
 
 Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 
 
 As if the sounds to warrior dear 
 
 Might rouse her Duncan from his bier ; 
 
 But faded soon that borrowed force ; 
 
 Grief claimed his right, and tears their course. 
 
 Benledi saw the Cross of Fire ; 
 It glanced, like lightning, up Strath-Ire. 
 O'er dale and hill the summons flew, 
 Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew ; 
 The tear, that gathered in his eye, 
 He left the mountain breeze to dry ; 
 Until, where Teith's young waters roll, 
 Betwixt him and a wooded knoll, 
 That graced the sable strath with green, 
 The chapel of St. Bride was seen. 
 Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, 
 But Angus paused not on the edge ; 
 Though the dark waves danced dizzily, 
 Though reeled his sympathetic eye, 
 He dashed amid the torrent's roar ; 
 His right hand high the Crosslet bore, 
 His left the pole-axe grasped, to guide 
 And stay his footing in the tide. 
 He stumbled twice ; the foam splashed high ; 
 With hoarser swell the stream raced by ; 
 And had he fallen, — forever there, 
 Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir ! 
 But still, as if in parting life, 
 Firmer he grasped the Cross of Strife, 
 Until the opposing bank he gained, 
 And up the chapel pathway strained. 
 
 A blithsome rout, that morning tide, 
 Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. 
 10 '* 
 
J 14 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
 To Norman, heir of Ardmandave, 
 And, issuing from the Gothic arch, 
 The bridal now resumed their march. 
 In rude, but glad procession, came 
 Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame ; 
 And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, 
 Which snooded maiden would not hear ; 
 And children, that, unwitting why, 
 Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry ; 
 And minstrels, that in measures vied 
 Before the young and bonny bride, 
 Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
 The tear and blush of morning rose. 
 With virgin step, and bashful hand, 
 She held the kerchief's snowv band : 
 The gallant bridegroom, by her side, 
 Beheld his prize with victor's pride ; 
 And the glad mother in her ear 
 Was closely whispering word of cheer. 
 
 Who meets them at the church-yard gate ? 
 The messenger of fear and fate ! 
 Haste in his hurried accent lies, 
 And grief is swimming in his eyes. 
 All dripping from the recent flood, 
 Panting and travel-soiled he stood, 
 The fatal sign of fire and sword 
 Held forth, and spoke the appointed word : 
 " The mustering place is Lanrick mead. 
 Speed forth the signal ! Norman, speed !" — 
 And must he change so soon the hand, 
 Just linked to his by holy band, 
 For the fell Cross of Blood and Brand ? 
 fatal doom !— he must ! he roust ! 
 Clan-Alpine's cause, her chieftain's trust, 
 Her summons dread, brooks no delay : 
 Stretch to the race — away ! away ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 115 
 
 LESSON XLIX. 
 
 The 'Elder's Funeral. — Wilson. 
 
 How beautiful to the eye and to the heart rise up, in a 
 pastoral region, the green, silent hills from the dissolving 
 snow-wreaths that yet linger at their feet ! A few warm, 
 sunny days, and a few breezy and melting nights, have seem- 
 ed to create the sweet season of spring out of the winter's 
 bleakest desolation. We can scarcely believe that such 
 brightness of verdure could have been shrouded in the snow, 
 blending itself, as it now does, so vividly with the deep blue 
 of heaven. With the revival of nature, our own souls feel re- 
 stored. Happiness becomes milder, meeker, and richer in 
 pensive thought ; while sorrow catches a faint tinge of joy, 
 and reposes itself on the quietness of earth's opening breast. 
 Then is youth rejoicing, manhood sedate, and old age resign- 
 ed. The child shakes his golden curls in his glee ; he of 
 riper life hails the coming year with temperate exultation, 
 and the eye, that has been touched with dimness, in the gen- 
 eral spirit of delight forgets or fears not the shadows of the 
 grave. 
 
 On such a vernal day as this did we, who had visited the 
 elder on his death-bed, walk together to his house in the 
 Hazel-glen, to accompany his body to the place of burial. 
 On the night he died, it seemed to be the dead of winter. 
 On the day he was buried, it seemed to be the birth of spring. 
 The old pastor and I were alone for a while, as we pursued 
 our path up the glen, by the banks of the little burn. It had 
 cleared itself off from the melted snow, and ran so pellucid 
 a race, that every stone and pebble was visible in its yellow 
 channel. The willows, the alders, and the birches, the fairest 
 and the earliest of our native hill trees, seemed almost tinged 
 with a verdant light, as if they were budding ; and beneath 
 them, here and there, peeped out, as in the pleasure of new 
 existence, the primrose, lonely, or in little families and flocks. 
 The bee had not yet ventured to leave his cell, yet the flow- 
 ers reminded one of his murmur. A few insects were danc- 
 ing in the air, and here and there some little moorland bird, 
 touched at the heart with the warm, sunny change, was pip- 
 ing his love-sweet song among the braes. 
 
 It was just such a day as a grave, meditative man, like 
 him we were about to inter, would have chosen to walk over 
 his farm in religious contentment with his lot. That was 
 the thought that entered the pastor's heart, as we paused to 
 enjoy one brighter gleam of the sun in a little meadow-field 
 of peculiar beauty. " This is the last day of the week, and 
 
116 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 on that day often did the elder walk through this little hap- 
 py kingdom of his own, with some of his grandchildren be- 
 side and around him, and often his Bible in his hand. It is, 
 you feel, a solitary place ; all the vale is one seclusion ; and 
 often have its quiet bounds been a place of undisturbed med- 
 itation and prayer." 
 
 We now came in sight of the cottage, and beyond it the 
 termination of the glen. There the high hills came sloping 
 gently down ; and a little waterfall, in the distance, gave an- 
 imation to a scene of perfect repose. We were now joined 
 by various small parties coming to the funeral through open- 
 ings among the hills ; all sedate, but none sad, and every 
 greeting was that of kindness and peace. The elder had 
 died full of years ; and there was no need why any out 
 of his own household should weep. A long life of piety had 
 been beautifully closed ; and, therefore, we were all going 
 to commit the body to the earth, assured, as far as human 
 beings may be so assured, that the soul was in heaven. As 
 the party increased on our approach to the house, there was 
 even cheerfulness among us. We spoke of the early and 
 bright promise of spring; of the sorrows and the joys of 
 other families ; of marriages and births ; of the new school- 
 master; of to-morrow's Sabbath. There was no topic, of 
 which, on any common occasion, it might have been fitting 
 to speak, that did not now perhaps occupy, for a few mo- 
 ments, some one or other of the group, till we found ourselves 
 ascending the green sward before the cottage, and stood be- 
 low the bare branches of the sycamores. Then we were all 
 silent, and, after a short pause, reverently entered into the 
 house of death. 
 
 At the door, the son received us with a calm, humble, and 
 untroubled face ; and, in his manner towards the old minis- 
 ter, there was something that could not be misunderstood, 
 expressing penitence, gratitude, and resignation. We all sat 
 down in the large kitchen ; and the son decently received 
 each person at the door, and showed him to his place. There 
 were some old, gray heads, more becoming gray, and many 
 bright in manhood and youth. But the same solemn hush 
 was over them all ; and they sat all bound together in one 
 uniting and assimilating spirit of devotion and faith. Wine 
 and bread were to be sent round ; but the son looked to the old 
 minister, who rose, lifted up his withered hand, and began 
 a blessing and a prayer. 
 
 There was so much composure and stillness in the old 
 man's attitude, and something so affecting in his voice, trem- 
 ulous and broken, not in grief but age, that, no sooner. had 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 117 
 
 he begun to pray, than every heart and every breath at once 
 was hushed. All stood motionless, nor could one eye ab- 
 stain from that placid and patriarchal countenance, with its 
 closed eyes, and long, silvery hair. There was nothing sad 
 in his words, but they were all humble and solemn, and at 
 times even joyful in the kindling spirit of piety and faith. 
 He spoke of the dead man's goodness as imperfect in the 
 eyes of his Great Judge, but such as, we were taught, might 
 lead, through intercession, to the kingdom of heaven. Might 
 the blessing of God, he prayed, which had so long rested on 
 the head now coffined, not forsake that of him who was now 
 to be the father of this house. There was more joy, we were 
 told, in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth, than over 
 ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance. 
 Fervently, too, and tenderly, did the old man pray for her, 
 in her silent chamber, who had lost so kind a parent, and for 
 all the little children round her knees. Nor did he end his 
 prayer without some allusion to his own gray hairs, and to 
 the approaching day on which many then present would at- 
 tend his burial. 
 
 Just as he ceased to speak, one solitary, stifled sob 
 was heard, and all eyes turned kindly round to a little boy 
 who was standing by the side of the elder's son. Restored 
 once more to his own father's love, his heart had been in- 
 sensibly filled with peace since the old man's death. The 
 returning tenderness of the living came in place of that of the 
 dead, and the child yearned towards his father now with a 
 stronger affection, relieved, at last, from all his fear. He had 
 been suffered to sit an hour each day beside the bed on 
 which his grandfather lay shrouded, and he had got recon- 
 ciled to the cold, but silent and happy looks of death. His 
 mother and his Bible told him to obey God, without repin- 
 ing, in all things ; and the child did so with perfect simplici- 
 ty. One sob had found its way at the close of that pathetic 
 prayer ; but the tears that bathed his glistening cheeks were 
 far different from those that, on the day and night of his 
 grandfather's decease, had burst from the agony of a break- 
 ing heart. The old minister laid his hand silently upon his 
 golden head ; there was a momentary murmur of kindness 
 and pity over the room ; the child was pacified ; and again 
 all was repose and peace. 
 
 A sober voice said that all was ready, and the son and the 
 minister led the. way reverently out into the open air. The 
 bier stood before the door, and was lifted slowly up with its 
 sable pall. Silently each mourner took his place. The sun 
 was shining pleasantly, and a gentle breeze, passing through 
 
118 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 the sycamores, shook down the glittering rain-drops upon the 
 funeral velvet. The small procession, with an instinctive 
 spirit, began to move along ; and as I cast up my eyes to 
 take a farewell look of that beautiful dwelling, now finally 
 left by him who so long had blessed it, I saw, at the half 
 open lattice of the little bed-room window above, the* pale, 
 weeping face of that stainless matron, who was taking her 
 last passionate farewell of the mortal remains of her father, 
 now slowly receding from her to the quiet field of graves. 
 
 We proceeded along the edges of the hills, and along the 
 meadow-fields, crossed the old wooden bridge over the burn, 
 now widening in its course to the plain • and in an hour of 
 pensive silence, or pleasant talk, we found ourselves enter- 
 ing, in a closer body, the little gateway of the church-yard. 
 To the tolling of the bell we moved across the green mounds, 
 and arranged ourselves, according to the plan and order which 
 our feelings suggested, around the bier and its natural sup- 
 porters. There was no delay. In a few minutes the elder 
 was laid among the mould of his forefathers, in their long- 
 ago chosen spot of rest. One by one the people dropped away, 
 and none were left by the new-made grave but the son and 
 his little boy, the pastor and myself. As yet nothing was 
 said, and in that pause I looked around me, over the sweet 
 burial ground. 
 
 Each tombstone and grave, over which I had often walked 
 in boyhood, arose in my memory, as I looked steadfastly up- 
 on their long-forgotten inscriptions ; and many had since 
 then been erected. The whole character of the place was 
 still simple and unostentatious; but, from the abodes of the 
 dead, I could see that there had been an improvement in 
 the condition of the living. There was a taste visible in 
 their decorations, not without much of native feeling, and, 
 occasionally, something even of native grace. If there was any 
 other inscription than the name and age of the poor inhabit- 
 ants below, it was, in general, some short text of Scripture ; 
 for it is most pleasant and soothing to the pious mind, when 
 bereaved of friends, to commemorate them on earth by some 
 touching expression taken from that book, which reveals to 
 them a life in heaven. 
 
 There is a sort of gradation, a scale of forgetfulness, in a 
 country church-yard, where the processes of nature are suf- 
 fered to go on over the green place of burial, that is extreme- 
 ly affecting in the contemplation. The soul goes, from the 
 grave just covered up to that which seems scarcely joined 
 together, on and on to those folded and bound by the undis- 
 turbed verdure of many, many unremembered years. It then 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 119 
 
 glides at last into nooks and corners where the ground seems 
 perfectly calm and waveless, utter oblivion having smoothed 
 the earth over the long mouldered bones. Tombstones, on 
 which the inscriptions are hidden in green obliteration, or 
 that are mouldering, or falling to a side, are close to others 
 which last week were brushed by the chisel : — constant ren- 
 ovation and constant decay, vain attempts to adhere to mem- 
 ory, and oblivion now battled and now triumphant, smiling 
 among all the memorials of human affection, as they keep 
 continually crumbling away into the world of undistinguish- 
 able dust and ashes. 
 
 The church-yard, to the inhabitants of a rural parish, is 
 the place to which, as they grow older, all their thoughts 
 and feelings turn. The young take a look of it every Sab- 
 bath-day, not always perhaps a careless look, but carry away 
 from it, unconsciously, many salutary impressions. What is 
 more pleasant than the meeting of a rural congregation in 
 the church-yard before the minister appears ? What is there 
 to shudder at in lying down, sooner or later, in such a peace- 
 ful and sacred place, to be spoken of frequently on Sabbath 
 among the groups of which we used to be one, and our low 
 burial-spot to be visited, at such times, as long as there rer 
 mains on earth any one to whom our face was dear ! To 
 those who mix in the strife and dangers of the world, the 
 place is felt to be uncertain wherein they may finally lie at 
 rest. The soldier, the sailor, the traveller, can only see some 
 dim grave dug for him, when he dies, in some place obscure, 
 nameless, and unfixed to imagination. All he feels is, that 
 his burial will be — on earth or in the sea. But the peaceful 
 dwellers, who cultivate their paternal acres, or tilling, at 
 least, the same small spot of soil, shift only from a cottage 
 on the hillside to one on the plain, still within the bounds 
 of one quiet parish, — they look to lay their bones-, at last, in 
 the burial-place of the kirk in which they were baptized, 
 and with them it almost literally is but a step from the cra- 
 dle to the grave. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that calmly followed each other 
 in my reverie, as I stood beside the elder's grave, and the 
 trodden grass was again lifting up its blades from the pressure 
 of many feet, now all but a few departed. What a simple 
 burial had it been ! Dust was consigned to dust — no more. 
 Bare, naked, simple, and austere, is, in Scotland, the service 
 of the grave. It is left to the soul itself to consecrate, by its 
 passion, the mould over which tears, but no words, are 
 poured. Surely there is a beauty in this ; for the heart is left 
 unto its own sorrow, according as it is a friend, a brother, a 
 
120 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 parent, or a child, that is covered up from our eyes. Yet 
 call not other rites, however different from this, less beauti- 
 ful or pathetic. For willingly does the soul connect its grief 
 with any consecrated ritual of the dead. Sound or silence, 
 music, hymns, psalms, sable garments, or raiment white as 
 snow, all become holy symbols of the soul's affection ; nor 
 is it for any man to say which is the most natural, which is 
 the best of the thousand shows, and expressions, and testi- 
 monies of sorrow, resignation, and love, by which mortal 
 beings would seek to express their souls, when one of their 
 brethren has returned to his parent dust. 
 
 My mind was recalled from all these sad, yet not unpleas- 
 ant fancies, by a deep groan, and I beheld the elder's son 
 fling himself down upon the grave, and kiss it passionately, 
 imploring pardon from God. " I distressed my father's heart 
 in. his old age; I repented, and received thy forgiveness 
 even on thy death-bed ! But how may I be assured that 
 God will forgive me for having so sinned against my old, gray- 
 headed father, when his limbs were weak and his eye-sight 
 dim!" The old minister stood at the head of the grave, 
 without speaking a word, with his solemn and pitiful eyes 
 fixed upon the prostrate and contrite man. His sin had been 
 great, and tears that till now had, on this day at least, been 
 compressed within his heart by the presence of so many of 
 his friends, now poured down upon the sod as if they would 
 have found their way to the very body of his father. Nei- 
 ther of us offered to lift him up, for we felt awed by the rue- 
 ful passion of his love, his remorse, and his penitence ; and 
 nature, we felt, ought to have her way. " Fear not, my son," 
 -r-at length said the old man, in a gentle voice, — " fear not, 
 my son, but that you are already forgiven. Dost thou not 
 feel pardon within thy contrite spirit ?" He rose up from 
 his knees with a faint smile, while the minister, with his 
 white head yet uncovered, held his hands over him as in ben- 
 ediction ; and that beautiful and loving child, who had been 
 standing in a fit of weeping terror at his father's agony, now 
 came up to him, and kissed his cheek ; holding in his little 
 hand a few faded primroses, which he had unconsciously 
 gathered together as they lay on the turf of his grandfather's 
 grave. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 121 
 
 LESSON L. 
 
 The Voice of departed Friendship. — Ibid. 
 
 I had a friend who died in early youth ! 
 — And often in those melancholy dreams, 
 When my soul travels through the umbrage deep 
 That shades the silent world of memory, 
 Methinks 1 hear his voice ! — sweet as the breath 
 Of balmy ground-flowers stealing from some spot 
 Of sunshine sacred, in a gloomy wood, 
 To everlasting spring. 
 
 In the church-yard, 
 Where now he sleeps, — the day before he died, — 
 Silent we sat together on a grave ; 
 Till, gently laying his pale hand on mine, 
 Pale in the moonlight that was coldly sleeping 
 On heaving sod and marble monument, — 
 This was the music of his last farewell ! 
 " Weep not, my brother ! though thou seest me led, 
 By short and easy stages, day by day, 
 With motion almost imperceptible, 
 Into the quiet grave. God's will be done. 
 Even when a boy, in doleful solitude 
 My soul oft sat within the shadow of death ! 
 And, when I looked along the laughing earth, 
 Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air, 
 Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song, 
 I wept, and thought how sad for one so young 
 To bid farewell to so much happiness ! 
 But Christ hath called me from this lower world, 4. 
 Delightful though it be ; and, when I gaze 
 On the green earth and all its happy hills, 
 'Tis with such feelings as a man beholds 
 A little farm which he is doomed to leave 
 On an appointed day. Still more and more 
 He loves it as that mournful day draws near, 
 But hath prepared his heart, and is resigned." 
 ■ — Then, lifting up his radiant eyes to heaven, 
 He said with fervent voice — " O what were life, 
 Even in the warm and summer-light of joy, 
 Without those hopes, that, like refreshing gales 
 At evening from the sea, come o'er the soul, 
 Breathed from the ocean of eternity." 
 
 11 
 
122 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LI. 
 
 The Glory of God displayed in the Heavens, — Cappe. 
 
 In the productions of human power and skill, there is 
 ordinarily something, even in the first appearance, previous 
 to any diligent examination, without any accurate survey, 
 which bespeaks the excellency (if the works be indeed 
 excellent) of the hand that made them, and which demon- 
 strates that they are the performance of a Master : in the 
 works of God, therefore, we may reasonably expect, that, 
 on the most transient survey, there should appear something 
 infinitely magnificent and great, something that should mark 
 them as divine. The expectation is just, and in no instance 
 will it ever be disappointed ; but in no instance will it be more 
 completely satisfied than in the contemplation of the heavens. 
 
 In that azure vault, though we regard not the luminaries 
 that revolve there, the most perfect simplicity is united 
 with the most majestic grandeur. Who could stretch out 
 the heavens but an Almighty arm ? or who could paint them 
 in their various attractive and ever-changing beauties, but an 
 all-skilful Artist ? In the noon of day, what surpassing glory ! 
 in the noon of night, what solemn shades ! If we look to the 
 rising sun, how majestic is his motion ! how bright his ra- 
 diance ! the whole scene of his appearance, how magnificent 
 and sublime ! If we gaze on the setting sun, what eye is not 
 struck by the innumerable dyes, with which he tinges the 
 western heavens ? What art can rival the painting of his de- 
 clining beams, or what heart does not feel itself composed and 
 softened by a spectacle so tranquil and serene ? The mid-day 
 blaze is at once an image and a proof of his unutterable 
 glory, who dwells in light to which no man can approach ; 
 the ten thousand lamps, that adorn the nightly firmament, 
 that even cheer its horrors, while they make its gloom more 
 sensible and awful, could be suspended by no other than an 
 Almighty Architect. That solemn scene declares his power 
 to involve us in most tremendous ruin ; it speaks also of his 
 readiness to set before us all the profusion of his glory and 
 his love ! The source of day speaks aloud the praise of that 
 uncreated light, in which there is no darkness at all : and 
 when the moon issues forth to supply his absence, most pow- 
 erfully does she remind us of the tender mercy of God, who 
 gives to man every blessing in its season, and who would 
 not leave us to despondence or to want. Whilst her inces- 
 sant changes exhibit to us an emblem of the inconstancy 
 of earthly things, and of human characters, she exhibits a 
 proof, also, of an unchanging hand, that guides and rules her 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER-. 123 
 
 motions, even the "Father of lights, with whom there is no 
 variableness nor shadow of changing." 
 
 The heavens still further reveal the glory of God, if we 
 attend to the magnitude of the celestial bodies, the vast ex- 
 tent of the space in which they move, and the rapidity with 
 which their motions are performed. 
 
 With a very few exceptions, every star that we behold is 
 another sun unto another system; placed in the centre of 
 many worlds, and affording unto each, as they revolve around 
 it, their proper measure both of light and heat, in their ap- 
 pointed seasons. If so many suns, how many worlds ? If so 
 many worlds, what numbers can express the inconceivable 
 multitude of their inhabitants ? all of them the creatures of 
 divine power, the monuments of divine wisdom, the objects 
 of divine love ! — Think then, while you are gazing on the 
 starry firmament, how many myriads of unnumbered worlds 
 are at that moment rejoicing in the goodness of their Maker, 
 and are even then praising Him, whose praise the starry fir- 
 mament invites us also to celebrate. 
 
 These observations may a little assist you in conceiving 
 something of the vast magnitude of the works of God ; but, 
 would you be informed how wide is the extent of his crea- 
 tion, I can do little more than tell you, that, as his works for 
 number are innumerable, so the space they occupy for extent 
 is immeasurable. It may aid your thoughts to be told, that, 
 if you travelled round this globe for more than three thousand 
 times, you would not have travelled by much so far as the earth 
 is distant from the sun ; and that, taking even the velocity 
 of a cannon-ball, you could not complete your journey thither 
 in twenty-two years. Yet, astonishing as is the space that 
 is stretched out between our world and the sun which en- 
 lightens it daily by his beams, if compared with the space 
 that is comprehended within all the worlds that revolve 
 around him, it is not so much as the area of this house 
 to the town wherein it stands, and, in comparison of the 
 universe, even that space is not as a hand's breadth to this 
 globe ! What an idea does this give us of the extent of the 
 Divine Presence ! God is wherever there are any of his 
 creatures ; out of his sight, or reach, or power, or knowledge, 
 you cannot go. Though you flew with the rapidity of a ray 
 of light, and prolonged your flight unto eternity, still, as you 
 left new worlds behind, new worlds would be continually 
 passed by, and new worlds continually coming into view ! 
 
 It remains to be observed under this head, that the glory of 
 God appears not only in the immense extent of the heavens, 
 and in the magnitude of the celestial orbs, but also in the in- 
 
124 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 conceivable rapidity of their motions. There is, even in our 
 own system, a planetary world, which proceeds in its course 
 with a speed so vast and astonishing, that even thought is 
 unable to keep pace with it. Since the commencement of 
 the present hour, now near its close, it has passed through no 
 less a space than upwards of 40,000 miles. Such is the ra- 
 pidity of this earth, on which we live,, in its annual circuit 
 round the sun, and equal to this, or even greater, is the 
 velocity of some others of the planetary worlds. — Measure, 
 if thou canst, my soul, or own that no finite creature can 
 measure, the amazing power that fashioned these mighty 
 orbs, or the force that impels them in their courses ! 
 
 The heavens will reveal to us still mere of the glory of 
 God, if we attend to the constancy and harmony of their 
 motions. It was originally a promise of the Creator, and it 
 has been graciously fulfilled fiom the beginning, that seed- 
 time and harvest, summer and winter, heat and cold, day 
 and night, should not fail. As was the first day that shone 
 upon the world, so has this day been. As was the first night 
 that overshadowed it, so will the night that is approaching 
 be. One year, like every other year, is made up of seasons, 
 regularly and uniformly interchanging. The aspect of the 
 heavens, and the appearance of the earth, at any given peri- 
 od, have exactly answered to their aspect and appearance in 
 any other corresponding period, from this day backwards, 
 through six thousand years, to the birthday of our world ! 
 And what is true of this world for that period is doubtless 
 true of ten thousand other worlds, for a period perhaps ten 
 thousand times as long. 
 
 What an argument is here of an all-wise, almighty, and all- 
 gracious Providence ! continually presiding over the worlds 
 that he has made ; actuating, directing, controlling, and gov- 
 erning all their revolutions ! If, at any one moment, their 
 beauty, their order, and their magnificence, be a demon- 
 stration that they are the creatures of unerring wisdom ; 
 the perpetuity of that magnificence, of that order, and of 
 that beauty, is a demonstration equally clear, of the constant 
 agency and providence of God. 
 
 Whence is it that the sun never has mistaken its rising, 
 nor the moon her going down ? Whence is it that the seasons 
 have never been inverted nor confused ? Whence is it that 
 night has always come at its expected period to the repose 
 of the weary labourer ? Whence is it that the harvest never 
 has forgotten to ripen that seed, which the spring invited 
 the industrious husbandman to sow ? In the heavenly orbs, 
 v, hence do the vicissitudes of day and night, and of the sea- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 125 
 
 sons, flow ? There is in them no memory, no reason, no 
 intelligence ; they move as they are impelled, and have no 
 other powers or influences than those that are imparted to 
 them, or impressed upon them, by a foreign hand, by the 
 energy of an omnipresent Spirit : it is to the glory, therefore, 
 of that omnipresent Spirit, that they shine. In all their 
 changes they .obey his will, and in all their revolutions they 
 manifest his wisdom and his goodness. It is because he 
 changes not, that the order, which was first established, is 
 not inverted or invaded ; "all things continue unto this day 
 according to his ordinances, because all are his servants." 
 
 LESSON LII. 
 
 Humanity inculcated from the evanescent Nature of Man. — 
 
 Joseph Fawcett. 
 
 Milton has described the first moment of human enmity 
 He has painted the parents of mankind at variance with each 
 other, after the loss of their innocence ; when the sentence 
 of death, which had been passed upon them, was, every hour, 
 expected by them to be put in execution. Upon this occa- 
 sion, the poet has put these words into the mouth of the 
 mother of mankind : 
 
 " While yet we live, scarce one short hour perhaps, 
 Between us two let there be peace I" 
 
 The proposal cannot but be considered as highly becoming 
 the sad situation into which they were fallen. Let me adopt 
 this pacific proposition, which one of our first parents is thus 
 pathetically represented as addressing to the other with so 
 beautiful propriety, and let me address it this day to their 
 descendants. " While yet we live, scarce one short hour per- 
 haps," — long, at most, we have not any of us to live, — " be- 
 tween us all let there be peace !" 
 
 Let every man consider his brother as a creature, whose 
 days are hastening to an end, and pity will not let him use 
 him ill : he will feel himself kindly affectioned towards him ; 
 he will wish him well, with the warmest benevolence ; and 
 feel a tender solicitude to shed as much sunshine upon this 
 little day, and to disperse as many of its clouds, as he can. 
 Who is there, that could meet a victim on its way to the 
 altar, and see the knife of sacrifice in readiness, and indulge 
 a desire to give the devoted animal a moment's pain, as it 
 pursues its path to slaughter? And can any one consider 
 man in the light of a passenger to the grave, and endure the 
 11 * 
 
126 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 idea of throwing so much as a single thorn in his way ? No : 
 he will rather fetch as many flowers as he can find, to scat- 
 ter along it ; and smooth away from it every asperity, which 
 it is in his power to remove. He will not trample upon a 
 creature, over whom he sees the uplifted foot of Death. He 
 will not bruise, to-day, the worm that is to be crushed to-mor- 
 row. He will permit the fleeting shadow to flee away in peace. 
 
 However far we may be from entertaining such feelings 
 and sentiments as these before our brother sleeps in the 
 dust, if, in their absence, we are tempted, while he lives, to 
 do him wrong ; as soon as we see him laid in his lowly 
 bed, they are sure, with more or less force, to arise within 
 us. Then they rush upon us in a swarm of stings, and 
 revenge the injuries we rendered him. When it is too late 
 to undo what has been done against him, by an adequate 
 amends, then that pity, which should have prevented us from 
 doing it, takes possession of our hearts, and severely punishes 
 us for having done it. That compassion, which we should 
 have drawn from the consideration of our fellow-creature's 
 rapidly-approaching dissolution, when we see him actually no 
 more, forces itself upon our hearts, without waiting for the call 
 of consideration, and loudly upbraids the cruelty of our con- 
 duct. He, who could injure a living man without remorse, 
 has not been able without remorse to look upon his grave. 
 Then he has relented, and repented; he has sighed, and 
 said to himself, " Poor, departed mortal ! why did I imbitter 
 thy moment of existence ? Short has been thy dance of joy ; 
 it was cruel in me to damp, for an instant, the harmony of 
 it ! Quickly hast thou passed away ; I must have been a men 
 ster to disturb thy passage ! A few short hours the God of 
 nature gave thee, thou insect of a day, to sport and glitter in 
 the sun ; ah ! wherefore, during any part of it, did I prove 
 an interposing cloud ?" 
 
 And, perhaps, the most painful sensation, of which our 
 nature is susceptible, is that, which is experienced by a sin- 
 cere penitent, possessed of some share of native sensibility, 
 when, in the melting moment of contrition for his past conduct 
 in general, and in the generous moment of virtuous resolution 
 to devote his future days to the discharge of his duties, he 
 looks around him for some one, whom, during the slumber 
 of his reason, and the dream of his folly, he had wronged, 
 with an intention to make him all the recompense in his 
 power, — but finds him vanished away from the world, and 
 laid down in that house of silence, whence no cries of his 
 can ever recall him ; where none of his good offices can ever 
 reach him ; where he is equally unable to revive his resent- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 127 
 
 ment by a repetition, or procure his pardon by a reparation 
 of the wrong he did him ; and where the object of his past 
 injustice, and his present repentance, sleeps too soundly 
 to hear the sigh of his remorse, should he go, in the agony 
 of it, and groan over his grave. 
 
 Among the tears that, in the moment of conversion from 
 vice to virtue, roll down his face, this, which retrospective 
 and impotent compassion calls into his eye, is a big and a 
 bitter drop, which he will often renew, and which it will 
 be long before he is able to wipe away. The amendment 
 of his manners shall procure him the peace arising from the 
 hope of heaven, and the pardon of his sins ; but will not soon 
 quiet the pain he feels, from the recollection, whenever he 
 renews it, of having thrown one bitter ingredient into a crea- 
 ture's draught of joy, whose life, now it is past, appears to 
 him so small a cup, and capable of containing so little ! The 
 regret of that action, as often as it recurs to his remembrance, 
 shall ache at his heart, and put it out of the power of the 
 penitent to yield a perfect compliance with the encourage- 
 ment of Christianity to "be of good cheer." Pity for the 
 departed object of his cruelt}? - shall rise up in his bosom, 
 and oppose the pardon of it ; social sorrow shall deny him 
 self-forgiveness ; the injured shade of a short-lived creature 
 shall present itself to his imagination ; and, in proportion to 
 his improvement in the generous affections, shall be the 
 pain, which its silent reproaches excite in his breast. 
 
 Let him who has injured another, if he would save him- 
 self from the sorrow of a repentance, in this respect too late 
 and fruitless, repair in time the wrong he has done, and do 
 all he can to wipe from his brother's breast the impression 
 of his past unkindness, by offices of good will and friendship. 
 Let him make him what amends he may immediately. Let 
 not a moment's delay be indulged. There is not a moment 
 to be lost. Hasten, — fly, — or the fleeting creature will be 
 gone. For soon shall he sleep in the dust, and thou shalt 
 seek him in the morning, but he shall not be. 
 
 LESSON LIII. 
 
 Opportunities of doing Good not confined to the Rich. — Ibid. 
 
 God has bestowed upon us all a portion of that power to 
 bless, which himself possesses in an infinite degree. The 
 opportunities of splendid service to society are confined to a 
 few. Few are able to give endowment to charitable institu- 
 tions, encouragement to ingenuity, or patronage to genius. 
 
128 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Small is the number of them who can supply new discoveries 
 to science, or inventions to art, or improvements to govern- 
 ment; who can communicate instruction to society, throw 
 illumination over senates, and shed felicity upon nations. 
 Both the virtues and the faults of the majority of us are 
 circumscribed within narrow walls. We have few of us an 
 opportunity of being greatly injurious, or eminently useful ; 
 of being execrated or adored by mankind. 
 
 But some evil, and some good, there are none who may 
 not do, if they will. Every one has something in his hand, 
 which some one around him wants. It is given to us all, 
 (blessed be the bountiful Distributer of bliss !) it is given to 
 us all, to express good will, to produce happiness, to earn 
 the gratitude of man, and imitate the conduct of Heaven. 
 Gold is not the only gift of man ; nor is it the best. Peter and 
 John did more for the lame man they healed, than if they 
 had given him bread. The instructions of Christ did more 
 for mankind than feed and clothe them : and there are offices 
 of kindness, in the power of us all, of more importance than 
 the communication of property. 
 
 We have ample encouragement, whatever our condition in 
 life, and however humble our powers of imparting benefit, 
 to do all we can for our fellow creatures, by the consideration, 
 that all the honest exertions of goodness are equally calculat- 
 ed to invigorate the principle of it, whether the effect those 
 exertions produce be large or small. As muscular vigour is 
 improved by muscular motion, whether the mechanical value 
 of that motion be great or little, so every exercise of real 
 goodness adds to its strength, whether the happiness commu- 
 nicated by it be considerable or trivial. 
 
 The contributions we make to the happiness of mankind 
 render our characters also equally acceptable to the Judge of 
 all men, however unequal, in their value to society, those 
 contributions may be, if they spring from equal goodness of 
 heart. It is not what we give, but the pleasure with which 
 we give it, the disposition that goes along with the gift, which 
 determines the value of the act in the divine estimation. 
 
 The poor man that gives but a word, from an honest wish 
 to remove misery, to communicate comfort and happiness, 
 gives as much, for him, as the rich man that, of his abun- 
 dance, bestows the largest sum of money. The poor man 
 that, with soothing consolation, seeks to bind up one broken 
 heart, and administer balm to a bruised spirit, does as much, 
 for him, as he who, with the wealth he does not want, pre- 
 pares a receptacle where the broken bones of thousands may 
 rejoice. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 129 
 
 Let the consideration of the number of our opportunities 
 for virtue impress upon all our minds the extent of our obliga- 
 tions. Let us open our eye, and take in the whole of the 
 field of duty, the whole of the school of moral discipline, in 
 which we are placed. Our probation is not confined to 
 striking points and periods of our time, but diffused over the 
 whole of it. Every hour of every day, we may do something 
 that is right, or something that is wrong : conscience may 
 contract, or be kept void of, some offence either towards 
 God or towards man. As devotion is not a duty shut up in 
 particular seasons and situations, but the companion of our 
 path all along our way ; as the devout man does not satisfy 
 himself with saying, " In the morning thou shalt hear my 
 voice;" or even with professing, " Morning, and evening, 
 and noon, will I pray ;" or even with declaring, " Seven 
 times a day do I praise thee ;" as his more moral and 
 virtuous protestation is, " I will be in the fear of the Lord 
 all the day long;" "I have set the Lord always before me," 
 — so charity is not merely the occasional improvement of the 
 opportunities of pecuniary beneficence, that occasionally and 
 seldom occur, but the habitual seizure of that uninterrupted 
 succession of opportunities for communicating happiness, in 
 some way or other, that is continually running along through 
 the whole of every man's life. 
 
 Charity is no intermittent thing, that now and then breaks 
 out into brilliant munificence, and then retires to slumber in 
 the lap of sensuality and selfish repose ; that, like a burning 
 mountain, darts forth occasional shoots and flashes of splen- 
 dour, and then rolls up nothing but smoke and darkness ; it 
 is a lamp that is always burning, sometimes with a brighter, 
 and sometimes with a fainter light, but that is never out. It is 
 a vital principle, a generous life ; the pulses of which are 
 continually proceeding, now with stronger, and now with 
 more languid beats, but never stopping. The life of a char- 
 itable man consists not merely of a few detached acts of des- 
 ultory bounty, separated from each other by long intervals : 
 his heart is a benignant fountain, that pours from it a flow 
 of benefits, either large or little ; that supplies a current of 
 kind attentions ; that sends forth a stream of services to his 
 fellow creatures, few of which can be signal, but all of which 
 are sincere ; and which, though separately considered they 
 may seem but small, yet, collectively received, are of large 
 amount. 
 
 Let us keep in view this extent and comprehension of our 
 probation. Let us remember, that, almost every hour of N our 
 lives, we may exercise, in some way or other, goodness or 
 
130 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 malignity, virtue or vice, wisdom or folly. Every social cir- 
 cle, into which we enter, presents to us an opportunity of 
 exercising some good or some evil passion; of \indicatiug 
 innocence, or joining in the calumniation of it ; of extenu- 
 ating another's indiscretion, or blackening its shade ; of con- 
 soling or creating discontent; of encouraging or oppressing 
 diffidence ; of inflaming or assuaging contention ; of adher- 
 ing to veracity, or departing from it ; of practising moderation 
 in debate, and a single love of truth, or a criminal pride, by 
 shutting our eyes to evidence, and sacrificing conviction to 
 the desire of victory. Every transaction in traffic presents 
 an opportunity of exercising an honourable equity, fairness, 
 and candour, or of uttering deceit, and practising fraud. 
 
 In short, the opportunities of man for virtuous improve- 
 ment and practice follow one another in such a train, that it 
 is impossible to say to what a degree of virtuous eminence 
 that man might attain, even in the short space of human life, 
 who should omit no one, in the long series of virtuous exer- 
 cises, which it is in his power to perform. This degree of 
 moral vigilance and activity has, probably, never yet been 
 practised by man. Let us all be persuaded to practise as 
 much of it as the infirmity of nature will allow : and may all 
 our attempts to promote our own improvement in virtue, and 
 increase the felicity of our fellow creatures, be crowned with 
 the blessing of Almighty God. 
 
 LESSON LIV. 
 
 Pleasures of Memory. — Rogers. 
 
 Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green, 
 With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
 Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke, 
 When, round the ruins of their ancient oak, 
 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
 And games and carols closed the busy day. 
 Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 
 With treasured tales, and legendary lore. 
 All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
 What secret charms this silent spot endear ? 
 
 Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, 
 Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 
 That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
 First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 131 
 
 The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, 
 Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
 When nature pleased, for life itself was new, 
 And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 
 
 See, through the fractured pediment revealed, 
 Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, 
 The martin's old, hereditary nest. 
 Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 
 
 As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ' 
 Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
 That hall, where once, in antiquated state, 
 The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
 Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, 
 Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
 When round yon ample board, in due degree, 
 We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
 The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest, 
 And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound, 
 And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 
 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring, 
 And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
 Giants and genii chained each wondering ear, 
 And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
 Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, 
 Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood : 
 Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, 
 With startling step, we scaled the lonely tower, 
 O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 
 Murdered, by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 
 Ye household Deities ! whose guardian eye 
 Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high ; 
 Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, 
 And breathe the soul of inspiration round. 
 
 As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
 Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
 The storied arras, source of fond delight, 
 With old achievement charms the wildered sight ; 
 And still, with heraldry's rich hues impressed, 
 On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
 The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart, 
 The clock still points its moral to the heart. 
 That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear ! 
 When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near : 
 And has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
 Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time ? 
 
132 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, 
 
 Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought ; 
 
 Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 
 
 Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust, 
 
 Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, 
 
 Starting to life, — all whisper of the past ! 
 
 LESSON LV. 
 Saturday Morning. — Bo wring. 
 
 Another portion of life rolls on, 
 
 The week glides calmly by ; 
 And down the swift stream of time we run, 1 * 
 
 To the sea of eternity. 
 Who knows how soon the hour will come 
 
 When the sun shall put out his light, 
 And the Master shall call his labourers home, 
 
 To sleep in the valleys of night ? 
 
 And then shall He take a strict account 
 
 Of duties neglected and done, 
 And millions shall read their vast amount 
 
 Recorded one by one. 
 And every bosom shall be unveiled, 
 
 And every secret known ; 
 And none another's sins shall shield, 
 
 And none shall hide his own ! 
 
 We live, in this narrow world below, 
 
 The victims of self-deceit; 
 But, in the bright world to which we go, 
 
 No artifice can cheat. 
 Folly can there no more assume 
 
 Wisdom's imposing dress ; 
 Nor hypocrisy wear the towering plume 
 
 Of conscious righteousness. 
 
 O nothing then will avail us there 
 
 But deeds of mercy and love ; 
 For each his burden of sin must bear, 
 
 At the high tribunal above ; 
 To have trained our spirits to forgive, 
 
 As we hope to be forgiven, 
 And have lived on earth as they should live, 
 
 Whose hopes and home are heaven. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 133 
 
 We are weak and vain, but God is strong ; 
 
 We are blind, but his piercing eye, 
 To whose orbit all space and time belong, 
 
 Embraces infinity. 
 We wander ; his spirit leads us back 
 
 To the heavenward path of peace, 
 And his glory lights the holy track 
 
 That ends in eternal bliss. 
 
 He smiles on all ; and, though drear and dark 
 
 Our journey may seem to be, 
 A joyous, a bright, though lonely spark, 
 
 Shines from eternity. 
 As beneath the curtains of silver snow 
 
 The flowers of the valley are hid, 
 So the flowers of hope and beauty grow 
 
 'Neath the grave's pyramid. 
 
 Even in the shadiest, darkest night, 
 
 The stars shine on unseen ; 
 And the sun is clad in his robes of light, 
 
 Though mists intrude between. 
 And the grave, though dreary, and dull, and deep, 
 
 Is bright with a heaven-born ray, 
 And its long and seemingly listless sleep 
 
 Shall be crowned with eternal day. 
 
 LESSON LVI. 
 Portrait of a worldly Woman. — Freeman. 
 
 A woman has spent her youth without the practice of any 
 remarkable virtue, or the commission of any thing which is 
 flagrantly wrong; and she is now united with a man, whose 
 moral endowments are not more distinguished than her own, 
 but who is industrious, rich, and prosperous. Against the 
 connexion she had no objection ; and it is what her friends 
 entirely approved. His standing in life is respectable ; and 
 they both pass along without scandal, but without much ap- 
 probation of their own consciences, and without any loud 
 applause from others ; for the love of the world is the prin- 
 ciple which predominates in their bosoms ; and the world 
 never highly praises its own votaries. 
 
 She is not absolutely destitute of the external appearance 
 of religion ; for she constantly attends church in the after- 
 noon, unless she is detained by her guests ; and in the mora-^ 
 ing, unless she is kept at home by a slight indisposition, 6t 
 12 
 
134 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 unfavourable weather, — which she supposes happens more 
 frequently on Sundays than other days, — and which, it must 
 be confessed, are several degrees less inconvenient and less 
 unpleasant than similar causes, which prevent her from go- 
 ing to a party of pleasure. This, however, is the end of her 
 religion, such as it is ; for, when she is at church, she does 
 not think herself under obligations to attend to what is pass- 
 ing there, and to join in the worship of her Maker. She can- 
 not, with propriety, be called a woman professing godliness ; 
 for she makes no public profession of love to her Saviour : 
 she does only what is customary ; and she would do still less, 
 if the omission were decorous. 
 
 Of domestic religion there is not even a semblance. As 
 her husband does not think proper to pray with his family, 
 so she does not think proper to pray with her children, or to 
 instruct them in the doctrines and duties of Christianity. On 
 the Gospel, however, no ridicule nor contempt is cast ; and, 
 twice or thrice in a year, thanks are given to God at her ta- 
 ble, — that is, when a minister of religion is one of her guests. 
 No time being consumed in devotion, much is left for the 
 care of her house, to which she attends with worldly discre- 
 tion. Her husband is industrious in acquiring wealth, and 
 she is equally industrious in spending it in such a manner 
 as to keep up a genteel appearance. She is prudent in man- 
 aging her affairs, and suffers nothing to be wasted through 
 thoughtlessness. In a word, she is a reasonable economist ; 
 and there is a loud call, though she is affluent, that she should 
 be so, as her expenses are necessarily great. 
 
 But she is an economist, not for the indigent, but for her- 
 self; not that she may increase her means of doing good, but 
 that she may adorn her person, and the persons of her chil- 
 dren, with gold, and pearls, and costly array ; not that she 
 may make a feast for the poor, the maimed, the lame, and 
 the blind, but that she may make a dinner or a supper for 
 her rich neighbours, who will bid her again. Though the 
 preparations for these expensive dining and evening parties 
 are more irksome than the toils of the common labourer, yet 
 she submits to them with readiness ; for she loves the world, 
 and she loves the approbation, which she hopes the world 
 will bestow on the brilliancy of her decorations, and the ex- 
 quisite taste of her high-seasoned viands and delicious wines. 
 For this reputation she foregoes the pleasure which she would 
 feel, in giving bread to the fatherless, and in kindling the cheer- 
 ful fire on the hearth of the aged widow. Thus, though she 
 has many guests at her board, yet she is not hospitable ; and, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 135 
 
 though she gives much away, yet she is not charitable ; for 
 she gives to those who stand in no need of her gifts. 
 
 I call not this woman completely selfish ; for she loves her 
 family. She is sedulous in conferring on her daughters a 
 polite education, and in settling them in the world as repu- 
 tably as she is established herself. For her sons she is still 
 more anxious ; because the sons of the rich are too much 
 addicted to extravagance; and she is desirous to preserve 
 them from dissipations, which would tarnish the good name 
 that she would have them enjoy in the world, and which, 
 above all, would impair their fortunes. But here her affection 
 terminates. She loves nothing out of the bosom of her own 
 family : for the poor and the wretched she has no regard. 
 It is not strictly accurate to say, that she bestows nothing 
 on them ; because she sometimes gives in public charities, 
 when it would not be decent to withhold her donations ; and 
 she sometimes gives more privately, when she is warmly so- 
 licited, and when all her friends and neighbours give : but 
 in both cases she concedes her alms with a cold and unwilling 
 mind. She considers it in the same light as her husband 
 views the taxes which he pays to the government, — as a debt 
 which must be discharged, but from which she would be 
 glad to escape. 
 
 As a rational woman, however, must not be supposed to 
 conduct herself without reason, she endeavours to find ex- 
 cuses for her omissions. Her first and great apology is, that 
 she has poor relations to provide for. In this apology there is 
 truth. Mortifying as she feels it to be, it must be confessed 
 that she is clogged with indigent connexions, who are al- 
 lowed to come to her house, when she has no apprehension 
 that they will be seen by her wealthy visitants. As it would 
 be a gross violation of decency, and what every one would 
 condemn as monstrous, for her to permit them to famish, when 
 she is so able to relieve them, she does indeed bestow some- 
 thing on them ; but she gives it sparingly, reluctantly, and 
 haughtily. She flatters herself, however, that she has now done 
 every thing which can with justice be demanded of her, and 
 that other indigent persons have not a claim on her bounty. 
 
 Another apology is, that the poor are vicious, and do not 
 deserve her beneficence. By their idleness and intemper- 
 ance they have brought themselves to poverty. They have 
 little regard to truth ; and, though it must be allowed that 
 their distress is not altogether imaginary, yet they are ever 
 disposed to exaggerate their sufferings. Whilst they are 
 ready to devour one another, they are envious toward the 
 rich, and the kindness of their benefactors they commonly 
 
13S THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 repay with ingratitude. To justify these charges, she can 
 produce many examples ; and she deems that they are suffi- 
 cient excuses for her want of humanity. But she forgets, in 
 the mean while, that the Christian woman, who sincerely 
 loves God and her neighbour, in imitation of her heavenly 
 Father, is kind to the evil as well as the good, to the un- 
 thankful as well as the grateful. 
 
 LESSON LVII. 
 
 The Indian Summer of New England. — Ibid. 
 
 The southwest is the pleasantest wind which blows in 
 New England. In the month of October, in particular, after 
 the frosts, which commonly take place at the end of Septem- 
 ber, it frequently produces two or three weeks of fair weather, 
 in which the air is perfectly transparent, and the clouds, 
 which float in the sky of the purest azure, are adorned with 
 brilliant colours. If at this season a man of an affectionate 
 heart and ardent imagination should visit the tombs of his 
 friends, the southwestern breezes, as they breathe through 
 the glowing trees, would seem to him almost articulate. 
 Though he might not be so rapt in enthusiasm as to fancy 
 that the spirits of his ancestors were whispering in his ear, 
 yet he would at least imagine that he heard the small voice 
 of God. This charming season is called the Indian Sum- 
 mer, a name which is derived from the natives, who believe 
 that it is caused by a wind, which comes immediately from 
 the court of their great and benevolent God Cautantowwit, 
 or the southwestern God, the God who is superior to all 
 other beings, who sends them every blessing which they 
 enjoy, and to whom the souls of their fathers go after their 
 decease. 
 
 LESSON LVIII. 
 
 Steam-boats on the Mississippi. — T. F^int. 
 
 The advantage of steam-boats, great as it is every where, 
 can no where be appreciated as on the Mississippi. The 
 distant points of the Ohio and Mississippi used to be sepa- 
 rated from New Orleans by an internal obstruction, far more 
 formidable in the passing than the Atlantic. If I may use a 
 hard word, they are now brought into juxtaposition. To feel 
 what an invention this is for these regions, one must have 
 seen and felt, as I have seen and felt, the difficulty and danger 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 137 
 
 1 
 
 of forcing a boat against the current of these mighty rivers, 
 on which a progress of ten miles in a day is a good one. 
 Indeed, those huge and unwieldy boats, the barges in which 
 a great proportion of the articles from New Orleans used to 
 be transported to the upper country, required twenty or thirty 
 hands to work them. I have seen them, day after day, on 
 the lower portions of the Mississippi, where there was no 
 other way of working them up than carrying out a cable 
 half a mile in length, in advance of the barge, and fastening 
 it to a tree. The hands on board then draw it up to the 
 tree. While this is transacting, another yawl, still in advance 
 of that, has ascended to a higher tree, and made another 
 cable fast to it, to be ready to be drawn upon as soon as the 
 first is coiled. This is the most dangerous and fatiguing 
 way of all, and six miles' advance in a day is good progress. 
 
 It is now refreshing, and imparts a feeling of energy and 
 power to the beholder, to see the large and beautiful steam- 
 boats scudding up the eddies, as though on the wing, and, 
 when they have run out the eddy, strike the current. The 
 foam bursts in a sheet quite over the deck. She quivers 
 for a moment with the concussion ; and then, as though she 
 had collected her energy, and vanquished her enemy, she re- 
 sumes her stately march, and mounts against the current, five 
 or six miles an hour. I have travelled in this way, for days 
 together, more than a hundred miles in a day, against the 
 current of the Mississippi. The difficulty of ascending used 
 to be the only circumstance of a voyage that was dreaded in 
 the anticipation. This difficulty now disappears. A family 
 in Pittsburg wishes to make a social visit to a kindred family 
 on Red River. The trip is but two thousand miles. They 
 all go together ; servants, baggage, or "plunder," as the phrase 
 is, to any amount. In twelve days they reach the point pro- 
 posed. Even the return is but a short voyage. Surely the 
 people of this country will have to resist strong temptations, 
 if they do not become a social people. You are invited to a 
 breakfast at seventy miles' distance. You go on board the 
 passing steam-boat, and awake in the morning in season for 
 your appointment. The day will probably come, when the 
 inhabitants of the warm and sickly regions of the lowei 
 points of the Mississippi will take their periodical migrations 
 to the north, with the geese and swans of the gulf, and with 
 them return in the winter. 
 
 A sea voyage, after all that can be said in its favour, is a 
 
 very different thing from all this. The barren and boundless 
 
 expanse of waters soon tires upon every eye but a seaman's. 
 
 I sa}^ nothing of fastening tables, and holding fast to beds, 
 
 12 * 
 
138 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 or inability to write or to cook. I leave out of sight sea- 
 sickness, and the danger of descending to those sea-green 
 caves, of which poetry has so much to say. Here you are 
 always near the shore, always see the green earth, can always 
 eat, write, and sleep undisturbed. You can always obtain 
 cream, fowls, vegetables, fruit, wild game; and, in my mind, 
 there is no kind of comparison between the comforts and 
 discomforts of a sea and river voyage. 
 
 A stranger to this mode of travelling would find it difficult 
 to describe his impressions upon first descending the Missis- 
 sippi in one of the better steam-boats. He contemplates the 
 prodigious establishment, with all its fitting of deck common, 
 and ladies' cabin apartments. Over head, about him, and 
 below him, all is life and movement. He sees its splendid 
 cabin, richly carpeted, its finishing of mahogany, its mirrors 
 and fine furniture, its bar-room, and sliding-tables, to which 
 eighty passengers can sit down with comfort. The fare is 
 sumptuous, and every thing in a style of splendour, order, 
 quiet, and regularity, far exceeding that of taverns in general. 
 You read, you converse, you walk, you sleep, as you choose ; 
 for custom has prescribed that every thing shall be without 
 ceremony. The varied and verdant scenery shifts around 
 you. The trees, the green islands, have an appearance, as 
 by enchantment, of moving by you. The river-fowl, with 
 their white and extended lines, are wheeling their flight 
 above you. The sky is bright. The river is dotted with 
 boats above you, beside, and below you. You hear the echo 
 of their bugles reverberating from the woods. Behind the 
 wooded point, you see the ascending column of smoke 
 rising above the trees, which announces that another steam- 
 boat is approaching you. This moving pageant glides through 
 a narrow passage between the main shore and an island, 
 thick set with young cotton-woods, so even, so regular, and 
 beautiful, that they seem to have been planted for a pleasure 
 ground. 
 
 As you shoot out again into the broad stream, you come 
 in view of a plantation, with all its busy and cheerful ac- 
 companiments. At other times, you are sweeping along, for 
 many leagues together, where either shore is a boundless 
 and pathless wilderness. ' And the contrast, which is thus 
 so strongly forced upon the mind, of the highest improve- 
 ment and the latest invention of art, with the most lonely 
 aspect of a grand but desolate nature, — the most striking 
 and complete assemblage of splendour and comfort, the cheer- 
 fulness of a floating hotel, which carries, perhaps, two hun- 
 dred guests, with a wild and uninhabited forest, one hundred ^ 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 139 
 
 miles in width, the abode only of owls, bears, and noxious 
 animals, — this strong contrast produces, to me at least, some- 
 thing of the same pleasant sensation that is produced by ly- 
 ing down to sleep with the rain pouring on the roof, imme- 
 diately over head. 
 
 LESSON LIX. 
 
 Cypress Swamps of the Mississippi. — Ibid. 
 
 Beyond the lakes, there are immense swamps of cypress, 
 which swamps constitute a vast proportion of the inundated 
 lands of the Mississippi and its waters. No prospect on 
 earth can be more gloomy. The poetic Styx or Acheron had 
 not a greater union of dismal circumstances. Well may the 
 cypress have been esteemed a funereal and lugubrious tree. 
 When the tree has shed its leaves, for it is a deciduous tree, 
 a cypress swamp, with its countless interlaced branches of a 
 hoary gray, has an aspect of desolation and death, that, often 
 as I have been impressed with it, I cannot describe. In sum- 
 mer its fine, short, and deep green leaves invest these hoary 
 branches with a drapery of crape. The water in which they 
 grow is a vast and dead level, two or three feet deep, still 
 leaving the innumerable cypress " knees," as they are called, 
 or very elliptical trunks, resembling circular bee-hives, throw- 
 ing their points above the waters. This water is covered 
 with a thick coat of green matter, resembling green buff vel- 
 vet. The moschetoes swarm above the water in countless 
 millions. 
 
 A very frequent adjunct to this horrible scenery is the 
 moccason snake, with his huge scaly body lying in folds up- 
 on the side of a cypress knee ; and, if you approach too near, 
 lazy and reckless as he is, he throws the upper jaw of his 
 huge mouth almost back to his neck, giving you ample warn- 
 ing of his ability and will to defend himself. I travelled forty 
 miles along this river swamp, and a considerable part of the 
 way in the edge of it ; in which the horse sunk, at every 
 step, half up to his knees. I was enveloped, for the whole 
 distance, with a cloud of moschetoes. Like the ancient Aver- 
 nus, I do not remember to have seen a single bird, in the 
 vhole distance, except the blue jay. Nothing interrupted the 
 death-like silence, but the hum of moschetoes. 
 
 There cannot be well imagined another feature to the 
 gloom of these vast and dismal forests, to finish this kind of 
 landscape, more in keeping with the rest, than the long moss, 
 or Spanish beard ; and this funereal drapery attaches itself to 
 
140 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 the cypress in preference to any other tree. There is not, 
 that ] know, an object in nature, which produces such a num- 
 ber of sepulchral images as the view of the cypress forests, 
 all shagged, dark, and enveloped in hanging festoons of 
 moss. If you would inspire an inhabitant of New England, 
 possessed of the customary portion of feeling, with the de- 
 gree of home-sickness which would strike to the heart, trans- 
 fer him instantly from the hill and dale, the bracing air and 
 varied scenery of the North, to the cypress swamps of the 
 South, that are covered with the long moss. 
 
 This curious appendage to the trees is first visible in the 
 cypress swamps at about thirty-three degrees, and is seen 
 thence to the gulf. It is the constant accompaniment of the 
 trees in deep bottoms and swampy lands, and seems to be an 
 indication of the degree of humidity in the atmosphere. I 
 have observed that, in dry and hilly pine woods, far from 
 streams and stagnant waters, it almost wholly disappears ; 
 but in the pine woods it reappears as you approach bottoms, 
 streams, and swamps. I have remarked too, that, where it so 
 completely envelopes the cypress as to show nothing but the 
 festoons of the dark gray moss, other trees are wholly free 
 from it. It seems less inclined to attach itself to the cotton- 
 wood trees than to any other. 
 
 This moss is a plant of the parasitical species, being prop- 
 agated by seed, which forms in a capsule that is preceded by 
 a very minute, but beautiful purple flower. Although, when 
 the trees that have cast their leaves are covered with it, they 
 look as if they were dead, yet the moss will not live long on 
 a dead tree. It is well known that this moss, when man- 
 aged by a process like that of preparing hemp, or flax, sepa- 
 rates from its bark, and the black fibre that remains is not 
 unlike horse-hair, elastic, incorruptible, and an admirable 
 and cheap article for mattresses, of which are formed most 
 of the beds of the southern people of this region. 
 
 LESSON LX. 
 
 Influence of the Dead on the Living. — Norton. 
 
 The relations between man and man cease not with life. 
 The dead leave behind them their memory, their example, 
 and the effects of their actions. Their influence still abides 
 with us. Their names and characters dwell in our thoughts 
 and hearts. We live and commune with them in their writ- 
 ings. We enjoy the benefit of their labours. Our institu- 
 tions have been founded by them. We are surrounded by 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 141 
 
 the works of the dead. Our knowledge and our arts are the 
 fruit of their toil. Our minds have been formed by their 
 instructions. We are most intimately connected with them 
 by a thousand dependencies. Those whom we have loved 
 in life are still objects of our deepest and holiest affections. 
 Their power over us remains. They are with us in our sol- 
 itary walks, and their voices speak to our hearts in the si- 
 lence of midnight. 
 
 Their image is impressed upon our dearest recollections 
 and our most sacred hopes. They form an essential part of 
 our treasure laid in heaven. For, above all, we are separated 
 from them but for a little time. We are soon to be united 
 with them. If we follow in the path of those whom we have 
 loved, we too shall soon join the innumerable company of 
 the spirits of just men made perfect. Our affections and our 
 hopes are not buried in the dust, to which we commit the 
 poor remains of mortality. The blessed retain their remem- 
 brance and their love for us in heaven ; and we will cherish 
 our remembrance and our love for them while on earth. 
 
 Creatures of imitation and sympathy as we are, we look 
 around us for support and countenance even in our virtues. 
 We recur for them most securely to the examples of the dead. 
 There is a degree of insecurity and uncertainty about living 
 worth. The stamp has not yet been put upon it, which pre- 
 cludes all change, and seals it as a just object of admiration 
 for future times. There is no service, which a man of com- 
 manding intellect can render his fellow creatures, better than 
 that of leaving behind him an unspotted example. If he do 
 not confer upon them this benefit ; if he leave a character, 
 dark with vices in the sight of God, but dazzling with shin- 
 ing qualities to the view of men ; it may be that all his 
 other services had better have been forborne, and he had 
 passed inactive and unnoticed through life. It is a dictate 
 of wisdom, therefore, as well as feeling, when a man, emi- 
 nent for his virtues and talents, has been taken away, to col- 
 lect the riches of his goodness, and add them to the treasury 
 of human improvement. The true Christian liveth not for 
 himself and dieth not for himself ; and it is thus, in one re- 
 spect, that he dieth not for himself. 
 
 LESSON LXI. 
 
 Cultivation of Moral Taste. — Frisbie. 
 
 A literary taste, while it has its principles in the nature 
 of the mind, is formed by the study and imitation of the best 
 
142 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 models, and by having the attention habitually directed to 
 what is truly beautiful. Moral taste is founded in like man- 
 ner in our constitution, is cherished and cultivated by famil- 
 iarity with moral beauty, and by avoiding whatever has a 
 tendency to impair the love of what is right, and the aver- 
 sion to what is wrong. 
 
 As out opinion of duty is greatly influenced by our moral 
 taste, so on the other hand, moral taste is much affected by 
 our judgment of what is right. Hence it is above all things 
 necessary, that this taste should be founded in just notions 
 of rectitude, and supported by virtuous conduct. It is im- 
 possible that he should long love virtue, whose actioi :s are 
 habitually at variance with her principles and rules. But it 
 is to influences more remote and indirect, influences less 
 suspected, and, therefore, more to be feared, that I would 
 call your attention. There are many circumstances, which 
 do not solicit us to violate our sense of duty, which yet les- 
 sen our reverence for virtue, and abhorrence of vice, and 
 thus fatally break down the barriers to practical aberrations 
 from the course of rectitude. 
 
 The first I shall mention is intimacy with such individu- 
 als as combine amiable qualities, intelligent minds, and cul- 
 tivated manners, with a disregard of principle and corrupt 
 morals. As bigotry, cant and superstition often give a dis- 
 gusting, ridiculous, or repulsive air even to true piety, which 
 it requires no small effort of the mind to separate from it; 
 in like manner, vice is often so united with engaging quali- 
 ties, that it is either " pardoned for the association, or lost in 
 the assemblage." The ingenuous and well educated youth 
 is at first, perhaps, offended, and even pained by the inde- 
 cent allusion or profane jest; but they are uttered in such 
 good company, and seasoned with so much wit, that they 
 are forgiven, as the venial errors of a good heart. When 
 this is the case, it is too certain they will soon be heard 
 with indifference, and at last joined in without compunction. 
 
 The same effect is produced by two classes of books. The 
 one, where the power of the writer has concealed the de- 
 formity of vice under refinement of expression, or confound- 
 ed its nature by associating it with qualities which are in- 
 teresting and amiable. Here, perhaps, the delicacy of taste 
 is not so much impaired as its correctness perverted ; it is 
 not insensibility, but error, which is produced. The warmth 
 of genius, like that of the tropical sun, has called up a luxu- 
 riance of vegetation ; and the unwary observer is unconscious 
 of the poison that is breathed from flowers so sweet, or the 
 reptiles that hide under foliage so beautiful. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 143 
 
 But there is another class of books, in which there is no 
 disguise ; and profligacy and vice appear without a veil ; al- 
 though, perhaps, their names maybe a little changed. Drunk- 
 enness is conviviality, and libertinism warmth of constitu- 
 tion. Yet there is so much to awaken curiosity in the narra- 
 tive, so much of humour, of truth, and of human nature in 
 the characters and incidents, that, by many, the faults are 
 pardoned for the sake of the excellencies, till these very 
 faults increase the relish of the whole. I have heard the putting 
 of such books into the hands of the young defended by an ar- 
 gument like this ; that they are a sort of preparatory disci- 
 pline for the temptations of real life ; that, in the commerce 
 of the world, the young cannot but be exposed to the seduc- 
 tions of vice, and it is best they should know beforehand 
 something of its nature and power, that they maybe the bet- 
 ter able to withstand them. 
 
 In answer to this, it may, I think, be said, that those cir- 
 cumstances, which impair the delicacy of moral feeling, and 
 silently seduce the imagination and passions, without direct- 
 ly leading to conduct, are more dangerous, in their effects, 
 than temptations, which immediately allure us to act wrong ; 
 because the former, calling for no resistance, and producing 
 no reaction, leave the principles of virtue enfeebled ; where- 
 as the latter, requiring an active determination of the will, 
 the same mind would recoil from them with abhorrence. 
 Impressions merely passive steal upon the heart, and pollute 
 the sources of moral health ; while temptations, counteracted 
 by positive resistance and opposite conduct, produce a sal- 
 utary exercise, by which the moral powers are invigorated. 
 
 LESSON LXII. 
 
 Moral Influence of the Writings of Lord Byron and Miss 
 
 Edgeworth. — Ibid. 
 
 In no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal influ- 
 ence of morals and literature more distinctly seen than in 
 those of the author of Childe Harold. His character pro- 
 duced the poems, and it cannot be doubted that his poems 
 are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak 
 a language supplied not more by imagination than con- 
 sciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a con- 
 trivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own ; but 
 instruments through which he breathes his very soul, in 
 tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympa- 
 thetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misanthropy of 
 
a 
 
 144 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his poetry, 
 like one of his own ruined castles : we feel it to be sublime, 
 but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot have, till it is 
 abandoned by every thing that is kind, and peaceful, and 
 happy, and its halls are ready to become the haunts of out- 
 laws and assassins. 
 
 Nor are his more tender and affectionate passages those 
 to which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasi- 
 ness. It is not that we can here and there select a proposi- 
 tion formally false or pernicious; but that he leaves an im- 
 pression unfavourable to a healthful state of thought and 
 feeling, peculiarly dangerous to the finest minds and most 
 susceptible hearts. They are the scene of a summer even- 
 ing, where all is tender, anr! beautiful, and grand; but the 
 damps of disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the 
 pestilent vapours of night are breathed in with the fragrance 
 and balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of 
 the exposure 
 
 Although I have illustrated the moral influence of litera- 
 ture principally from its mischiefs, yet it is obvious, if what 
 I have said be just, it may be rendered no less powerful, as 
 a means of good. Is it not true that, within the last cen- 
 tury, a decided and important improvement in the moral 
 character of our literature has taken place ? and, had Pope 
 and Smollett written at the present day, would the former 
 have published the imitations of Chaucer, or the latter the 
 adventures of Pickle and Random? Genius cannot now 
 sanctify impurity or want of principle ; and our critics and 
 reviewers are exercising jurisdiction, not only upon the lit- 
 erary but moral blemishes of the authors that come before 
 them. We notice with peculiar pleasure the sentence of 
 just indignation, which the Edinburgh tribunal has pro- 
 nounced upon Moore, Swift, Goethe, and in general the Ger- 
 man sentimentalists. 
 
 Indeed, the fountains of literature into which an enemy 
 has sometimes infused poison, naturally flow with refreshment 
 and health. Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to 
 repose in the bowers of religion and virtue; and ^Tiss Edge- 
 worth has so cautiously combined the features of her char- 
 acters, that the predominant expression is ever what it should 
 be ; she has shown us, not vices ennobled by virtues, but 
 virtues degraded and perverted by their union with vices. 
 The success of this lady has been great, but, had she availed 
 herself more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we 
 think it would have been greater. She has stretched forth 
 a powerful hand to the impotent in virtue ; and had she ad- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 145 
 
 ded, with the apostle, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, we 
 should almost have expected miracles from its touch. 
 
 LESSON LXIII. 
 Scene from " The Vespers of Palermo." — Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 The sea shore. Raimond di Procida alone. 
 
 Rai. When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope 
 To those untameable and burning thoughts, 
 And restless aspirations, which consume 
 My heart i' th' land of bondage ? Oh ! with you, 
 Ye everlasting images of power, 
 And of infinity ! thou blue rolling deep, 
 And you, ye stars ! whose beams are characters 
 Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced ; 
 With you my soul finds room, and casts aside 
 The weight that doth oppress her. — But my thoughts 
 Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
 This awful and majestic solitude 
 Of sea and heaven with me. 
 
 (Procida enters unobserved.) 
 It is the hour 
 He named, and yet he comes not. 
 
 Procida. (coming forward) He is here. 
 
 Rai. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, whose glance 
 Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue 
 Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours ; 
 Reveal thyself; who art thou ? 
 
 Pro. One, whose life 
 
 Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
 Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, 
 With still a mighty aim. But now the shades 
 Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
 To this, my native land, that I may rest 
 Beneath its vines in peace. 
 
 RaL Seek'st thou for peace ? 
 
 This is no land. of peace ; unless that deep 
 And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's thoughts 
 Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
 With a dull, hollow semblance of repose, 
 May so be called. 
 
 Pro. There are such calms full oft 
 
 Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been 
 So vainly schooled by fortune, and inured 
 To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, 
 13 
 
146 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 That it should irk my spirit to put on 
 
 Such guise of hushed submissiveness as best 
 
 May suit the troubled aspect of the times. 
 
 Rai. Why, then, thou art welcome, stranger, to the land 
 Where most disguise is needful. He were bold 
 Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow 
 Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
 Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
 And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn 
 From the same past their long remembrances, 
 Now meet in terror, or no more ; lest hearts 
 Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour, 
 Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds 
 Might whisper to our conquerors. — This it is 
 To wear a foreign yoke. 
 
 Pro. It matters not 
 
 To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 
 And can suppress its workings till endurance 
 Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves 
 To all extremes, and there is that in life 
 To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
 Ev'n when its lofty claims are all reduced 
 To the poor, common privilege of breathing. — 
 Why dost thou turn away ? 
 
 Rai. What would'st thou with me ? 
 
 I deemed thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived 
 And made its throne on thy commanding brow, 
 One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn 
 So to abase its high capacities 
 For aught on earth. — But thou art like the rest. 
 What would'st thou with me ? 
 
 Pro. I would counsel thee. 
 
 Thou must do that which men — ay, valiant men — 
 Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court, 
 And in the stately camp, and at the board 
 Of midnight revellers, whose flushed mirth is all 
 A strife, won hardly. — Where is he, whose heart 
 Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
 Of mortal eye ? — If vengeance wait the foe, 
 Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths concealed 
 Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth ! I say 
 Keep thy soul down ! Put on a mask ! 'tis worn 
 Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth 
 And specious intercourse of life requires 
 Its aid in every scene. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 147 
 
 Rai. Awdijj dissembler ! 
 
 Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks 
 Fitted to every nature. Will the free 
 And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
 By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey? 
 It is because I will not clothe myself 
 In a vile garb. of coward semblances, 
 That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, 
 To bid what most I love a long farewell, 
 And seek my country on some distant shore, 
 Where such things are unknown ! 
 
 Pro. (exultingly) Why, this is joy ! 
 
 After long conflict with the doubts and fears, 
 And the poor subtleties of meaner minds, 
 To meet a spirit, whose bold, elastic wing 
 Oppression hath not crushed. High-hearted youth ! 
 Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again 
 Visit these shores — 
 
 Rai. My father ! what of him ? 
 
 Speak ! was he known to thee ? 
 
 Pro. In distant lands 
 
 With him I've traversed many a wild, and looked 
 On many a danger; and the thought that thou 
 Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, 
 Oft through the storm hath cheered him. 
 
 Rai. Dost thou deem 
 
 That still he lives ? — Oh ! if it be in chains, 
 In wo, in poverty's obscurest cell, 
 Say but he lives, and I will track his steps 
 E'en to earth's verge ! 
 
 Pro. It may be that he lives : 
 
 Though long his name hath ceased to be a word 
 Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound 
 May yet be heard ! — Raimond di Procida ! 
 — Rememberest thou thy father ? 
 
 Rai. From my mind 
 
 His form hath faded long, for years have passed 
 Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, 
 Fet powerful image of deep majesty, 
 Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, 
 Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my love 
 For his inspiring name hath long become 
 Part of my being. 
 
 Pro. Raimond ! doth no voice 
 
 Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
 That would enfold thee now ? — My son ! my son ! 
 
143 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Rai. Father ! — Oh God ! — my father ! Now I know- 
 Why my heart woke before thee ! 
 
 Pro. Oh ! this hour 
 
 Makes hope reality, for thou art all 
 My dreams had pictured thee ! 
 
 Rai. Yet why so long, 
 
 Ev'n as a stranger, hast thou crossed my paths, 
 One nameless and unknown ? — and yet I felt 
 Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. 
 
 Pro. Because I would not link thy fate with mine, 
 Till I could hail the day-spring of that hope 
 Which now is gathering round us. — Listen, youth ! 
 Thou hast told me of a subdued, and scorned, 
 And trampled land, whose very soul is bowed 
 And fashioned to her chains : — but / tell thee 
 Of a most generous and devoted land ; 
 A land of kindling energies ; a land 
 Of glorious recollections ! — proudly true 
 To the high memory of her ancient kings, 
 And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
 Her alien bondage off ! 
 
 Rai. And where is this ? 
 
 Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
 Her spirit is awake, and moving on, 
 In its deep silence mightier, to regain 
 Her place amongst the nations : and the hour 
 Of that tremendous effort is at hand. 
 
 Rai. Can it be thus indeed ? Thou pour'st new life 
 Through all my burning veins ! I am as one 
 Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep 
 To the full, glorious day. 
 
 Pro. Thou shalt hear more ! 
 
 Thou shalt hear things, which would — which will arouse 
 The proud, free spirits of our ancestors 
 E'en from their marble rest. Yet, mark me well ! 
 Be secret ! — for along my destined path 
 I yet must darkly move. Now follow me, 
 And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
 There lies a nation's strength. 
 
 Rai. My noble father ! 
 
 Thy words have given me all for which I pined — 
 An aim, a hope, a purpose ! and the blood 
 Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
 As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
 By the quick sun-stroke freed. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 149 
 
 Pro. Ay, this is well ! 
 
 Such natures burst men's chains ! — Now follow me. 
 
 LESSON LXIV. 
 
 The Treasures of the Deep. — Ibid. 
 
 What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? 
 Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! 
 — Pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, 
 Bright things which gleam unrccked of, and in vain. 
 — Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
 
 We ask not such from thee. 
 
 Yet more, the depths have more ! — What wealth untold, 
 Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! 
 Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
 Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. 
 — Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful mam ! 
 
 Earth claims not these again I 
 
 Yet more, the depths have more ! — Thy waves have rolled 
 
 Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
 
 Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 
 
 Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! 
 
 — Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play : 
 
 Man yields them to decay. 
 
 Yet more, the billows and the depths have more ! 
 High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 
 They hear not now the booming waters roar ; 
 The battle-thunders will not break their rest. 
 — -Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
 
 Give back the true and brave ! 
 
 Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
 
 The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 
 
 The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
 
 And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song. 
 
 Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, 
 
 — But all is not thine own ! 
 
 To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
 Dark flow the tides o'er manhood's noble head, 
 O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown ; 
 — Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead ! 
 Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ; 
 
 Restore the dead, thou sea ! 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXV. 
 
 Circumstances under which Milton wrote Paradise Lost and 
 the Sonnets. — Edinburgh Review. 
 
 Milton had survived his health and his sight, the com- 
 forts of his home and the prosperity of his party. Of the 
 great men by whom he had been distinguished at his en- 
 trance into life, some had been taken away from the evil to 
 come ; some had carried into foreign climates their uncon- 
 querable hatred of oppression ; some were pining in dun- 
 geons ; and some had poured forth their blood on scaffolds. 
 That hateful proscription, facetiously termed the Act of In- 
 demnity and Oblivion, had set a mark on the poor, blind, de- 
 serted poet, and held him up, by name, to the hatred of a 
 profligate court and an inconstant people ! Venal and licen- 
 tious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the 
 thoughts of a pandar in the style of a bellman, were now the 
 favourite writers of the sovereign and the public. It was a 
 loathsome herd ; which could be compared to nothing so 
 fitly as to the rabble of Comus. Amidst these his muse was 
 placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, lofty, spotless, 
 and serene, to be chattered at, and pointed at, and grinned 
 at, by the whole rabble of satyrs and goblins. 
 
 If ever despondency and asperity could be excused in any 
 man, they might have been excused in Milton. But the 
 strength of his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blind- 
 ness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, noi 
 political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neg- 
 lect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic patience. 
 His spirits do not seem to have been high, but they were 
 singularly equable. His temper was serious, perhaps stern; 
 but it was a temper which no sufferings could render sullen 
 or fretful. Such as it was, when, on the eve of great events, 
 he returned from his travels, in the prime of health and man- 
 ly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions, and glowing with 
 patriotic hopes; such it continued to be, when, after having 
 experienced every calamity which is incident to our nature — 
 old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, — he retired to his hovel 
 to die ! 
 
 Hence it was, that, though he wrote the Paradise Lost at a 
 time of life when images of beauty and tenderness are, in 
 general, beginning to fade, even from those minds in which 
 they have not been effaced by anxiety and disappointment, 
 he adorned it with all that is most lovely and delightful in 
 the physical and in the moral world. Neither Theocritus 
 nor Ariosto had a finer or a more healthful sense of the pleas- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 151 
 
 antness of external objects, or loved better to luxuriate amidst 
 sunbeams and flowers, the songs of nightingales, the juice 
 of summer fruits, and the coolness of shady fountains. His 
 poetry reminds us of the miracles of Alpine scenery. Nooks 
 and dells, beautiful as fairy land, are imbosomed in its most 
 rugged and gigantic elevations. The roses and myrtles bloom 
 unchilled on t the verge of the avalanche.* 
 
 Traces, indeed, of the peculiar character of Milton may 
 be found in all his works ; but it is most strongly displayed 
 in the Sonnets. Those remarkable poems have been un- 
 dervalued by critics who have not understood their nature. 
 They have no epigrammatic point. They are simple but ma- 
 jestic records of the feelings of the poet ; as little tricked out 
 for the public eye as his diary would have been. A victory, 
 an expected attack upon the city, a momentary fit of depres- 
 sion or exultation, a jest thrown out against one of his books, 
 a dream, which, for a short time restored to him that beauti- 
 ful face over which the grave had closed for ever, led him to 
 musings which, without effort, shaped themselves into verse. 
 
 The Sonnets are more or less striking, according as the 
 occasions which gave birth to them are more or less interest- 
 ing. But they are, almost without exception, dignified by 
 a sobriety and greatness of mind, to which we know not 
 where to look for a parallel. It would, indeed, be scarcely 
 safe to draw any decided inferences, as to the character of a 
 writer, from passages directly egotistical. But the qualities 
 which we have ascribed to Milton, though perhaps most 
 strongly marked in those parts of his works which treat of 
 his personal feelings, are distinguishable in every page, and 
 impart to all his writings, prose and poetry, English, Latin, 
 and Italian, a strong family likeness. 
 
 His public conduct was such as was to be expected from 
 a man of a spirit so high, and an intellect so powerful. He 
 lived at one of the most memorable eras in the history of 
 mankind ; at the very crisis of the great conflict between 
 Oromasdesf and Arim / anesf — liberty and despotism, reason 
 and prejudice. That great battle was fought for no single 
 generation, for no single land. The destinies of the human 
 race were staked on the same cast with the freedom of the 
 English people. Then were first proclaimed those mighty 
 principles, which have since worked their way into the 
 
 * The immense masses of snow, which, having long accumulated, sometimes 
 fall in the valleys on the sides of the Alps, carrying- ruin in their progress, are 
 called by this name. 
 
 , t Names given to the good and the evil spirit in the religious books of the an- 
 cient Persians. Oromasdes is represented as the cause of all good; Arim/anes 
 as the cause of all evil. Between these is perpetual contention. 
 
152 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 depths of the American forests, which have roused Greece 
 from the slavery and degradation of two thousand years, and 
 which, from one end of Europe to the other, have kindled 
 an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and 
 loosed the knees of the oppressors with a strange and un- 
 wonted fear ! 
 
 LESSON LXVI. 
 
 Character of the Puritans. — Ibid. 
 
 The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a pe- 
 culiar character from the daily contemplation of superior be- 
 ings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, 
 in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually 
 ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for 
 whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection 
 nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to en- 
 joy him, was with them the great end of existence. They 
 rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which oth- 
 er sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead 
 of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an ob- 
 scuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable 
 brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence 
 originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The 
 difference between the greatest and meanest of mankind 
 seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless inter- 
 val which separated the whole race from him, on whom their 
 own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognised no title 
 to superiority but his favour ; and, confident of that favour, 
 they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities 
 of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works 
 of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the ora- 
 cles of God. If their names were not found in the registers 
 of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the 
 Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a 
 splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had 
 charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made 
 with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which should 
 never fade away ! 
 
 On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they 
 looked down with contempt : for they esteemed themselves 
 rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sub- 
 lime language ; nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and 
 priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very mean- 
 est of them was a being, to whose fate a mysterious and ter- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 153 
 
 rible importance belonged ; on whose slightest action the 
 spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, 
 who had been destined, before heaven and earth were cre- 
 ated, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven 
 and earth should have passed away. Events, which short- 
 sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, had been or- 
 dained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and 
 flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had 
 proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist, and the harp 
 of the prophet. He had been rescued by no common deliv- 
 erer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ran- 
 somed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no 
 earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been dark- 
 ened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had arisen, 
 that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expir- 
 ing God ! 
 
 Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, — the 
 one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the 
 other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated him- 
 self in the dust before his Maker ; but he set his foot on the 
 neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed 
 with convulsions, and groans, and tears. He was half mad- 
 dened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres 
 of angels, or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a 
 gleam of the beatific vision, or woke screaming from dreams 
 of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted 
 with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he 
 cried, in the bitterness of his soul, that God had hid his face 
 from him. But, when he took his seat in the council, or 
 girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the 
 soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who 
 saw nothing of the Puritans but their uncouth visages, and 
 heard nothing from them but their groans and their hymns, 
 might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh, 
 who encountered them in the hall of debate, or in the field 
 of battle. 
 
 The Puritans brought to civil and military affairs a cool- 
 ness of judgment and an immutability of purpose, which 
 some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious 
 zeal, but which were, in fact, the necessary effects of it. The 
 intensity of their feelings on one subject made them tranquil 
 on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subject- 
 ed to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had 
 lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms. They had their 
 smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but 
 not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had made them 
 
154 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion 
 and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of dan- 
 ger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to 
 pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. 
 They went through the world like Sir Artegales's iron man 
 Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppres- 
 sors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part 
 nor lot in human infirmities ; insensible to fatigue, to pleas- 
 ure, and to pain ; not to be pierced by any weapon, not to 
 be withstood by any barrier. 
 
 Such we believe to have been the character of the Puri- 
 tans. We perceive the absurdity of their manners ; we dis- 
 like the gloom of their domestic habits ; we acknowledge that 
 the tone of their minds was often injured by straining after 
 things too high for mortal reach ; and we know that, in spite 
 of their hatred of popery, they too often fell into the vices of 
 that bad system, intolerance and extravagant austerity. Yet, 
 when all circumstances are taken into consideration, we do 
 not hesitate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, 
 and a useful body. 
 
 LESSON LXVII. 
 Extract from the Prisoner of Chillon. — Byron. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery : 
 But then, by dull degrees, came back 
 My senses to their wonted track : 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before ; 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done ; 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perched, as fond and tame, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seemed to say them all for me ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 155 
 
 I never saw its like before, 
 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 
 It seemed, like me, to want a mate. 
 
 But was not half so desolate, 
 
 And it was come to love me, when 
 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 
 And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 
 I know not if it late were free, 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But, knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 I sometimes deemed that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 But then, at last, away it flew, 
 And then 'twas mortal — well I knew ; 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 Lone, as the corse within its shroud, 
 Lone, as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of wo ; 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfastened did remain, 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one, 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For, if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 
156 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 
 For I had buried one and all, 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 
 No child, no sire, no kin had I, 
 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 
 To mv barred windows, and to bend 
 
 ml 7 
 
 Once more upon the mountains high 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same, 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide, long lake below, 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white-walled, distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little isle, 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view : 
 A small, green isle, it seemed no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers growing, 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall, 
 And they seemed joyous each and all. 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seemed to fly ; 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled, and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And, when I did descend again, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. - 157 
 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
 And yet my glance, too much oppressed, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 LESSON LXVIII. 
 The Immortal Mind. — Ibid. 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
 
 Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay, 
 
 But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
 Then, unimbodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 
 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 All, all in earth or skies, displayed, 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 
 And all, that was, at once appears. 
 
 Before creation peopled earth, 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
 And where the furthest heaven had birth, 
 
 The spirit trace its rising track ; 
 And where the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 While sun is quenched or system breaks, 
 
 Fixed in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing, 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly! 
 A nameless and eternal thing, 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 14 
 
J 58 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXIX. 
 
 What is Poetry ? — Channing. 
 
 By those who are accustomed to speak of poetry as light 
 reading, Milton's eminence, in this sphere, may be consider- 
 ed only as giving him a high rank among the contributors to 
 public amusement. Not so thought Milton. Of all God's 
 gifts of intellect, he esteemed poetical genius the most tran- 
 scendent. He esteemed it in himself as a kind of inspiration, 
 and wrote his great works with something of the conscious 
 dignity of a prophet. We agree with Milton in his estimate 
 of poetry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts ; for it is 
 the breathing or expression of that principle or sentiment, 
 which is deepest and sublimest in human nature ; we mean, 
 of that thirst, or aspiration — to which no mind is wholly a 
 stranger — for something purer and lovelier, something more 
 powerful, lofty, and thrilling, than ordinary and real life af- 
 fords. 
 
 No doctrine is more common, among Christians, than that 
 of man's immortality; but it is not so generally understood, 
 that the germs or principles of his whole future being are 
 now wrapped up in his soul, as the rudiments of the future 
 plant in the seed. As a necessary result of this constitution, 
 the soul, possessed and moved by these mighty, though in- 
 fant energies, is perpetually stretching beyond what is pres- 
 ent and visible, struggling against the bounds of its earthly 
 prison-house, and seeking relief and joy in imaginings of un- 
 seen and ideal being. This view of our nature, which has 
 never been fully developed, and which goes farther towards 
 explaining the contradictions of human life than all others, 
 carries us to the very foundation and sources of poetry. He 
 who cannot interpret, by his own consciousness, what we 
 now have said, wants the true key to works of genius. He 
 has not penetrated those sacred recesses of the soul, where 
 poetry is born and nourished, and inhales immortal vigour, 
 and wings herself for her heavenward flight. 
 
 In an intellectual nature, framed for progress and for h'gher 
 modes of being, there must be creative energies, power of 
 original and ever-growing thought ; and poetry is the form in 
 which these energies are chiefly manifested. It is the glo- 
 rious prerogative of this art, that it " makes all things new" 
 for the gratification of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its 
 elements in what it actually sees and experiences, in the 
 worlds of matter and mind ; but it combines and blends these 
 into new forms and according to new affinities; breaks down, 
 if we may so say, the distinctions and bounds of nature j 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 159 
 
 imparts to material objects life, and sentiment, and emotion, 
 and invests the mind with the powers and splendours of the 
 outward creation ; describes the surrounding universe in the 
 colours which the passions throw over it, and depicts the 
 mind in those modes of repose or agitation, of tenderness or 
 sublime emotion, which manifest its thirst for a more pow- 
 erful and joyful existence. To a man of literal and prosaic 
 character, the mind may seem lawless in these workings ; 
 but it observes higher laws than it transgresses — the laws of 
 the immortal intellect ; it is trying and developing its best fac- 
 ulties ; and, in the objects which it describes, or in the emo- 
 tions which it awakens, anticipates those states of progressive 
 power, splendour, beauty, and happiness, for which it was 
 created. 
 
 We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring so- 
 ciety, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and 
 exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a 
 respite from depressing cares, and awakens the conscious- 
 ness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In its le- 
 gitimate and highest efforts, it has the same tendency and 
 aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize our nature. 
 True, poetry has been made the instrument of vice, the 
 pander of bad passions ; but, when genius thus stoops, it dims 
 its fires, and parts with much of its power ; and, even when 
 poetry is enslaved to licentiousness or misanthropy, she can- 
 not wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of pure feeling, 
 touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, sympa- 
 thies with what is good in our nature, bursts of scorn or in- 
 dignation at the hollowness of the world, passages true to 
 our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, and show 
 us how hard it is for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly 
 from what is good. 
 
 Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It 
 delights in the beauty and sublimity of outward nature and 
 of the soul. It indeed portrays, with terrible energy, the 
 excesses of the passions ; but they are passions which show 
 a mighty nature, which are full of power, which commana 
 awe, and excite a deep, though shuddering sympathy. Its 
 great tendency and purpose is to carry the mind beyond and 
 above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; — to 
 lift it into a purer element, and to breathe into it more pro- 
 found and generous emotion. It reveals to us the loveliness 
 of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, re- 
 vives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the 
 enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, re- 
 fines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature 
 
160 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings, 
 spreads our sympathies over all classes of society, knits us 
 by new ties with universal being, and, through the brightness 
 of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life. 
 
 We are aware that it is objected to poetry, that it gives 
 wrong views, and excites false expectations of life, peoples 
 the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagina- 
 tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom, against 
 which poetry wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes 
 physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, and 
 wealth the chief interest of life, we do not deny ; nor do we 
 deem it the least service, which poetry renders to mankind, 
 that it redeems them from the thraldom of this earthborn pru- 
 dence. But, passing over this topic, we would observe, that 
 the complaint against poetry, as abounding in illusion and 
 deception, is in the main groundless. In many poems there 
 is more of truth than in many histories and philosophic the- 
 ories. Thy fictions of genius are often the vehicles of the 
 sublimest verities, and its flashes often open new regions of 
 thought, and throw new light on the mysteries of our being. 
 
 In poetry the letter is falsehood, but the spirit is often pro- 
 foundest wisdom. And, if truth thus dwells in the boldest 
 fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his 
 delineations of life ; for the present life, which is the first 
 stage of the immortal mind, abounds in the materials of po- 
 etry, and it is the high office of the bard to detect this divine 
 element amOng the grosser labours and pleasures of our earth- 
 ly being. The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame, 
 and finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds in the poetic. The 
 affections which spread beyond ourselves and stretch far in- 
 to futurity; the workings of mighty passions, which seem to 
 arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the inno- 
 cent and irrepressible joy of infancy ; the bloom, and buoy- 
 ancy, and dazzling hopes of youth ; the throbbings of the 
 heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness 
 too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and 
 gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, 
 and her blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which 
 only a mother's heart can inspire ; — these are all poetical. 
 It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not exist. 
 He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's ethereal 
 essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance, brings 
 together its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more refined 
 but evanescent joys ; and in this he does well ; for it is good 
 to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsist- 
 ence and physical gratifications, but admits, in measures 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 161 
 
 which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights 
 worthy of a higher being. 
 
 LESSON LXX. 
 
 Character and Pursuits of Ulrich Zwingle^ the Swiss Re- 
 former. — Hess' Life of Zwingle. 
 
 The cares required in the defence of the reformation 
 against the dangers that threatened it from without, did not 
 prevent Zwingle from labouring to strengthen it in his own 
 country. He instructed his flock daily from the pulpit ; and, 
 possessing in the highest degree the art of speaking to the 
 comprehension of every one, he was able to give to his ser- 
 mons an ever-new attraction. Full of force and vehemence 
 when he attacked vice, of gentleness and persuasion when 
 he endeavoured to reclaim men to virtue, he disdained that 
 kind of eloquence which merely serves to set off the orator, 
 and dwelt only upon arguments adapted to convince and 
 move. He was still more admirable in his private conversa- 
 tions. With affecting condescension he brought himself down 
 to a level with the most humble capacities, and tranquillized 
 such as came to confide to him their doubts, and disclose the 
 agitation of their minds. He diverted such persons from 
 speculative subjects above their reach, and succeeded in re- 
 storing them to serenity : but when he had to do with an in- 
 quirer capable of thoroughly investigating a question, he fol- 
 lowed him step by step in his reasonings; showed him where 
 he had quitted the right road, and pointed out the beacons 
 which might direct him in future. What particularly inclin- 
 ed all hearts to open themselves to him, and gave weight to 
 his words, was the sweetness of his disposition, his active 
 benevolence, and the Irreproachable purity of his morals. 
 His house was the asylum of all the unfortunate, and he em- 
 ployed his small income, his credit, his connexions, his as- 
 cendency, in rendering service to those who had need of him. 
 His friends sometimes reproached him with giving way too 
 much to his natural benevolence, but they could never per- 
 suade him to exercise it with more circumspection. 
 
 They who witnessed the patience with which Zwingle 
 listened to all those who came to him in search of instruc- 
 tion, assistance, or consolation, might have thought that he 
 had no other functions to fulfil than those of his pastoral of- 
 fice ; but occupations of a very different nature claimed an 
 equal portion of his time. In all difficult conjunctures the 
 council summoned him to its sittings ; and, such was the 
 
 14 
 
 # 
 
162 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 opinion entertained of his wisdom, his penetration, and his 
 knowledge, that magistrates and statesmen, who had grown 
 old in office, came to ask advice of a simple theologian, whom 
 his occupations and habitual studies seemed to render a stran- 
 ger to politics. He was also the person employed by the gov- 
 ernment to draw up several new laws, which had been ren- 
 dered necessary by the reformation. Of this number were 
 such as related to ecclesiastical discipline, those which reg- 
 ulated the course to be followed in causes which were for- 
 merly within the cognizance of the episcopal chambers, and 
 sumptuary laws. In the midst of these different occupations, 
 Zwingle also kept up an extensive correspondence with the 
 celebrated men of his time, and composed a great number 
 of works, in which he treated on the most important ques- 
 tions of morals and theology. 
 
 When Ave think of all that he performed during his abode 
 at Zurich, it seems as if a whole life would scarcely suffice 
 for so many labours ; yet it was in the short space of twelve 
 years, that he succeeded in changing the manners, the reli- 
 gious ideas, and the political principles of his adopted coun- 
 try, and in founding establishments, many of which have en- 
 dured for three centuries. Such is the power of a man who 
 is governed by a single purpose ; who pursues one only end, 
 from which he suffers himself to be diverted neither by fear, 
 nor by seduction ! The frivolous pleasures and amusements 
 of the world occupied no place in the life of Zwingle ; his only 
 passion was to propagate truth, his only interest to promote 
 its triumph ; this was the secret of his means and his success. 
 
 If Zwingle disdained those pleasures which can neither 
 enlarge the faculties of the mind, nor procure real enjoyment, 
 he at least knew how to appreciate the enjoyments of inti- 
 mate society. It was in the midst of his friends that he 
 sought relaxation from labour. His serenity and cheerfulness 
 gave a great charm to his conversation ; his temper was nat- 
 urally hasty, and he sometimes gave way too much to his first 
 feelings ; but he knew how to efface the painful impression 
 that he had produced, by a prompt and sincere return of 
 kindness. Incapable of retaining the smallest degree of ran- 
 cour from the recollection of his own faults or those of oth- 
 ers, he was equally inaccessible to the sentiments of hatred, 
 jealousy, and envy. 
 
 The amiable qualities of his disposition gained him the at- 
 tachment of his colleagues, who united around him as a com- 
 mon centre ; and it is worthy of remark, that, at this period, 
 when all the passions were in motion, nothing ever troubled the 
 harmony that prevailed among them ; yet they were neither 
 
THE CLASSICAL, READER. 163 
 
 united by family connexions, nor by early acquaintance; 
 they were strangers attracted to Zurich by the protection af- 
 forded to the reformed, or sent for by Zwingle, to take part 
 in the labour of public instruction. They came with habits 
 already formed, with ideas already fixed, and of an age when 
 the ardour of youth, so favourable to the formation of friend- 
 ships, was past ; but a stronger tie than any other united 
 them — their common interest in the new light that began to 
 dawn over Europe. 
 
 These learned men communicated to each other all their 
 ideas without reserve ; they consulted upon the works that 
 they meditated, and sometimes united their talents and their 
 knowledge in undertakings which would have exceeded the 
 powers of any one singly. The dangers that they had to 
 fear for themselves, the persecutions to which they saw their 
 partisans exposed in the neighbouring countries, served to 
 draw the bonds of their friendship still closer. In our days, 
 each individual seems to be connected by a thousand threads 
 with ail the members of a society ; but these apparent ties 
 have no real strength, and are broken by the first shock. 
 The men of the sixteenth century had something more mas- 
 culine and more profound in their affections ; they were ca- 
 pable of a forgetfulness of self, which we find it difficult to 
 conceive. 
 
 The friends, with whom Zwingle had encircled himself, 
 loved him with that entire devotedness, which belongs only 
 to strong minds : without base adulation or servile deference, 
 they did homage to the superiority of his genius, while the 
 reformer was far from abusing his ascendency over them so 
 as to make it the means of erecting a new spiritual dictator- 
 ship on the ruins of the old one. 
 
 There is nothing exaggerated in the morality of Zwingle. 
 It announces a man who is a zealous friend of virtue, but 
 who knows the world and its temptations ; who requires 
 from no one a chimerical perfection ; and who, notwith- 
 standing the severity of his own morals, preserves his indul- 
 gence for the weakness of others. 
 
 The more we examine the writings of Zwingle, and reflect 
 on the whole tenor of his life, the more shall we be per- 
 suaded that the love of virtue, and the desire of rendering 
 himself useful, were the sole springs of his actions. "A 
 generous mind," would he often say, " does not consider it- 
 self as belonging to itself alone, but to the whole human race. 
 We are born to serve our fellow creatures, and by labouring 
 for their happiness, even at the hazard of our repose or our 
 life, we approach most nearly to the Deity." 
 
164 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXI. 
 
 The Advantages of Sickness. — Buckminster. 
 
 Sickness teaches not only the uncertain tenure, but dis- 
 covers the utter vanity and unsatisfactoriness of the dearest 
 objects of human pursuit. Introduce into the chamber of a 
 sick and dying man the whole pantheon of idols, which he 
 has vainly worshipped — fame, wealth, pleasure, beauty, pow- 
 er. What miserable comforters are they all ! Bind that 
 wreath of laurel round his brow, and see if it will assuage 
 his aching temples. Spread before him the deeds and in- 
 struments, which prove him the lord of innumerable posses- 
 sions, and see if you can beguile him of a moment's anguish ; 
 see if he will not give you up those barren parchments for 
 one drop of cool water, one draught of pure air. Go, tell 
 him, when a fever rages through his veins, that his table 
 smokes with luxuries, and that the wine moveth itself aright, 
 and giveth its colour in the cup, and see if this will calm his 
 throbbing pulse. Tell him, as he lies prostrate, helpless, 
 and sinking with debility, that the song and dance are ready 
 to begin, and that all without him is life, alacrity, and joy. 
 Nay, more, place in his motionless hand the sceptre of a 
 mighty empire, and see if he will be eager to grasp it. The 
 eye of Caesar could not gain its lustre by the recollection, that 
 its a bend could awe the world," nor his shaking limbs be 
 quieted by remembering that his nod had commanded obe- 
 dience from millions of slaves. This is the school in which 
 our desires must be disciplined, and our judgment corrected. 
 The man, who from such dispensations learns nothing but 
 perverseness, must be fearfully insensible. Let us then remem- 
 ber, that every man, at what he supposes his best estate, is 
 altogether vanity. God grant that we may understand it, be- 
 fore others are called to learn it from our graves, or to read 
 it upon our tomb-stones. 
 
 But if sickness puts to the proof these worthless objects 
 of our confidence, it ought also to direct us to that staff which 
 cannot be broken. Till we learn to lean on an Almighty 
 arm, and to support a mind vigorous with trust, and warm 
 with devotion, in the midst of a racked and decaying frame, 
 the work of sickness is but half completed. To learn the 
 emptiness of the world, is to learn but a lesson of misanthro- 
 py, if it do not generate and awaken that confidence, which 
 gladly casts itself on God alone. When affliction has had 
 her perfect work, we shall involuntarily adopt this language 
 of a pious sufferer, Be merciful unto me, God, be merciful 
 unto me, for my soul trusteth in thee ; yea, in the shadow 
 
THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 165 
 
 of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities 
 be overpast. I will commit my soul unto thee, as unto a 
 faithful Creator. 
 
 Violent diseases show us, also, our dependence upon one 
 another. Man, unaided by his fellow man, is the most weak 
 and helpless of animals. Placed beyond the reach of the 
 kind, watchful, and sympathetic aid of others, his first mala- 
 dy would be his last ; and the lord of this lower world would 
 sink under the first blow, which should strike his brittle ten- 
 ement. Take the most proud and fiery spirit, which ever 
 animated a muscular and gigantic frame, one who disdains to 
 be obliged, and spurns alike the control and the assistance 
 of others. Stretch him on the bed of sickness, languishing, 
 faint, and motionless. Where now is that surly indepen- 
 dence, that irritable haughtiness of soul ? Nay, where now 
 is that resistless strength of limb, that mighty bone and lof- 
 ty step ? Has it come to this ? that a child may lead so un- 
 tractable a spirit ? that a child may contend with that with- 
 ered arm ? 
 
 It is a common remark, that death is the universal leveller. 
 The same is true, in its degree, of sickness. When we are 
 reduced to such weakness that we cannot help ourselves, we 
 find that many, whom we despised, can essentially help us. 
 We find that the meanest of our species can lay us under 
 obligations, which we can never discharge. We find our- 
 selves at the mercy of those, on whom, if we have ever be- 
 stowed a thought, we have been accustomed to look down 
 with pity or contempt. But from a sick bed it is impossi- 
 ble to look down on any one. On the contrary, I appeal to 
 you, who have ever suffered, whether you have not some- 
 times gazed with grateful admiration at the patient, conde- 
 scending, untired offices of affectionate fidelity and tender 
 watchfulness, which have at once ennobled in your esteem, 
 and endeared to your affections, the humblest of your spe- 
 cies. 
 
 But it is the tendency of sickness not only to reduce our 
 extravagant self-estimation, by exhibiting our solitary help- 
 lessness, but, by leading our friends to perform for us innu- 
 merable and nameless offices of affection, it confirms and 
 fastens forever those tender ties, which bind us to each other. 
 Often, indeed, has a severe and tedious confinement added 
 new strength to the attachments of consanguinity, and new 
 delicacy to the bonds of friendship. Often, in the chamber 
 of the sick, a stern temper has been melted to forgiveness, 
 indifference has ripened into love, aversion has changed into 
 regard, and regard mellowed into attachment. 
 
166 
 
 THE CLASSICAL, READER. 
 
 It is the tendency of sickness to soften the heart. It is 
 impossible properly to commiserate afflictions, which we 
 have never experienced, and cannot therefore estimate. Of 
 course, every variety of suffering aids the general growth of 
 compassion. A new affliction strings a new chord in the heart, 
 which responds to some new note of complaint within the 
 wide scale of human wo. Since the pains and weaknesses 
 of the body constitute so large a portion of the afflictions, 
 which besiege the path of human life, who of you is unwilling 
 to acquire, even by personal suffering, a sympathy for the 
 exercise of which your intercourse with mankind will present 
 innumerable opportunities ? See with what facility and ad- 
 vantage one, who has endured pain, will anticipate the wants 
 of a sick companion, and administer relief, or whisper cheer- 
 ing consolations, while another is standing by, who, if not 
 insensible, is at least dumb and useless, unable to comfort, 
 because he knows not how to commiserate. Whatever he, 
 who has grown callous through uninterrupted prosperity, 
 and presumptuous by perpetual health, may think of his im- 
 munity from pain, there is a satisfaction, a luxury, in being 
 able to exclaim with Paal, that sympathetick apostle, Who 
 is weak, and I am not weak ; who is offended, and I burn not ! 
 
 LESSON LXXII. 
 
 The Government of the Tongue. — Ibid. 
 
 A very important branch of self-command is, the govern- 
 ment of the tongue. If any man offend not in word, the 
 same is a perfect man. This will not appear an extravagant 
 assertion, when we consider how numerous are the vices in 
 which this little member takes an active part ; that it is this, 
 which wearies us with garrulity, defames us with calumny, 
 deceives us with falsehood ; and that, but for this, we should 
 be no more offended with obsceneness, shocked with oaths, 
 or overpowered with scandalous abuse. Well might the 
 apostle write, If any man among you seem to be religious, 
 and bridleth not his tongue, that man's religion is vain. 
 
 If we consider these vices of the tongue in the order of 
 their enormity, we shall see how easily one generates anoth- 
 er. Talkativeness, the venial offspring of a lively, not to say 
 an unrestrained fancy, hardly rises to a fault, till it is found 
 that he who talks incessantly must often talk foolishly, and 
 that the prattle of a vain and itching tongue degenerates 
 rapidly into that foolish talking and jesting, which, as an 
 apostle says, are not convenient. Loquacity is forward and 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 167 
 
 assuming, and soon becomes tiresome. The story, a thousand 
 times told, loses, at last, its humour ; and a jest, a thousand 
 times repeated, is despoiled of its point, and palls upon the 
 ear. Something must then be found to revive flagging atten- 
 tion ; and what so universally interesting as slander ? The 
 faults of our neighbour are then dressed up in all the charms 
 of exaggeration ; and the interest of a description is found to 
 be amazingly heightened by a stroke of ridicule, or a tinge 
 of sarcasm. In a listening audience, at every new calumny 
 passed upon another's reputation, some one is found, whose 
 fancied credit revives, and rises on its ruins in all the lustre 
 of comparison. The tongue then riots in its new privilege, 
 till, at length, u at every word a reputation dies. " 
 
 All this may be done without deliberate malignity, and 
 without violation of truth ; because, to speak evil of most 
 men, it is not necessary to speak falsehood; and to pour con- 
 tempt upon another, it is not necessary to hate or to abhor 
 him. Remember, then, that the tongue must be sometimes 
 restrained, even in uttering truth. To justify a froward 
 mouth by a zeal for truth, is commonly to assign, as a previ- 
 ous motive, what occurred only as an after apology. As we 
 may flatter by an unseasonable and lavish expression of 
 merited approbation, so we may calumniate by an incautious 
 and unrestrained disclosure of real defects. A word spoken 
 in due season, how good is it ! — but remember, that death 
 and life are in the power of the tongue, and the tongue of 
 the wise only useth knowledge aright. 
 
 Thus far the unguarded talker, we observe, may have 
 proceeded without misrepresentation, and without mischie- 
 vous intention ; but he, whose vanity has been long flattered 
 by the attention of an audience, will not easily relinquish 
 the importance he has acquired in particular circles, or see, 
 without uneasiness, that interest decline, which his company 
 has been accustomed to excite. Hence, as the stock of scan- 
 dalous truths is exhausted, fiction lends her aid ; and he, who 
 was before only a prater, a jester, or a tattler, degenerates 
 into a liar, who entertains by falsehood, and a calumniator, 
 who lives by abuse ; and instances are not unfrequent of 
 men, whose moral sense, by a process similar to this, has be- 
 come so entirely obscured or corrupted, that they will utter 
 falsehoods with the most unconscious rapidity, and the most 
 unreflecting indifference. Such are the habits, which follow, 
 in alarming progression, from an unrestrained indulgence of 
 the tongue. Is not the danger formidable enough to induce 
 us to say, I am purposed that my mouth shall not transgress ; 
 I will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my tongue ? 
 
168 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The catalogue of sins is not completed. Impurity and 
 profaneness are not far behind. The first, indeed, bespeaks 
 such grossness of vice, and the latter such thoughtless impi- 
 ety, that we presume it is almost superfluous to denounce 
 them in this state of society. If, for every idle, unprofitable, 
 false, or calumniating word, which men shall speak, they 
 shall give an account in the day of judgment, what account 
 shall those men render, whose conversation first polluted 
 the pure ear of childhood, first soiled the chastity and white- 
 ness of the young imagination, whose habitual oaths first 
 taught the child to pronounce the name of God without 
 reverence, or to imprecate curses on his mates with all the 
 thoughtlessness of youth, but with all the passion and bold- 
 ness of manhood ? 
 
 Who, then, is a wise man, and endued with knowledge ? 
 Let him show, out of a good conversation, his words with 
 meekness of wisdom ; for by thy words shalt thou be justified, 
 and by thy words shalt thou be condemned. 
 
 LESSON LXXIII. 
 
 Self-Knowledge. — Ibid. 
 
 If we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged. 
 Let us consider the difficulty, the advantages, and the means 
 of forming a correct estimate of ourselves. The portions of 
 our character, which it most concerns us to understand aright, 
 are, the extent of our powers, and the motives of our con- 
 duct. But, on these subjects, every thing conspires to 
 deceive us. No man, in the first place, can come to the 
 examination of himself with perfect impartiality. His wishes 
 are all necessarily engaged on his own side ; and, though he 
 may place the weight! in the balance with perfect fairness 
 and accuracy, he places them in scales unequally adjusted. 
 He is, at once, the criminal, the accuser, the advocate, the 
 witness, and the judge. 
 
 Another difficulty, which prevents our passing a correct 
 judgment on our own characters, is, that we can always find 
 excuses for ourselves, which no other person can suspect. 
 The idea of possessing an excuse, which it would be im- 
 proper to communicate to others, is consolatory beyond 
 expression. Frivolous as the apology may be, it appears 
 satisfactory, because, while no one knows its existence, no 
 one can dispute its value. From repeated failures in any 
 undertaking few men learn their own incapacity; because 
 success depends upon such a concurrence of circumstances, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 169 
 
 minute as they are numerous, that it is much easier to la- 
 ment the blameless omission of something, which would have 
 ensured success, than to look full in the face our own defi- 
 ciencies. It is the same with the opinions we form of our 
 moral worth. The motives, which cooperate in producing 
 almost every action, are so various and almost imperceptible, 
 that, in contemplating our conduct, we can select those that 
 are honourable, and assign them that influence afterwards, 
 which they ought to have had before. By frequently de- 
 fending, also, the purity of our motives, we learn, at last, to 
 believe that they are precisely what they ought to be ; and 
 mistake the eloquence of self-apology for the animation of 
 conscious integrity. 
 
 Another, and very essential cause of our ignorance of our- 
 selves, is, that few men venture to inform us of our real 
 character. We are flattered, even from our cradles. The 
 caresses of parents, and the blandishments of friends, trans- 
 mute us into idols. A man must buffet long with the world, 
 ere he learns to estimate himself according to his real 
 importance in society. He is obliged to unlearn much of 
 what he has been told by those, who, in flattering him, have 
 long been used to flatter themselves. And when, at last, 
 he learns to compare himself with others, to correct his false 
 estimates, and to acquiesce in the rank which society assigns 
 him, he is assisted, not by the kind admonitions of friends, 
 not by the instructions of those who take an affectionate in- 
 terest in his character ; but he must gather it from the cold 
 indifference of some, from the contempt and scorn of others ; 
 he must be taught it by the bitterness of disappointment, 
 and the rudeness of superiority, or the smiles of exulting 
 malice. 
 
 This leads us to the last difficulty, which we shall mention, 
 as preventing our forming a correct estimate of our own 
 characters. We fondly imagine, that no one can know us as 
 well as we know ourselves ; and that every man is interested 
 to depreciate, even when he knows the worth of another. 
 Hence, when reproved, we cannot admit, that we have acted 
 .amiss. It is much more easy to conclude, that we have 
 been misrepresented by envy, or misunderstood by prejudice, 
 than to believe in our ignorance, incapacity, or guilt. Noth- 
 ing, also, more directly tends to swell into extravagance a 
 man's opinion of his moral or intellectual worth, than to find, 
 that his innocence has, in any instance, been falsely accused, 
 or his powers inadequately estimated. In short, unless a 
 person has been long accustomed to compare himself with 
 others, to scrutinize the motives of his conduct, to meditate 
 15 
 
170 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 on the occurrences of his life, to listen to, nay, even to court 
 the admonitions of the wise and good, and to hearken to the 
 language of calumny itself, he may pass through life intimate 
 with every heart but that which beats in his own bosom, a 
 stranger in no mansion so much as his own breast. 
 
 LESSON LXXIV. 
 
 Recollections of Childhood. — Akenside. 
 
 A pleasing task remains ; the secret paths 
 Of early genius to explore ; to trace 
 Those haunts where fancy her predestined sons, 
 Like to the demigods of old, doth nurse 
 Remote from eyes profane. Ye happy souls 
 Who now her tender discipline obey, 
 Where dwell ye ? What wild river's brink at eve 
 Imprint your steps ? What solemn groves at noon 
 Use ye to visit, often breaking forth 
 In rapture mid your dilatory walk, 
 Or musing, as in slumber, on the green ? 
 — Would I again were with you ! ye dales 
 Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands ! where, 
 Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides, 
 And his banks open, and his lawns extend, 
 Stops short the pleased traveller to view 
 Presiding o'er the scene some rustic tower 
 Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands. 
 
 ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook 
 The rocky pavement and the mossy falls 
 Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream ! 
 How gladly I recall your well-known seats 
 Beloved of old, and that delightful time 
 When, all alone, for many a summer's day, 
 
 1 wandered through your calm recesses, led 
 In silence by some powerful hand unseen. 
 Nor will I e'er forget you. Nor shall e'er 
 The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice 
 Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim 
 Those studies which possessed me in the dawn 
 Of life, and fixed the colour of my mind 
 
 For every future year : whence, even now, 
 From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn, 
 And, while the world around lies overwhelm'd 
 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 171 
 
 In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts 
 Of honourable fame, of truth divine 
 Or moral, and of minds to virtue won 
 By the sweet magic of harmonious verse. 
 
 LESSON LXXV. 
 
 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the Night. — 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 Thou spirit of the spangled night ! 
 I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
 Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
 Of lonely mariner. 
 
 The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 
 The distant main is moaning low ; 
 Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
 A melancholy song ! 
 
 Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
 And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
 But sweeter far the solemn calm 
 
 That marks thy mournful reign. 
 
 I've passed here many a lonely year, 
 And never human voice have heard ; 
 I've passed here many a lonely year, 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And I have lingered in the shade, 
 From sultry noon's hot beam. And I 
 Have knelt before my wicker door, 
 To sing my ev'ning song. 
 
 And I have hailed the gray morn high, 
 On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
 And tried to tune my little reed 
 To hymns of harmony. 
 
 But never could I tune my reed, 
 At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet 
 As when upon the ocean shore 
 
 I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 
 
 The day-spring brings not joy to me, 
 The moon it whispers not of peace, 
 But, oh ! when darkness robes the heavens, 
 My woes are mixed with joy. 
 
172 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 And then I talk, and often think 
 Aerial voices answer me ; 
 And, oh ! I am not then alone— 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And when the blust'ring winter winds 
 Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
 I lay me on my lonely mat, 
 
 And pleasant are my dreams. 
 
 And fancy gives me back my wife ; 
 And fancy gives me back my child ; 
 She gives me back my little home, 
 And all its placid joys. 
 
 Then hateful is the morning hour, 
 That calls me from the dream of bliss, 
 To find myself still lone, and hear 
 
 The same dull sounds again, — 
 
 The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, 
 The whisp 1 ring of the boding trees, 
 The brook's eternal flow, and oft 
 
 The caudor's hollow scream. 
 
 LESSON LXXVI. 
 Religion a social Principle. — Channing. 
 
 Religion is a social concern, for it operates powerfully 
 on society ; contributing, in various ways, to its stability and 
 prosperity. Religion is not merely a private affair ; the com- 
 munity is deeply interested in its diffusion, for it is the best 
 support of the virtues and principles on which * social order 
 rests. Pure and undefiled religion, according to Scripture, 
 is to do good ; and it follows very plainly, that, if God be the 
 author and friend of society, then the recognition of him 
 must enforce all social duty, and enlightened piety must give 
 its whole strength to the cause of public order. 
 
 Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the ex- 
 tent of the support given by religion to every virtue. No man, 
 perhaps, is aware how much our moral and social sentiments 
 are fed from this fountain ; how powerless conscience would 
 become without the belief of a God ; how palsied would be 
 human benevolence were there not the sense of a higher be- 
 nevolence to quicken and sustain it ; how suddenly the whole 
 social fabric would quake, and with what a fearful crash it 
 would sink into hopeless ruins, were the ideas of a Supreme 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 173 
 
 Being, of accountableness, and of a future life, to be utterly- 
 erased from every mind. Once let men thoroughly believe that 
 they are the work and sport of chance ; that no superior intel- 
 ligence concerns itself with human affairs ; but that all their 
 improvements perish for ever at death ; that the weak have 
 no guardian, and the injured no avenger; that there is no 
 recompense for sacrifices to uprightness and the public good ; 
 that an oath 'is unheard in heaven ; that secret crimes have 
 no witness but the perpetrator ; that human existence has 
 no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing friend ; that this 
 brief life is every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting 
 extinction ; — once let men thoroughly abandon religion, and 
 who can conceive or describe the extent of the desolation 
 which would follow ? 
 
 We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sympa- 
 thy would hold society together. As reasonably might we 
 believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens, our 
 torches could illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize 
 the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken re- 
 spect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of a 
 day ? and what is he more, if atheism be true ? Erase all 
 thought and fear of God from a community, and selfishness 
 and sensuality would absorb the whole man. Appetite, 
 knowing no restraint, and poverty and suffering, having no 
 solace or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of 
 human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked 
 and spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest 
 would supplant every other feeling, and man would become, 
 in fact, what the theory of atheism declares him to be, a 
 companion for brutes. 
 
 It particularly deserves attention, in this discussion, that 
 the Christian religion is singularly important to free communi- 
 ties. Jn truth, we may doubt whether civil freedom can sub- 
 sist without it. This, at least, we know, that equal rights and 
 an impartial administration of justice have never been en- 
 joyed where this religion has not been understood. It favours 
 free institutions ; first, because its spirit is the very spirit of 
 liberty, that is, a spirit of respect for the interests and rights of 
 others. Christianity recognises the essential equality of man- 
 kind ; beats down, with its whole might, those aspiring and ra- 
 pacious principles of our nature, which have subjected the 
 many to the few ; and, by its refining influence, as well as by 
 direct precept, turns to God, and to Him only, that supreme 
 homage which has been so impiously lavished on crowned 
 and titled fellow creatures. Thus its whole tendency is free. 
 It lays deeply the only foundations of liberty, which are the 
 15 * 
 
174 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 principles of benevolence, justice, and respect for human 
 nature. The spirit of liberty is not merely, as multitudes 
 imagine, a jealousy of our own particular rights, an unwilling- 
 ness to be oppressed ourselves ; but a respect for the rights 
 of others, and an unwillingness that any man, whether high 
 or low, should be wronged and trampled under foot. Now 
 this is the spirit of Christianity ; and liberty has no security 
 any farther than this uprightness and benevolence of senti- 
 ment actuates a community. 
 
 In another method religion befriends liberty. It dimin- 
 ishes the necessity of public restraints, and supersedes, in a 
 great degree, the use of force in administering the laws : and 
 this it does, by making men a law to themselves, and by re- 
 pressing the disposition to disturb and injure society. Take 
 away the purifying and restraining influence of religion, and 
 selfishness, rapacity and injustice will break out in new ex- 
 cesses ; and, amidst the increasing perils of society, govern- 
 ment must be strengthened to defend it, must accumulate 
 means of repressing disorder and crime; and this streng h 
 and these means may be, and often have been, turned against 
 the freedom of the state which they were meant to secure. 
 
 Diminish principle, and you increase the need of force in 
 a community. In this country, government needs not 
 the array of power, which you meet in other nations ; no 
 guards of soldiers, no hosts of spies, no vexatious regulations 
 of police ; but accomplishes its beneficent purposes by a few 
 unarmed judges and civil officers, and operates so silently 
 around us, and comes so seldom in contact with us, that 
 many of us enjoy its blessings with hardly a thought of its ex- 
 istence : and this is the perfection of freedom ; and to what 
 do we owe this condition ? I answer, to the power of those 
 laws which religion writes on our hearts, which unite and 
 concentrate public opinion against injustice and oppression, 
 which spread a spirit of equity and good will through the 
 community. Thus religion is the soul of freedom ; and no 
 nation under heaven has such an interest in it as ourselves. 
 
 LESSON LXXVII. 
 
 The Banian Tree. — Polehampton's Gallery. 
 
 The banian tree is a native of several parts of the East 
 Indies. It has a woody stem, branching to a great height, 
 and prodigious extent, with heart-shaped, entire leaves, end- 
 ing in acute points. Milton has thus beautifully and cor- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 175 
 
 rectly described it, as the plant to which Adam advised to 
 have recourse after having; eaten the forbidden fruit : 
 
 So counselled he ; and both together went 
 Into the thickest wood : there soon they chose 
 The fig-tree ; not that kind for fruit renowned, 
 But such as at this day, to Indians known 
 In Malabar or Deccan, spreads her arms, 
 Branching so broad and long, that in the ground 
 The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow 
 About the mother tree, a pillared shade 
 High over-arched, and echoing walks between. 
 There oft the Indian herdsman, shunning heat, 
 Shelters in cool, and tends his pasturing herds 
 At loop-holes cut through thickest shade : those leaves 
 They gathered, broad as Amazonian targe, 
 And, with what skill they had, together sewed, 
 To gird their waist. 
 
 Indeed the banian tree, or Indian fig, is perhaps the most 
 beautiful of nature's productions in that genial climate, where 
 she sports with so much profusion and variety. Some of 
 these trees are of amazing size and great extent, as they are 
 continually increasing, and, contrary to most other things in 
 animal and vegetable life, seem to be exempted from decay. 
 Every branch from the main body throws out its own roots ; 
 at first, in small, tender fibres, several yards from the ground : 
 these continually grow thicker until they reach the surface ; 
 and there, striking in, they increase to large trunks, and be- 
 come parent trees, shooting out new branches from the top : 
 these in time suspend their roots, which, swelling into trunks, 
 produce other branches ; thus continuing in a state of progres- 
 sion as long as the earth, the first parent of them all, contrib- 
 utes her sustenance. The Hindoos are peculiarly fond of the 
 banian tree ; they look upon it as an emblem of the Deity, 
 from its long duration, its out-stretching arms, and overshad- 
 owing beneficence ; they almost pay it divine honours, and 
 
 "Find a fane in every sacred grove." 
 
 Near these trees the most esteemed pagodas are generally 
 erected ; under their shade the Brahmins spend their lives 
 in religious solitude ; and the natives of all casts and tribes 
 are fond of recreating in the cool recesses, beautiful walks, 
 and lovely vistas of this umbrageous canopy, impervious to 
 the hottest beams of a tropical sun. 
 
 A remarkably large tree of this kind grows on an island 
 in the river Nerbedda, ten miles from the city of Baroche, 
 
176 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 in the province of Guzerat, a nourishing settlement lately in 
 possession of the East India Company. It is distinguished 
 by the name of Cubbeer Burr, which was given it in honour 
 of a famous saint. It was once much larger than at present; 
 but high floods have carried away the banks of the island 
 where it grows, and with them such parts of the tree as had 
 thus far extended their roots ; yet what remains is about 
 2000 feet in circumference, measured round the principal 
 stems ; the overhanging branches, not yet struck down, cover 
 a much larger space. The chief trunks of this single tree 
 (which in size greatly exceed our English elms and oaks) 
 amount to three hundred and fifty ; the smaller stems, form- 
 ing into stronger supporters, are more than 3000 ; and every 
 one of these is casting out new branches, and hanging roots, 
 in time to form trunks, and become the parents of a future 
 progeny. 
 
 Cubbeer Burr is famed throughout Hindostan for its great 
 extent and surpassing beauty. The Indian armies generally 
 encamp around it, and, at stated seasons, solemn jatarras, or 
 Hindoo festivals, are held there, to which thousands of vota- 
 ries repair from various parts of the Mogul empire. It is said 
 that 7000 persons find ample room to repose under its shade. 
 The English gentlemen, on their hunting and shooting par- 
 ties, used to form extensive encampments, and spend weeks 
 together under this delightful pavilion ; which is generally 
 filled with green wood-pigeons, doves, peacocks, and a vari- 
 ety of feathered songsters ; crowded with families of mon- 
 kies performing their antic tricks, and shaded by bats of a 
 large size, many of them measuring upwards of six feet from 
 the extremity of one wing to the other. This tree not only 
 affords shelter, but sustenance, to all its inhabitants, being 
 covered, amidst its bright foliage, with small figs of a rich 
 scarlet, on which they all regale with as much delight as the 
 lords of creation on their more various and costly fare. 
 
 LESSON LXXVIII. 
 Extract from " The Siege of Valencia.''''' — Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Scene. Interior of a church. 
 
 Ximena. For me, my part is done ! 
 
 The flame, which dimly might have lingered yet 
 A little while, hath gathered all its rays 
 Brightly to sink at once ; and it is well ! 
 The shadows are around me ; to thy heart 
 Fold me, that I may die. 
 
 • 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 177 
 
 Elmina. My child ! — What dream 
 
 Is on thy soul ? — Even now thine aspect wears 
 Life's brightest inspiration ! 
 
 Ximena. Death's ! 
 
 Elmina. Away ! 
 
 Thine eye hath starry clearness, and thy cheek 
 Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
 Than tinged its earliest flower ! 
 
 Ximena. It well may be ! 
 
 There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
 Than those which draw their colouring from the founts 
 Of youth, or health, or hope. 
 
 Elmina. Nay, speak not thus ! 
 
 There's that about thee shining, which would send 
 E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
 Wer't not for these sad words. The dim, cold air, 
 And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and shrines 
 As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
 With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
 Caught from thy mien ! — Oh no ! this is not death ! 
 
 Ximena. Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our 
 chain, 
 Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
 As a deliverer ? — He hath many forms ; 
 They should not all be fearful !< — If his call 
 Be but our gathering to that distant land, 
 For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst, 
 Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
 Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
 Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, 
 Solemn, yet lovely ? — Mother ! I depart ! 
 —Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, 
 That thou hast seen me thus ! 
 
 Elmina. Distract me not 
 
 With such wild fears ! Can I bear on with life 
 When thou art gone ? — thy voice, thy step, thy smile, 
 Passed from my path ? — Alas ! even now thine eye 
 Is changed ; thy cheek is fading ! 
 
 Ximena. Ay, the clouds 
 
 Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight, 
 And yet I fear not, for the God of help 
 Comes in that quiet darkness ! — It may soothe 
 Thy woes, my mother ! if I tell thee now 
 With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
 Failing between me and the world, wherein 
 My heart so ill hath rested. 
 
178 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Elmina. Thine ! 
 
 Ximena. Rejoice 
 
 For her, that, when the garland of her life 
 Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried, 
 Received her summons hence, and had no time, 
 Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart, 
 To wither, sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 
 Which lent one moment of existence light, 
 That dimmed the rest for ever ! 
 
 Elmina. How is this ? 
 
 My child, what mean'st thou ? 
 
 Ximena. Mother ! I have loved, 
 
 And been beloved ! — The sunbeam of an hour, 
 Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
 As they lay shining in their secret founts, 
 Went out, and left them colourless. — 'Tis past — 
 And what remains on earth ? — The rain-bow mist, 
 Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sigh 
 Is cleared to look on all things as they are ! 
 — But this is far too mournful ! — Life's dark gift 
 Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! 
 — Therefore I would go hence ! 
 
 Elmina. And thou hast loved 
 
 Unknown 
 
 Ximena. Oh ! pardon, pardon that I veiled 
 My thoughts from thee ! — But thou hadst woes enough, 
 And mine came o'er me when thy soul had need 
 Of more than mortal strength ! For I had scarce 
 Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
 A treasure's place within my secret heart, 
 When earth's brief joy went from me ! 
 
 'Twas at morn 
 I saw the warriors to their field go forth, 
 And he — my chosen — was there amongst the rest, 
 With his young, glorious brow ! — I looked again — 
 The strife grew dark beneath me ; but his plume 
 Waved free above the lances. — Yet again — 
 — It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling o'er 
 The spot to which mine eyes were riveted, 
 Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! 
 And then, at last, I hurried to the gate, 
 And met him there — I met him ! — on his shield, 
 And with his cloven helm, and shivered sword, 
 And dark hair, steeped in blood ! — They bore him past — 
 Mother ! — I saw his face ! — Oh ! such a death 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 179 
 
 Works fearful changes on the fair of earth, 
 The pride of woman's eye ! 
 
 Elmina. Sweet daughter, peace ! 
 Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame 
 
 Ximena. — There will be peace ere long. I shut my 
 heart, 
 Even as a tomb, o'er that lone, silent grief, , 
 That I might spare it thee ! But now the hour 
 Is come when that which would have pierced thy soul 
 Shall be its healing balm. Oh ! weep thou not, 
 Save with a gentle sorrow ! 
 
 Elmina. Must it be ? 
 
 Art thou indeed to leave me ? 
 
 Ximena. (exultingly.) Be thou glad ! 
 I say, rejoice above thy favoured child ! 
 Joy, for the soldier when his field is fought ; 
 Joy, for the peasant when his vintage-task 
 Is closed at eve ! But most of all for her, 
 Who, when her life had changed its glittering robes 
 For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
 So heavily around the journeyers on, 
 Cast down its weight — and slept ! 
 
 LESSON LXXIX. 
 
 Parentage of General Lafayette, and his first Visit to the 
 United States of America. — Ticknor. 
 
 The family of General Lafayette has long been distinguish- 
 ed in the history of France, As early as 1422, the Marshal 
 de Lafayette defeated and killed the Duke of Clarence at 
 Beauge, and thus saved his country from falling entirely into 
 the power of Henry Fifth, of England. Another of his an- 
 cestors, though not in the direct line, Madame de Lafayette, 
 the intimate friend and correspondent of Madame de Se- 
 vigne, and one of the most brilliant ornaments of the court 
 of Louis Fourteenth, was the first person who ever wrote a 
 romance, relying for its success on domestic character, and 
 thus became the founder of the most popular department in 
 modern literature. His father fell in the battle of Munden, 
 and therefore survived the birth of his son only two years. 
 These, with many more memorials of his family, scattered 
 through the different portions of French history for nearly 
 five centuries, are titles to distinction, which it is particularly 
 pleasant to recollect, when they fall, as they now do, on one 
 so singularly fitted to receive and increase them. 
 
180 THE CLASSICAL, READER. 
 
 General Lafayette himself was born in Auvergne in the 
 south of France, on the 6th of September, 1757. When 
 quite young, he was sent to the College of Du Plessis at 
 Paris, where he received that classical education, of which, 
 when recently at Cambridge, he twice gave remarkable proof 
 in uncommonly happy quotations from Cicero, suited to cir- 
 cumstances that could not have been foreseen. Somewhat 
 later, he was sent to Versailles, where the court constantly 
 resided ; and there his education was still further continued, 
 and he was made, in common with most of the young noble- 
 men, an officer in the army. When only between sixteen and 
 seventeen, he was married to the daughter of the Duke 
 d'Ayen, son of the Duke de Noailles, and grandson to the great 
 and good Chancellor d'Aguesseau ; and thus his condition in 
 life seemed to be assured to him among the most splendid 
 and powerful in the empire. His fortune, which had been 
 accumulating during a long minority, was vast ; his rank was 
 with the first in Europe ; his connexions brought him the 
 support of the chief persons in France ; and his individual 
 character, the warm, open, and sincere manners, which have 
 distinguished him ever since, and given him such singular 
 control over the minds of men, made him powerful in the 
 confidence of society wherever he went. It seemed, indeed, 
 as if life had nothing further to offer him, than he could sure- 
 ly obtain by walking in the path that was so bright before 
 him. 
 
 It was at this period, however, that his thoughts and feel- 
 ings were first turned towards these thirteen colonies, then 
 in the darkest and most doubtful passage of their struggle for 
 independence. He made himself acquainted with our agents 
 at Paris, and learned from them the state of our affairs. 
 Nothing could be less tempting to him, whether he sought 
 military reputation or military instruction ; for our army, at 
 that moment retreating through New Jersey, and leaving its 
 traces in blood from the naked and torn feet of the soldiery, 
 as it hastened onward, was in a state too humble to offer 
 either. Our credit, too, in Europe was entirely gone, so that 
 the commissioners, as they were called, without having any 
 commission, to whom Lafayette still persisted in offering his 
 services, were obliged, at last, to acknowledge that they 
 could not even give him decent means for his conveyance. 
 " Then," said he, " I shall purchase and fit out a vessel for 
 myself." He did so. The vessel was prepared at Bordeaux, 
 and sent round to one of the nearest ports in Spain, that it 
 might be beyond the reach of the French government. In 
 order more effectually to conceal his purposes, he made, just 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 181 
 
 before iiis embarkation, a visit of a few weeks in England, 
 the only time he was ever there, and was much sought in 
 English society. On his return to France, he did not stop 
 at all in the capital, even to see his own family, but has- 
 tened, with all speed and secrecy, to make good his escape 
 from the country. It was not until he was thus on his 
 way to embark, that his romantic undertaking began to be 
 known. 
 
 The effect produced in the capital and at court by its pub- 
 lication, was greater than we should now, perhaps, imagine. 
 Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, required the French 
 ministry to despatch an order for his arrest not only to Bor- 
 deaux, but to the French commanders on the West India 
 station ; a requisition with which the ministry readily com- 
 plied, for they were, at that time, anxious to preserve a good 
 understanding with England, and were seriously angry with 
 a young man, who had thus put in jeopardy the relations of 
 the two countries. In fact, at Passage, on the very borders 
 of France and Spain, he was arrested and carried back to 
 Bordeaux. There, of course, his enterprise was near being 
 finally stopped ; but, watching his opportunity, and assisted 
 by one or two friends, he disguised himself as a courier, 
 with his face blacked and false hair, and rode on, ordering post- 
 horses for a carriage which he had caused to follow him at 
 a suitable distance for this very purpose, and thus fairly pass- 
 ed the frontiers of the two kingdoms, only three or four 
 hours before his pursuers reached them. 
 
 Immediately on arriving the second time at Passage, the 
 wind being fair, he embarked. The usual course for French 
 vessels attempting to trade with our colonies at that period, 
 was, to sail for the West Indies, and then, coming up along 
 our coast, enter where' they could. But this course would 
 have exposed Lafayette to the naval commanders of his own 
 nation ; and he had almost as much reason to dread them 
 as to dread British cruisers. When, therefore, they were 
 outside of the Canary Islands, Lafayette required his captain 
 to lay their course directly for the United States. The cap- 
 tain refused, alleging that, if they should be taken by a Brit- 
 ish force and carried into Halifax, the French government 
 would never reclaim them, and they could hope for nothing 
 but a slow death in a dungeon or a prison-ship. This was true, 
 but Lafayette knew it before he made the requisition. He, 
 therefore, insisted until the captain refused in the most posi- 
 tive manner. Lafayette then told him that the ship was his 
 own private property, that he had made his own arrange- 
 ments concerning it, and that if he, the captain, would not 
 16 
 
182 THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 
 
 sail directly for the United States, he should be put in irons, 
 and his command given to the next officer. The captain, of 
 course, submitted, and Lafayette gave him a bond for forty 
 thousand francs, in case of any accident. They, therefore, 
 now made sail directly for the southern portion of the United 
 States, and arrived unmolested at Charleston, S. C. on the 
 25th of April, 1777. 
 
 The sensation produced by his appearance in this country 
 was, of course, much greater than that produced in Europe 
 by his departure. It still stands forth, as one of the most 
 prominent and important circumstances in our revolutionary 
 contest; and, as has often been said by one who bore no 
 small part in its trials and success, none but those who were 
 then alive can believe what an impulse it gave to the hopes 
 of a population almost disheartened by a long series of dis- 
 asters. And well it might ; for it taught us that in the first 
 rank of the first nobility in Europe, men could still be found, 
 who not only took an interest in our struggle, but were will- 
 ing to share our sufferings ; that our obscure and almost des- 
 perate contest for freedom, in a remote quarter of the world, 
 could yet find supporters among those, who were the most 
 natural and powerful allies of a splendid despotism ; that we 
 were the objects of a regard and interest throughout the 
 world, which would add to our own resources sufficient 
 strength to carry us safely through to final success. 
 
 LESSON LXXX. 
 
 Address of the President to Lafayette on his Departure from 
 the United States, 1825. — J. Q. Adams. 
 
 General Lafayette, 
 
 It has been the good fortune of many of my distinguished 
 fellow citizens, during the course of the year now elapsed, 
 upon your arrival at their respective abodes, to greet you 
 with the welcome of the nation. The less pleasing task 
 now devolves upon me, of bidding you, in the name of the 
 nation, adieu. 
 
 It were no longer seasonable, and would be superfluous, 
 to recapitulate the remarkable incidents of your early life — ■ 
 incidents which associated your name, fortunes, and reputa- 
 tion, in imperishable connexion with the independence and 
 history of the North American Union. The part which you 
 performed at that important junction was marked with char- 
 acters so peculiar, that, realizing the fairest fable of antiquity, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 183 
 
 its parallel could scarcely be found in the authentic records 
 of human history. 
 
 You deliberately and perseveringly preferred toil, danger, 
 the endurance of every hardship, and the privation of every 
 comfort, in defence of a holy cause, to inglorious ease, and 
 the allurements of rank, affluence, and unrestrained youth, at 
 the most splendid and fascinating court of Europe. That this 
 choice was not less wise than magnanimous, the sanction of 
 half a century, and the gratulations of unnumbered voices, all 
 unable to express the gratitude of the heart, with which your 
 visit to this hemisphere has been welcomed, afford ample 
 demonstration. 
 
 When the contest of freedom, to which you had repaired 
 as a voluntary champion, had closed, by the complete tri- 
 umph of her cause in this country of your adoption, you re- 
 turned to fulfil the duties of the philanthropist and patriot in 
 the land of your nativity. There, in a consistent and undevi- 
 ating career of forty years, you have maintained, through every 
 vicissitude of alternate success and disappointment, the same 
 glorious cause, to which the first years of your active life had 
 been devoted — the improvement of the moral and political 
 condition of man. 
 
 Throughout that long succession of time, the people of the 
 United States, for whom, and with whom, you have fought 
 the battles of liberty, have been living in the full possession 
 of its fruits, one of the happiest among the family of nations; 
 — spreading in population, enlarging in territory, acting and 
 suffering according to the condition of their nature, and lay- 
 ing the foundations of the greatest, and, we humbly hope, the 
 most beneficent power that ever regulated the concerns of 
 man upon earth. 
 
 In that lapse of forty years, the generation of men with 
 whom you co-operated in the conflict of arms, has nearly 
 passed away. Of the general officers of the American army 
 in that war, you alone survive. Of the sages who guided 
 our councils ; of the warriors who met the foe in the field or 
 upon the wave, with the exception of a few, to whom unu- 
 sual length of days has been allotted by Heaven, all now 
 sleep with their fathers. A succeeding, and even a third 
 generation, have arisen to take their places ; and their chil- 
 dren's children, while rising up to call them blessed, have 
 been taught by them, as well as admonished by their own 
 constant enjoyment of freedom, to include in every benison 
 upon their fathers the name of him who came from afar, 
 with them and in their cause to conquer or to fall. 
 
184 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The universal prevalence of these sentiments was signally 
 manifested by a resolution of Congress, representing the 
 whole people, and all the States of this Union, requesting the 
 President of the United States to communicate to you the 
 assurances of the grateful and affectionate attachment of this 
 government and people, and desiring that a national ship 
 might be employed, at your convenience, for your passage 
 to the borders of our country. 
 
 The invitation was transmitted to you by my venerable 
 predecessor ; himself bound to you by the strongest ties of 
 personal friendship ; himself one of those whom the highest 
 honours of his country had rewarded for blood early shed in 
 her cause, and for a long life of devotion to her welfare. By 
 him the services of a national ship were placed at your dis- 
 posal. Your delicacy preferred a more private conveyance, 
 and a full year has elapsed since you landed upon our shores. 
 It were scarcely an exaggeration to say, that it has been to 
 the people of the Union a year of uninterrupted festivity and 
 enjoyment, inspired by your presence. You have traversed 
 the twenty-four States of this great confederacy. You have 
 been received with rapture by the survivors of your earliest 
 companions in arms. You have been hailed as a long absent 
 parent by their children, the men aud women of the present 
 age. And a rising generation, the hope of future time, in 
 numbers surpassing the whole population at that day, when 
 you fought at the head and by the side of their forefathers, 
 have vied with the scanty remnants of that hour of trial, 
 in acclamations of joy at beholding the face of him whom 
 they feel to be the common benefactor of all. You have 
 heard the mingled voices of the past, the present, and the 
 future age, joining in one universal chorus of delight 
 at your approach ; and the shouts of unbidden thou- 
 sands, which greeted your landing on the soil of freedom, 
 have followed every step of your way, and still resound, 
 like the rushing of many waters, from every corner of 
 our land. 
 
 You are now about to return to the country of your birth, 
 of your ancestors, of your posterity. The Executive Govern- 
 ment of the Union, stimulated by the same feeling which had 
 prompted the Congress to the designation of a national ship 
 for your accommodation in coming hither, has destined the 
 first service of a frigate recently launched at this metropolis, 
 to the less welcome, but equally distinguished trust, of con- 
 veying you home. The name of the ship has added one more 
 memorial to distant regions and to future ages of a stream 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 185 
 
 already memorable* at once in the story of your sufferings 
 and of our independence. 
 
 The ship is now prepared for your reception, and equipped 
 for sea. From the moment of her departure, the prayers of 
 millions will ascend to heaven, that her passage maybe pros- 
 perous, and your return to the bosom of your family as pro- 
 pitious to your happiness as your visit to this scene of your 
 youthful glory has been to that of the American people. 
 
 Go, then, our beloved friend ; return to the land of brilliant 
 genius, of generous sentiment, of heroic valour ; to that beau- 
 tiful France, the nursing mother of the Twelfth Louis, and 
 the Fourth Henry ; to the native soil of Bayard and Coligni, 
 of Turenne and Catinat, of Fenelon and D'Aguesseau. In 
 that illustrious catalogue of names which she claims as of , 
 her children, and, with honest pride, holds up to the admi- 
 ration of other nations, the name of Lafayette has already 
 for centuries been enrolled. And it shall henceforth burnish 
 into brighter fame ; for if, in after days, a Frenchman shall 
 be called to indicate the character of his nation by that of 
 one individual, during the age in which we live, the blood 
 of lofty patriotism shall mantle in his cheek, the fire of con- 
 scious virtue shall sparkle in his eye, and he shall pronounce 
 the name of Lafayette. Yet we, too, and our children, in 
 life and after death, shall claim you for our own. You are 
 ours by that more than patriotic self-devotion with which you 
 flew to the aid of our fathers at the crisis of their fate ; ours 
 by that long series of years in which you have cherished us 
 in your regard ; ours by that unshaken sentiment of gratitude 
 for your services which is a precious portion of our inherit- 
 ance ; ours by that tie of love, stronger than death, which, 
 has linked your name, for the endless ages of time, with the 
 name of Washington. 
 
 At the painful moment of parting from you, we take com- 
 fort in the thought, that, wherever you may be, to the last 
 pulsation of your heart, our country will be ever present to 
 your affections ; and a cheerful consolation assures us that 
 we are not called to sorrow most of all, that we shall see your 
 face no more. We shall indulge the pleasing anticipation of 
 beholding our friend again. In the mean time, speaking in 
 the name of the whole people of the United States, and at a 
 loss only for language to give utterance to that feeling of at- 
 tachment with which the heart of the nation beats as the 
 heart of one man, I bid you a reluctant and affectionate fare- 
 well ! 
 
 * The Brandywine 
 
 16 * 
 
186 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXXI. 
 Reply of Lafayette to the foregoing Address. — Lafayette. 
 
 Amidst all my obligations to the General Government, 
 and particularly to you, sir, its respected Chief Magistrate, 
 I have most thankfully to acknowledge the opportunity given 
 me, at this solemn and painful moment, to present the people 
 of the United States with a parting tribute of profound, inex- 
 pressible gratitude. 
 
 To have been, in the infant and critical days of these States, 
 adopted by them as a-favourite son ; to have participated 
 in the toils and perils of our unspotted struggle for indepen- 
 dence, freedom, and equal rights, and in the foundation of 
 the American era of a new social order, which has already 
 pervaded this, and must, for the dignity and happiness of 
 mankind, successively pervade every part of the other hem- 
 isphere ; to have received, at every stage of the revolution, 
 and during forty years after that period, from the people of 
 the United States, and their representatives at home and 
 abroad, continual marks of their confidence and kindness, — 
 has been the pride, the encouragement, the support, of along 
 and eventful life. 
 
 But how could I find words to acknowledge that series 
 of welcomes, those unbounded universal displays of public 
 affection, which have marked each step, each hour, of a 
 twelve months' progress through the twenty-four States, 
 and which, while they overwhelm my heart with grate- 
 ful delight, have most satisfactorily evinced the concurrence 
 of the people in the kind testimonies, in the immense 
 favours, bestowed on me by the several branches of their 
 representatives in every part, and at the central seat of the 
 confederacy. 
 
 Yet gratifications still higher await me. In the wonders 
 of creation and improvement that have met my enchanted 
 eye ; in the unparalleled and self-felt happiness of the people ; 
 in their rapid prosperity and ensured security, public and 
 private ; in a practice of good order, the appendage of true 
 freedom ; and a national good sense, the final arbiter of all 
 difficulties, — I have had proudly to recognise a result of the 
 republican principles for which we have fought, and a glori- 
 ous demonstration to the most timid and prejudiced minds, 
 of the superiority, over degrading aristocracy or despotism, 
 of popular institutions, founded on the plain rights of man, 
 and where the local rights of every section are preserved 
 under a constitutional bond of union. The cherishing of 
 that union between the States, as it has been the farewell 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 137 
 
 entreaty of our great, paternal Washington, and will ever 
 have the dying prayer of every American patriot, so it has 
 become the sacred pledge of the emancipation of the world, 
 an object in which I am happy to observe that the American 
 people, while they give the animating example of successful 
 free institutions, in return for an evil entailed upon them by 
 Europe, and of which a liberal, enlightened sense is every 
 where more and more generally felt, show themselves every 
 day more anxiously interested. 
 
 And now, sir, how can I do justice to my deep and lively 
 feelings, for the assurances, most peculiarly valued, of your 
 esteem and friendship ; for your so very kind references to 
 old times, to my beloved associates, to the vicissitudes of my 
 life; for your affecting picture of the blessings poured by the 
 several generations of the American people on the remaining 
 days of a delighted veteran ; for your affectionate remarks on 
 this sad hour of separation, on the country of my birth — full, 
 I can say, of American sympathies — on the hope, so necessary 
 to me, of my seeing again the country that has deigned, near 
 half a century ago, to call me hers ? I shall content myself, 
 refraining from superfluous repetitions, at once before you, 
 sir, and this respected circle, to proclaim my cordial confir- 
 mation of every one of the sentiments which I have had daily 
 opportunities publicly to utter, from the time when your 
 venerable predecessor, my old brother in arms and friend, 
 transmitted to me the honourable invitation of Congress, to 
 this day, when you, my dear sir, whose friendly connexion 
 with me dates from your earliest youth, are going to consign 
 me to the protection, across the Atlantic, of the heroic 
 national flag, on board the splendid ship, the name of which 
 has been not the least flattering and kind among the num- 
 berless favours conferred upon me. 
 
 God bless you, sir, and all who surround us ! God bless 
 the American people, each of their States, and the Federal 
 Government ! Accept this patriotic farewell of an overflow- 
 ing heart ; such will be its last throb when it ceases to beat. 
 
 LESSON LXXXII. 
 
 The Fall of Niagara. — Brainard. 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 
 While I look upward to thee. It would seem 
 As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand," 
 And hung his bow upon thy awful front ; 
 And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed, to him 
 
188 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 
 "The sound of many waters;" and had bade 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks. 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
 That hear the question of that voice sublime ! 
 Oh ! what are all the notes that ever rung 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make, 
 In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, 
 Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
 Above its loftiest mountains ! — a light wave, 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIII. 
 Principles of the American Revolution. — Quincy. 
 
 When we speak of the glory of our fathers, we mean not 
 that vulgar renown to be attained by physical strength, nor 
 yet that higher fame to be' acquired by intellectual power. 
 Both often exist without lofty thought, or pure intent, or gen- 
 erous purpose. The glory which we celebrate was strictly 
 of a moral and religious character ; righteous as to its ends , 
 just as to its means. The American Revolution had its 
 origin neither in ambition, nor avarice, nor envy, nor in 
 any gross passion ; but in the nature and relation of things, 
 and in the thence resulting necessity of separation from the 
 parent State. Its progress was limited by that necessity. 
 During the struggle, our fathers displayed great strength and 
 great moderation of purpose. In difficult times, they conduct- 
 ed with wisdom ; in doubtful times, with firmness ; in per- 
 ilous, with courage ; — under oppressive trials, erect ; amidst 
 great temptations, unseduced ; in the dark hour of danger, 
 fearless ; in the bright hour of prosperity, faithful. 
 
 It was not the instant feeling and pressure of the arm of 
 despotism that roused them to resist, but the principle on 
 which that arm was extended. They could have paid the 
 stamp-tax, and the tea-tax, and the other impositions of the 
 British government, had they been increased a thousand fold. 
 But payment acknowledged the right ; and they spurned the 
 consequences of that acknowledgment. In spite of those acts, 
 they could have lived, and happily ; and bought, and sold, 
 and got gain, and been at ease. But they would have held 
 
THE CLASSICAL REAPER. 189 
 
 those blessings on the tenure of dependence on a foreign and 
 distant power ; at the mercy of a king, or his minions ; or 
 of councils, in which they had no voice, and where their in- 
 terests could not be represented, and were little likely to be 
 heard. They saw that their prosperity in such case would 
 be precarious, their possessions uncertain, their ease inglori- 
 ous. 
 
 But, above all, they realized that those burdens, though 
 light to them, would, to the coming age, to us, their pos- 
 terity, be heavy, and probably insupportable. Reasoning on 
 the inevitable increase of interested imposition, upon those 
 who are without power and have none to help, they fore- 
 saw that, sooner or later, desperate struggles must come. 
 They preferred to meet the trial in their own times, and to 
 make the sacrifices in their own persons. They were will- 
 ing themselves to endure the toil, and to incur the hazard, 
 that we and our descendants, their posterity, might reap the 
 harvest and enjoy the increase. , 
 
 Generous men ! exalted patriots ! immortal statesmen ! For 
 this deep moral and social affection, for this elevated self-de- 
 votion, this noble purpose, this bold daring, the multiplying 
 myriads of your posterity, as they thicken along the Atlantic 
 coast, from the St. Croix to the Mississippi, as they spread 
 backwards to the lakes, and from the lakes to the mountains, 
 and from the mountains to the western waters, shall, on this 
 day,* annually, in all future time, as we, at this hour, come 
 up to the temple of the Most High, with song, and anthem, 
 and thanksgiving, and choral symphony, and halleluia; to 
 repeat your names ; to look steadfastly on the brightness of 
 your glory ; to trace its spreading rays to the points from 
 which they emanate ; and to seek, in your character and 
 conduct, a practical illustration of public duty, in every 
 occurring social exigence. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIY. 
 Lines written in a Churchyard. — Herbert Knowles. 
 
 " It is good for us to be here : if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles 
 one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." Matt, xvii 4 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here ; 
 If thou wilt, let us build : but for whom ? 
 
 Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 
 But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 
 The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb- 
 
 * 4th July. 
 
190 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Shall we build to ambition ? Ah no ! 
 Affrighted he shrinketh away ; 
 
 For, see, they would pin him below 
 In a small, narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 
 
 To beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets 
 The charm which she wielded before ; 
 
 Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
 The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
 For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 
 
 Shall we build to the purple of pride ? 
 The trappings which dizen the proud ? 
 
 Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
 And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, 
 But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. 
 
 To riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain : 
 Who hid in their turns have been hid : 
 
 The treasures are squandered again ; 
 And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 
 But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 
 
 To the pleasures which mirth can afford ? 
 The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board ; 
 But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
 And none but the worm is a reveller here. 
 
 Shall we build to affection and love ? 
 Ah no ! they have withered and died, 
 
 Or fled with the spirit above : 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 
 
 Unto sorrow ? The dead cannot grieve ; 
 Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 
 
 Which compassion itself could relieve. 
 Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear ; 
 Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. 
 
 Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
 Ah no ! for his empire is known, 
 
 And here there are trophies enow. 
 Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, 
 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 
 
 The first tabernacle to hope we will build, 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 191 
 
 The second to faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; 
 And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
 Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. 
 
 LESSON LXXXV. 
 
 Account of the Quicksilver Mine in Idria, in Carniola, 
 
 Germany. — Russell. 
 
 Next morning we proceeded, during an hour, over the 
 same barren country. Of a sudden, the road seems to disap- 
 pear right before the eyes of the traveller, and he finds 
 himself on the brink of a huge hollow in the mountains. 
 The effect is singular and striking. He looks down into the 
 whole of this kettle, surrounded on every side by irregular, 
 towering crags, which are here and there tufted with patches 
 of fir, but in general exhibit only the naked and dreary rock. 
 The picture was entirely changed by the mist in which every 
 thing was enveloped. The morning was not sufficiently 
 advanced ; the sun, though bright and warm above, had not 
 yet penetrated into the gulf, which was filled to the brim 
 with white, fleecy vapour, into which the road seemed to de- 
 scend, as if into mere air. All around, the rugged cliffs rose 
 above its surface, like the rocky shores of a mountain lake, 
 and imagination could assign no depth to the abyss oyer 
 which its light and hovering mantle was spread. As the sun 
 came nearer the meridian, the vapour began to rise slowly, 
 but without dividing itself into those distinct, and rapidly 
 ascending columns, which often produce such fantastic ap- 
 pearances, in the higher passages of the Swiss Alps. In a 
 short time the whole kettle was visible, terminating below in 
 a narrow, irregular valley. The Idria, issuing at once from 
 the mountains on the south, rushed along in the bottom. On 
 the crags, which, circling round, seemed to shut out this 
 spot from all communication with the world, not a cottage 
 was to be seen, for they are too precipitous ; and only here 
 and there a few scanty patches of cultivation, for they are 
 too barren. In the centre of the valley, and about seven 
 hundred feet below the brink, the eye rested on the little 
 town of Idria, and the huts scattered round the base of the 
 mountain which contains the entrance to the mines. 
 
 The discovery of these mercurial mines, like that of so 
 many other mines, is attributed to accident. A Carniolian 
 peasant, who drove a small trade in wooden vessels, was in 
 the habit of groping his way into this recess, at that time en- 
 tirely covered with wood, to procure materials for his tubs 
 
192 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 and pails, which he sometimes finished on the spot. He had 
 placed some pails in a small pool, in a rivulet which issued 
 from the mountain, for the purpose of " seasoning" them, as 
 we should express it. To keep them under water, he put 
 into them a quantity of sand taken from the bed of the stream. 
 In the morning he found all his strength scarcely sufficient 
 to lift one of them out of the water. He could ascribe this 
 only to the weight of the sand, which he" had thrown in by 
 handfuls the evening before ; sand so heavy was to him a 
 phenomenon, and he carried some of it to the pastor of his 
 village. The latter, suspecting what might be the reason, 
 sent it to the Imperial Director of mines, and, on examina- 
 tion, it was found to contain above half its weight of quick- 
 silver. 
 
 The whole of what now constitutes the department of 
 Idria was immediately declared a domain of the crown ; but 
 the mines were first worked by private adventurers on leases, 
 and the miners have still preserved various traditions of the 
 ruin of some, and the difficulties which ail of these specula- 
 tors had to encounter. The shafts were driven deep in the 
 solid rock, but no quicksilver appeared. One after another, 
 the speculators drew back from the undertaking, and it cen- 
 tred, at last, in one who was more sanguine and persever- 
 ing. But he, too, hoped and laboured in vain ; and the des- 
 titution, into which he had plunged his family by the unsuc- 
 cessful adventure, brought him to his grave. His widow was 
 compelled to give up the operations ; but the workmen de- 
 clared they would still make an attempt for the family of him 
 who had so long given them bread, and continue the search 
 fourteen days longer, without wages. The fourteenth of 
 these days arrived, but no quicksilver appeared. Towards 
 the afternoon, the workmen, who had been annoyed all day 
 long by sulphureous vapours and a more uncomfortable at- 
 mosphere than usual, were about to give up their task for 
 ever in despondency, and prepare to celebrate, above ground, 
 the festival of their patron saint, of which this happened to 
 be the eve, when a shout, from the lowest part of the shaft, 
 announced that the deep concealed vein had, at length, been 
 dragged from its lurking place. The saint was postponed, 
 and the mercury pursued. It was soon ascertained that the 
 labours and expense of years would be amply repaid. The 
 revived widow prudently sold her remaining right to the 
 government, and, since that period, during more than four 
 hundred years, Idria has not ceased to pour its thousands 
 into the imperial treasury. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 193 
 
 The entrance to the mine is a little to the southward of 
 the town, in the side of a small hillock, which rises in front 
 of the mountainous wall that surrounds the dell. The visit- 
 er puts on a miner's dress. It is not only necessary to leave 
 behind watches, rings, snuff-boxes, and similar articles, which 
 would infallibly be affected by the quicksilver ; but, for the 
 same reason, the accompanying miner insists on your dispens- 
 ing with all coats and waistcoats, which have metal buttons. 
 In every case a miner's dress is at once more convenient, 
 and more independent of the moisture and rubbings, which 
 may be encountered below ground, although, in this beauti- 
 ful mine, there is little to be apprehended from either. The 
 miners have not yet ceased their jokes on two ladies, who 
 went down with some fashionable company, during the Con- 
 gress in the neighbouring Laybach, and returned, the one 
 with her gold watch converted into a tin trinket by the quick- 
 silver, and the fair cheeks and neck of the other bedaubed 
 with the blackness of falsehood by the sulphur. 
 
 The descent can be made to the very bottom of the mine 
 in less than five minutes, in one of the large buckets in which 
 the ore is brought above ground. This mode, though the 
 less fatiguing, is not therefore the better ; for, in descending 
 the shaft on foot, one can observe much better the care and 
 regularity with which all the operations have been carried 
 on, particularly in later times. From the first step, daylight 
 is excluded ; for the passage, hewn in the rock, descends at 
 a very acute angle : were it a smooth surface, it would be im- 
 practicable. Excepting the steepness, it has no other incon- 
 venience. Instead of clambering down a wet, slippery, wood- 
 en ladder, as in Freyburgh, you descend on successive flights 
 of steps, as regular as if they had been constructed for a pri- 
 vate dwelling. 
 
 Here and there are landing places, where galleries branch 
 off, through which veins have been followed, or the shaft 
 descends in a new direction. This is the regular mode in 
 which the mining is carried on, from the surface of the 
 earth to the lowest part of the mine, forming a subterra- 
 neous staircase, descending about seven hundred feet ; for 
 the mine as yet is no deeper, owing to the superabundance 
 and richness of the ore. All is pierced in the hard lime- 
 stone rock. A still more useful degree of care has been be- 
 stowed on the walls and ceilings. Instead of leaving the 
 bare, rugged rock, as is still frequently done elsewhere, or 
 supporting the roof with wood, as was in former times the 
 universal practice, this passage into the earth is lined with 
 a strong wall of hewn stone, arched above : so that the de- 
 17 
 
194 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 scent is in reality through a commodious vaulted passage, 
 about four feet wide, and, in average height, rather more 
 than six. The walling with stone is preferable, both in se- 
 curity and duration, to the old custom of lining and sup- 
 porting the shafts with wood ; the increasing scarcity and, 
 value of wood have, likewise, made it the cheaper mode. 
 Neither is the labour so great as at first sight might be im- 
 agined. The stones used are those cut out in carrying the 
 shaft itself downwards. All the trouble in transporting them 
 along a gallery to the bottom of the perpendicular shaft, by 
 which the ore and rubbish are conveyed above ground, is 
 thus saved. No mine could be more fortunate in regard to 
 the absence of water. A slight degree of moisture on the 
 walls and ceiling is all that can be occasionally traced. The 
 atmosphere is perfectly dry and comfortable except in the 
 neighbourhood of rich veins. 
 
 The only unpleasant accompaniment of the ore is the sul- 
 phur which almost universally attends it ; its fumes were 
 strongest in the lowest galleries. The miners have learned 
 to consider it as a prognostic of good ore ; for it is univer- 
 sally observed that the richer the vein is, the greater is the 
 quantity of sulphur; they have never pure air and good ore 
 together. But neither the action of the sulphur, nor of the 
 mercury, on the health and appearance of the workmen, is 
 at all so striking as it has sometimes been represented. 
 That the mercury brings on a periodical salivation, is merely 
 a joke. Its effects are most observable on the teeth, which 
 are generally deficient and discoloured. 
 
 The preparatory processes, through which the ore must 
 pass before being finally carried to the roasting ovens, are 
 performed on the other side of the town, on the banks of 
 the Idria. But it is only with the inferior ores that such 
 processes are necessary ; all that are held to contain sixty- 
 five per cent, of quicksilver, or upwards, are put immediate- 
 ly into the oven. This may be represented as a square build- 
 ing, divided, by brick floors, into five or six compartments. 
 These floors are not continuous, but are pierced with a num- 
 ber of holes, that the flame and smoke may ascend from the one 
 to the other. The ore is spread out upon them, the apertures 
 being left uncovered. The fire is kindled between the low- 
 est floor and the ground, and every outlet and crevice in the 
 whole fabric is then carefully shut. The action of the fire, 
 gradually extending itself from one layer to another, through 
 the openings in the floors, separates the quicksilver from its 
 accompanying fossils ; it rises, sublimated, along with the 
 smoke, to the top, from whence it has no passage but by 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 195 
 
 flues, which are led through the walls in a winding direction, 
 that it may cool by continued circulation. As it cools, the 
 pure quicksilver is precipitated, and descends, by internal 
 communications between the flues, to the lower part of the 
 wall. The fire is kept up, till it is ascertained by the disap- 
 pearance of vapours, that all the mercury has been disen- 
 gaged ; nor are the outlets opened, till the whole is so cool 
 that all the quicksilver must have been deposited. The metal 
 is found deposited in hollows at the bottom of the walls, 
 made on purpose to receive it, and communicating with the 
 flues. The sulphur is gained at the same time. The quick- 
 silver is then tied up in sheep or goat skins prepared with 
 alum, these having been found to be the cheapest and most 
 convenient of the materials which will contain mercury with- 
 out being injured. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVI. 
 
 The Ocean. — Anonymous. 
 
 The ocean, rolling its surges from world to world, is the 
 most august object under the whole heaven. It is a spec- 
 tacle of magnificence and terror, which fills the mind and 
 amazes the imagination. 
 
 Let us examine a single drop of water, only so much as 
 will adhere to the point of a needle. In this speck an emi- 
 nent philosopher computes no less than thirteen thousand 
 globules. And, if so many thousand exist in so small a speck, 
 how many must there be in the unmeasured extent of the 
 ocean ! 
 
 It is remarkable that sand is a more effectual barrier 
 against the sea than rock ; accordingly the sea is continually 
 gaining upon a rocky shore, and losing upon a sandy shore, 
 unless where it sets in with an eddy. Thus it has been gain- 
 ing from age to age upon the Isle of Portland, and the Land's- 
 end in Cornwall, undermining, throwing down, and swal- 
 lowing up one huge rock after another. Meanwhile the 
 sandy shores, both on our southern and western coasts, 
 gain continually upon the sea. 
 
 Beneath the boundary of rocks frequently lies a smooth, 
 level sand, almost as firm as a well compacted causeway ; 
 insomuch that the tread of a horse scarcely impresses it, 
 and the waters never penetrate it. Without this wise con- 
 trivance, the searching waves would insinuate into the heart 
 of the earth ; and the earth itself would in some places be 
 hollow as a honey-comb, in others bibulous as a sponge. 
 
196 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Nor are the regions of the ocean without their proper in- 
 habitants, clothed in exact conformity to the clime ; not in 
 swelling wool or buoyant feathers, but with as much com- 
 pactness and as little superfluity as possible. They are clad, 
 or rather sheathed, in scales which adhere close, and are 
 laid in a kind of natural oil ; than which nothing can be 
 more light, and, at the same time, nothing more solid. It 
 hinders the fluid from penetrating their flesh ; it prevents the 
 cold from chilling their blood ; and enables them to make 
 their way through the waters with the utmost facility. And 
 they have each an air bladder, a curious instrument, by ex- 
 panding or compressing which, they rise to what height, or 
 sink to what depth, they please. 
 
 It is impossible to enumerate the various species of the 
 scaly herds. Among them are animals of amazing shapes 
 and amazing qualities. The upper jaw of the sword-fish is 
 lengthened into a strong and sharp sword, with which, though 
 he is not above sixteen feet long, he scruples not to engage 
 the whale himself. The sun-fish is one round mass of flesh : 
 only it has two fins which act the part of oars. The poly- 
 pus, with its numerous feet and claws, seems fitted only to 
 crawl : yet an excrescence, rising on the back, enables it to 
 steer a steady course through the waves. The shell of the nau- 
 tilus forms a kind of boat, and he unfurls a membrane to the 
 wind for a sail. He extends, also, two arms, with which, as 
 with oars, he rows himself along. When he is disposed to dive, 
 he strikes sail, and at once sinks to the bottom. When the 
 weather is calm, he mounts again, and performs his voyage 
 without either chart or compass. 
 
 Some, lodged in their shells, seem to have no higher em- 
 ploy than to imbibe nutriment, and are almost rooted to the 
 rocks on which they lie ; while others shoot along the yield- 
 ing flood, and range the spacious regions of the deep. How 
 various is their figure ! The shells of some seem to be the 
 rude productions of chance, rather than of skill and design ; 
 yet even in these we find the nicest dispositions. Uncouth 
 as they appear, they are exactly suited to the exigencies of 
 their respective tenants. The structure of others is all sym- 
 metry and elegance, and no enamel can be comparable to 
 their polish. 
 
 The mackerel, herring, and various other kinds, throng our 
 creeks and bays, while those of enormous size and appear- 
 ance, which would fright the valuable fish from our coasts, 
 are kept in the abysses of the ocean ; as wild beasts, com- 
 pelled by the same overruling power, hide themselves in the 
 recesses of the forest. 
 
 ■:■' ;** 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 197 
 
 LESSON LXXXVII. 
 The old Servant. — Keate. 
 
 The reflected light from the white cliffs of France, on 
 which my eyes were fixed, made them appear to press for- 
 ward on my sight ; and, while my imagination was taking a 
 frisk from the Straits of Dover to the Mediterranean, and drop- 
 ping a sigh over political necessity, I found I had thrown 
 the reins of my horse on his neck, who had taken advantage 
 of my inattention to pick up a little clover that grew by the 
 way-side. 
 
 — Nay,— if it be thy will, old companion, says I, e'en take 
 the other bite ; the farmer will be never the poorer for the 
 mouthful thou shalt carry away : did he know thy good qual- 
 ities, he would let thee eat thy fill. 
 
 — I will not interrupt thy pleasurable moments ; so, pri- 
 thee, feed on. Long have I wished an occasion to record 
 thy deserts, thou faithful old servant ! It now presents 
 itself, and thou shalt have a page in my book, though it 
 provoke the sneer of the critic. It is thy due, for thou hast 
 given me health. Full many a year hast thou journeyed 
 with me through the uneven ways of the world ! We have 
 tugged up many a steep hill, and borne the buffet of the tem- 
 pest together ! I have had the labours of thy youth, and thy 
 age hath a claim on me, which, while I have sixpence in my 
 pocket, I dare not refuse. 
 
 — Thou shalt not, when thy strength is exhausted, be con- 
 signed to poverty and toil ! or, as thou passest by my door, 
 lashed on by some unfeeling owner, look at me with the se- 
 vere eye of reproach. Had that Hand, which fashioned us 
 both, endued thy species with the faculty of speech, in what 
 bitterness of heart would they complain of the ingratitude 
 of ours ! 
 
 In the wide extent of the animal reign, there scarce exists 
 an object from which man may not borrow some useful hint: 
 thou, my trusty friend, hast offered me no inconsiderable 
 one ; thou never aimedst to appear what thou wast not ; a 
 steady walk, or a cheerful trot, was all thou attemptedst ; nay, 
 perhaps it was as much as thy master himself aspired to ; 
 and, when remembrance shall be weighing thy merits, the 
 scale shall turn in thy favour, when I reflect, that thou scorn- 
 edst to desert the path of nature for the perilous one of affec- 
 tation ! 
 
 17 * 
 
 # 
 
198 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVIII. 
 
 Ode to Tranquillity. — Coleridge. 
 
 Tranquillity ! thou better name 
 
 Than all the family of Fame ! 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
 
 To low intrigue, or factious rage : 
 
 For, oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 
 
 To thee I gave my early youth, 
 And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, 
 Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
 On him but seldom, power divine, 
 Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
 Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
 And dire Remembrance interlope, 
 To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 
 
 But me thy gentle hand will lead 
 At morning through the accustomed mead ; 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 Will build me up a mossy seat ! 
 And, when the gust of autumn crowds 
 And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, 
 Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,- 
 Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. 
 
 The feeling iieart, the searching soul, 
 
 To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
 
 And, while within myself I trace 
 
 The greatness of some future race, 
 
 Aloof, with hermit-eye, I scan 
 
 The present works of present man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 
 
 LESSON LXXXIX. 
 
 The Torch cf Liberty. — Thomas Moore. 
 
 I saw it all in F ncy's glass — 
 
 Herself the fair, the wij^nn^ician, 
 
 That bid this spier. < 1' ^w ss, 
 
 And named eac 
 
 * 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 199 
 
 'Twas like a torch-race — such as they 
 
 Of Greece performed in ages gone, 
 When the fleet youths, in long array, 
 
 Passed the bright torch triumphant on. 
 
 I saw the expectant nations stand, 
 
 To catch the coming flame in turn — 
 I saw, from ready hand to hand, 
 
 The clear, but struggling glory burn. 
 
 And, oh ! their joy, as it came near, 
 
 'Twas in itself a joy to see ; 
 While Fancy whispered in my ear, 
 
 " That torch they pass is Liberty!" 
 
 And each, as they received the flame, 
 
 Lighted his altar with its ray, 
 Then, smiling to the next who came, 
 
 Speeded it on its sparkling way. 
 
 From Albion, first, whose ancient shrine 
 
 Was furnished with the fire already, 
 Columbia caught the spark divine, 
 
 And lit a flame like Albion's steady. 
 
 The splendid gift then Gallia took, 
 
 And, like a wild Bacchante, raising 
 The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, 
 
 As she would set the world a blazing. 
 
 And when she fired her altar, high 
 
 It flashed into the redd'ning air 
 So fierce, that Albion, who stood nigh, 
 
 Shrunk, almost blinded by the glare ! 
 
 Next Spain — so new was light to her — 
 Leaped at the torch ; but, ere the spark 
 
 She flung upon her shrine could stir, 
 
 'Twas quenched — and all again was dark. 
 
 Yet no — not quenched — a treasure, worth 
 
 So much to mortals, rarely dies — 
 Again her living light looked forth, 
 
 And shone, a beacon in all eyes. 
 
 Who next received the flame ? Alas ! 
 
 Unworthy Naples ! Shame of shames, 
 That ever through such hands should pass 
 
 That brightest of all earthly flames ! 
 
200 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Scarce had her fingers touched the torch, 
 
 When, frighted by the sparks it shed, 
 Nor waiting e'en to feel the scorch, 
 
 She dropped it to the earth, — and fled ! 
 
 And falPn it might have long remained, 
 But Greece, who saw her moment now, 
 
 Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stained, 
 And waved it round her beauteous brow. 
 
 And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er 
 
 Her altar, as its flame ascended, 
 Fair laurelled spirits seemed to soar, 
 
 Who thus in songs their voices blended : 
 
 " Shine, shine forever, glorious flame, 
 
 Divinest gift of God to men ! 
 From Greece thy earliest splendour came, 
 
 To Greece thy ray returns again. 
 
 Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round; 
 
 When dimmed, revive ; when lost, return ; 
 Till not a shrine through earth be found, 
 
 On which thy glories shall not burn !" 
 
 LESSON XC. 
 The Carrier Pigeon. — Ibid. 
 
 The bird let loose in eastern skies,* 
 
 When hastening fondly home, 
 Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 
 
 Where idle warblers roam. 
 But high she shoots through air and light, 
 
 Above all low delay, 
 Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 
 
 Nor shadow dims her way. 
 
 So grant me, God, from every care 
 
 And stain of passion free, 
 Aloft, through virtue's purer air, 
 
 To hold my course to thee ! 
 No sin to cloud, no lure to stay 
 
 My soul, as home she springs : 
 Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 
 
 Thy freedom in her wings ! 
 
 * The carrier pigeon flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every 
 obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 201 
 
 LESSON XCI. 
 Falls of Niagara. — President D wight. 
 
 About four miles above the cataract we began to see the 
 mist, raised by the agitation of the water, ascending in the 
 form of a large white cloud, and continually varying its aspect, 
 as it was blown by the. wind into every fantastical shape. 
 At times, it almost entirely disappeared ; at others, it burst 
 suddenly upon the sight, and, rising slowly, with great so- 
 lemnity and grandeur, dispersed its magnificent volumes into 
 the atmosphere. Nothing could afford us more noble antici- 
 pations of the splendour of the scene, to which we were ap- 
 proaching. 
 
 After dining at Chippeway, we proceeded to the cataract. 
 About a mile from our inn, we were presented with one of 
 the noblest prospects in the world ; the more impressive, as 
 none of us had ever heard it mentioned. Here the immense 
 bed of lime-stone, which fills this country, begins rapidly to 
 decline. A number of shelves, parallel to each other, cross 
 the river obliquely, almost to the American shore. They 
 are, however, irregular, broken, and wild ; formed into long 
 and short ranges, sudden prominences, and pointed rocks. 
 Over this ragged and finely varied surface, the rivei rolls its 
 amazing mass of waters with a force and grandeur, ol which 
 my own mind had never before formed a conception. The 
 torrent is thrown up with immeasurable violence, as it rushes 
 down the vast declivity, between two and three miles in 
 breadth, into a thousand eminences of foam. All the mag- 
 nificence of water scenery shrunk in a moment into play- 
 things of Lilliput. 
 
 When we came over against the cataract, we secured our 
 horses, and descended the ancient bank of the river, a steep 
 of one hundred and fifty or two hundred feet. The foot- way 
 which conducted us was of clay ; and, having been wet by 
 the preceding rain, was so slippery that we could hardly 
 keep our footing. At the bottom we found a swamp, en- 
 cumbered with trees, bushes, mire, and water. After stoop- 
 ing, struggling, and sliding, near a quarter of a mile, we 
 came to the Table Rock ; a part of the stratum over which 
 the river descends, and the edge of the precipice which at 
 this place forms the British bank of the river. This rock is 
 at a small distance from the cataract, and presents the spec- 
 tator with as perfect a view as can be imagined. 
 
 . These falls are situated twenty-one miles, reckoned on the 
 British, and twenty-three, reckoned on the American arm 
 of the river, (where it is divided by Grand Isle,) from Buf- 
 
202 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 faloe, two miles less from the outlet of Lake Erie, and four- 
 teen miles from the entrance of the river into Lake Ontario, 
 between Newark and Fort Niagara. The river bends, on 
 the American side, about twelve miles to the north-west, 
 and, on the British side, about four, immediately below Na- 
 vy Island. It is here little less than four miles wide, and 
 sufficiently deep for any navigation. . It gradually becomes 
 narrower as it approaches the falls, but immediately above 
 them its breadth is not far from three miles. From one mile 
 and three quarters above, or opposite to the Stedman farm, 
 it begins to descend with a rapid and powerful current. At 
 the falls it turns instantly, with a right angle, to the north- 
 east, and in a moment is contracted to three quarters of a 
 mile. 
 
 Below the falls the river is not more, and in some places 
 it is less, than half a mile in breadth. Its depth here is great, 
 being said to exceed three hundred feet; and its current is 
 violent, proportionally to this contraction. 
 
 The cataract is formed by the brow of that vast bed of 
 lime-stone, which is the base of all this country. Here its 
 surface is, perhaps, one hundred and fifty feet beneath the 
 common surface of the earth ; elsewhere it approaches near- 
 er. The brow extends, as I am informed, into the county 
 of Ontario on the east, and on the west into Upper Canada 
 a distance which is unknown. The great falls of the Gene- 
 see are formed by the same brow. On the river Niagara it 
 approaches near to Queenstown, at the distance of seven 
 miles below the cataract. The whole height of the ledge 
 above Lake Ontario is estimated by Mr. Ellicott to be four 
 hundred and ten feet. At Lake Erie the common level of 
 the shore is about twenty feet above its waters. This level 
 continues to the falls, and probably to the neighbourhood of 
 Queenstown ; the river gradually declining, till it arrives at 
 the rapids. Here, within the distance of one mile and three 
 fourths, it declines fifty-seven feet. 
 
 The precipice, over which the cataract descends, is, accord- 
 ing to Major Prescott's survey, one hundred and fifty-one 
 feet. This vast descent is perpendicular, except that the 
 rocks are hollowed underneath the surface, particularly on 
 the western side. The length of the precipice is three 
 fourths of a mile. 
 
 At the cataract the river is divided by an island, whose 
 brow is perpendicular, and nearly coincident with the com- 
 mon line of the precipice. It occupies about one fifth or one 
 sixth of the whole breadth. This island, it is reported, was 
 visited by General Putnam during the last Canadian war, or 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 203 
 
 that which began in the year 1755. A wager, it is said, was 
 laid, that no man in that part of the army wouid dare to attempt 
 a descent upon it. Putnam, with his customary resolution, 
 undertook the enterprise. Having made fast a strong rope 
 to a batteau, he proceeded a considerable distance up the 
 stream. Then, taking some stout, skilful rowers, he put out 
 into the river directly above the island. The rope, in the 
 mean time, was holden firmly by several muscular soldiers 
 on the shore. The batteau descended securely enough to 
 the island, and, the enterprise being accomplished, was 
 drawn again to the shore by his attendants.* 
 
 The noise of this cataract has often been the object of ad- 
 miration, and the subject of loose and general description. 
 We heard it distinctly, when crossing the ferry, at the dis- 
 tance of eighteen miles ; the wind blowing from the north- 
 west, almost at right angles with the direction of the 
 sound. Two gentlemen, who had lived some time at York, 
 on the north side of Lake Ontario, and who were my com- 
 panions in the stage, informed me that it was not unfrequent- 
 ly heard there. The distance is fifty miles. 
 
 The note or tone, if I may call it such, is the same with 
 the hoarse roar of the ocean ; being much more grave, or less 
 shrill, than that which proceeds from other objects of the 
 same nature. It is not only louder, but seems as if it were 
 expanded to a singular extent ; as if it filled the atmosphere, 
 and spread over all the surrounding country. The only va- 
 riety which attends it, is a continual undulation, resem- 
 bling that of long musical chords, when struck with a forci- 
 ble impulse. These undulations succeed each other with 
 great rapidity. When two persons stand very near to each 
 other, they can mutually hear their ordinary conversation ; 
 when removed to a small distance, they are obliged to hal- 
 loo ; and, when removed a little farther, cannot be heard at 
 all. Every other sound is drowned in the tempest of noise 
 made by the water, and all else in the regions of nature ap- 
 pears to be dumb. This noise is a vast thunder, filling the 
 heavens, shaking the earth, and leaving the mind, although 
 perfectly conscious of safety, and affected with a sense of gran- 
 deur only, lost and astonished, swelling with emotions which 
 engross all its faculties, and mock the jfewer of utterance. 
 
 The strength of this sound may be illustrated in the fol- 
 lowing manner : The roar of the ocean on the beach, south 
 of Long Island, is sometimes heard in New Haven, at the 
 distance of forty miles. The cataract of Niagara is heard 
 ten miles farther. 
 
 * A bridge now connects the island with the American shore. 1819. 
 
204 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 All cataracts produce greater or less quantities of mist ; a 
 proof to the common eye, that vapour may rise by mere agi- 
 tation. The mist raised here is proportioned to the great- 
 ness of the cause. A large, majestic cloud, visible, from an 
 advantageous position, for a great number of miles, rises 
 without intermission from the whole breadth of the river be- 
 low ; and, ascending with a slow, solemn progress, partly 
 spreads itself down the stream by an arching, and wonder- 
 fully magnificent motion ; and partly mounts towards heaven, 
 blown into every wild and fantastical form ; when, separat- 
 ing into smaller clouds, it successively floats away through 
 the atmosphere. 
 
 Nearest to the shore a considerable quantity of this vapour 
 impinges against the rock ; and, continually accumulating, 
 descends in a constant shower of drops and little streams. 
 A person, standing under the shelving part of these rocks, 
 would, in a short time, be wet to the skin. 
 
 In the mist, produced by all cataracts, rainbows are ordi- 
 narily seen in a proper position, when the sun shines ; al- 
 ways, indeed, unless when the vapour is too rare. Twice, 
 while we were here, the sun broke through the clouds, and 
 lighted up, in a moment, the most lucid rainbow which I 
 ever beheld. In each instance the phenomenon continued 
 a long time, and left us in perfect leisure to enjoy its splen- 
 dours. It commenced near the precipice, and extended, so 
 far as I was able to judge, at least a mile down the river. 
 
 When the eye was fixed upon any spot, commencing a 
 few rods above the precipice, that is, where the cataract be- 
 gins to be formed, the descending water assumes every where 
 a circular figure from the place where it begins to descend 
 to that where it falls perpendicularly. The motion here re- 
 markably resembles that of a wheel rolling towards the spec- 
 tator. The section is about one fifth or one sixth part of a 
 circle, perhaps twelve rods in diameter. The effect of this 
 motion of so vast a body of water, equally novel and singular, 
 was exquisitely delightful. It was an object of inexpressible 
 grandeur, united with intense beauty of figure ; a beauty 
 greatly heightened by the brilliant and most elegant sea-green 
 of the waters, fading imperceptibly into a perfect white at 
 the brow of the precipice. 
 
 The emotions excited by the view of this stupendous 
 scene are unutterable. When the spectator casts his eye 
 over the long ranges of ragged cliffs, which form the shores 
 of this great river below the cataract ; cliffs one hundred and 
 fifty feet in height, bordering it with lonely gloom and gran- 
 deur, and shrouded every where by shaggy forests ; when he 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 205 
 
 surveys the precipice above, stretching with so great an 
 amplitude, rising to so great a height, and presenting in a 
 single view its awful brow, with an impression not a little 
 enhanced by the division which the island forms between 
 the two great branches of the river ; when he contemplates 
 the enormous mass of water, pouring from this astonishing 
 height in sheets so vast, and with a force so amazing ; when, 
 turning his eye to the flood beneath, he beholds the immense 
 convulsion of the mighty mass, and listens to the majestic 
 sound which fills the heavens ; his mind is overwhelmed by 
 thoughts too great, and by impressions too powerful, to per- 
 mit the current of the intellect to flow with serenity. The 
 disturbance of his mind resembles that of the waters beneath 
 him. His bosom swells with emotions never felt, his thoughts 
 labour in a manner never known, before. The pleasure is 
 exquisite, but violent. The conceptions are clear and strong, 
 but rapid and tumultuous. The struggle within is discover- 
 ed by the fixedness of his position, the deep solemnity of his 
 aspect, and the intense gaze of his eye, When he moves, 
 his motions appear uncontrived. When he is spoken to, he 
 is silent ; or, if he speaks, his answers are short, wandering 
 from the subject, and indicating that absence of mind, which 
 is the result of labouring contemplation. 
 
 All these impressions are heightened to a degree, which 
 cannot be conjectured, by the slowly ascending volumes of 
 mist, rolled and tossed into a thousand forms by the varying 
 blast, and by the splendour of the rainbow successively il- 
 luminating their bosom. At the same time, the spectator 
 cannot but reflect, that he is sunning the most remarkable 
 object on the globe. Nor will he fail to remember, that he 
 stands upon a river, in most respects equal, and in several 
 of high distinction superior, to every other ; or that the in- 
 land seas which it empties, the mass of water which it con- 
 veys, the commercial advantages which it furnishes, and the 
 grandeur of its disruption in the spring, are all suitable accom- 
 paniments of so sublime and glorious a scene. 
 
 LESSON XCII. 
 
 Government of the People. — G. Bancroft. 
 
 The sovereignty of the people is the basis of our system. 
 With the people the power resides, both theoretically and 
 practically. The government is a democracy, a determined, 
 uncompromising democracy ; administered immediately by 
 the people, or by the people's responsible agents. In all 
 18 
 
206 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 the European treatises on political economy, and even in 
 the state-papers of the holy alliance, the welfare of the peo- 
 ple is acknowledged to be the object of government. We 
 believe so too ; but, as each man's interests are safest in his 
 own keeping, so, in like manner, the interests of the peo- 
 ple can best be guarded by themselves. If the institution 
 of monarchy were neither tyrannical nor oppressive, it should 
 at least be dispensed with, as a oostly superfluity. 
 
 We believe the sovereign power should reside equally 
 among the people. We acknowledge no hereditary distinc- 
 tions, and we confer on no man prerogatives, or peculiar priv- 
 ileges. Even the best services rendered the state cannot 
 destroy this original and essential equality. Legislation and 
 justice are not hereditary offices ; no one is born to power, 
 no one dandled into political greatness. Our government, 
 as it rests for support on reason and our interests, needs no 
 protection from a nobility ; and the strength and ornament 
 of the land consist in its industry and morality, its justice 
 and intelligence. 
 
 The states of Europe are all intimately allied with the 
 church, and fortified by religious sanctions. We approve of 
 the influence of the religious principle on public not less than 
 on private life ; but we hold religion to be an affair between 
 each individual conscience and God, superior to all political 
 institutions, and independent of them. Christianity was nei- 
 ther introduced nor reformed by the civil power ; and with 
 us the modes of worship are in no wise prescribed by the 
 state. 
 
 Thus, then, the people governs, and solely ; it does not di- 
 vide its power with a hierarchy, a nobility, or a king. The 
 popular voice is all powerful with us ; this is our oracle ; 
 this, we acknowledge, is the voice of God. Invention is sol- 
 itary ; but who shall judge of its results ? Inquiry may pur- 
 sue truth apart ; but who shall decide if truth is overtaken ? 
 There is no safe criterion of opinion but the careful exercise 
 of the public judgment ; and in the science of government, 
 as elsewhere, the deliberate convictions of mankind, reason- 
 ing on the cause of their own happiness, their own wants 
 and interests, are the surest revelations of political truth. 
 
 LESSON XCIII. 
 
 Industry necessary to form the Orator. — H. Ware, Jr. 
 
 The history of the world is full of testimony to prove how 
 much depends upon industry ; not an eminent orator has 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 207 
 
 lived, but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction to all 
 this, the almost universal feeling appears to be, that indus- 
 try can effect nothing, that eminence is the result of acci- 
 dent, and that every one must be content to remain just what 
 he may happen to be. Thus multitudes, who come forward 
 as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be satisfied with 
 the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable mediocrity, 
 without so much as inquiring how they might rise higher, 
 much less making any attempt to rise. 
 
 For any other art they would have served an apprentice- 
 ship, and would be ashamed to practise it in public before 
 they had learned it. If any one would sing, he attends a 
 master, and is drilled in the very elementary principles, and, 
 only after the most laborious process, dares to exercise his 
 voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any 
 thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lies, in 
 sensible forms, before his eye. But the extempore speaker, 
 who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an operation 
 of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon the 
 work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that 
 he fails ! 
 
 If he were learning to play on the flute for public exhibi- 
 tion, what hours and days would he spend in giving facility 
 to his fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and 
 most impressive execution. If he were devoting himself to 
 the organ, what months and years would he labour, that he 
 might know its compass and be master of its keys, and be 
 able to draw out, at will, all its various combinations of har- 
 monious sound, and its full richness and delicacy of expres- 
 sion. And yet he will fancy, that the grandest, the most va- 
 rious, the most expressive of all instruments, which the infi- 
 nite Creator has fashioned, by the union of an intellectual 
 soul with the powers of speech, may be played upon with- 
 out study or practice ; he comes to it, a mere uninstructed 
 tyro, and thinks to manage all its stops, and command the 
 whole compass of its varied and comprehensive power ! He 
 finds himself a bungler in the attempt, is mortified at his 
 failure, and settles in his mind forever, that the attempt is 
 vain. 
 
 Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, 
 is always the reward of industry and pains. But the in- 
 stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose 
 beginning has promised much, but who have degenerated 
 wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their 
 gifts, and made no effort to improve. That there have never 
 been other men of equal endowments with Cicero and De- 
 
208 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 mosthenes, none would venture to suppose ; but who have 
 so devoted themselves to their art, or become equal in ex- 
 cellence ? If those great men had been content, like others, 
 to continue as they began, and had never made their perse- 
 vering efforts for improvement, what would their countries 
 have benefited from their genius, or the world have known 
 of their fame ? They would have been lost in the undistin- 
 guished crowd, that sunk to oblivion around them. 
 
 Of how many more will the same remark prove true ! 
 What encouragement is thus given to the industrious ! 
 With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negli- 
 gence, which suffers the most interesting and important 
 truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to the 
 ground, through mere sluggishness in the delivery ! How 
 unworthy of one, who performs the high function of a reli- 
 gious instructer, upon whom depend, in a great measure, the 
 religious knowledge, and devotional sentiment, and final 
 character of many fellow beings, to imagine that he can wor- 
 thily discharge this great concern by occasionally talking for 
 an hour, he knows not how, and in a manner he has taken 
 no pains to render correct, impressive, or attractive ; and 
 which, simply through that want of command over himself, 
 which study would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, 
 feeble, trifling ! It has been said of the good preacher, 
 
 That truths divine come mended from his tongue. 
 
 Alas ! they come ruined and worthless from such a man as 
 this. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to 
 convert the soul, and purify man for heaven, and sink, in in- 
 terest and efficacy, below the level of those principles, which 
 govern the ordinary affairs of this lower world. 
 
 LESSON XCIV. 
 
 Extract from the Tragedy of Ethwald. — Joanna Baillie. 
 
 Scene. A vaulted Prison. Hereulf, Selred, Etheleert, ami Three 
 Thanes* of their party are discovered walking- up and down. 
 
 Her. We are prepared : what say ye, noble colleagues ? 
 
 First Th. If that I here a bloody death must meet, 
 And in some nook unblessed, far from the tombs 
 Of all mine honoured race, these bones be laid, 
 I do submit me to the will of Heaven. 
 • Third Th. E'en so do I in deep submission bow. 
 
 * Chieftains. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 209 
 
 Sec. Th. If that no more within my op'ning gates 
 My children and my wife shall e'er again 
 Greet my return, or this chilled frame again 
 E'er feel the kindly warmth of home, so be it ! 
 His blessed will be done who ruleth all ! 
 
 Her. If these nerved arms, full in the strength of youth, 
 Must rot i' th' earth, and all my glorious hopes 
 To free this land, with which high beat this heart, 
 Must be cut off i' th' midst, I bow my spirit 
 To its Almighty Lord ; I murmur not. 
 Yet, that it had been permitted me 
 To have contended in that noble cause ! 
 Low must I sleep in an unnoted grave, 
 Whilst the oppressor of my native country 
 Riots in brave men's blood ! 
 
 Eth. Peace, noble boy ! he will not riot long. 
 They shall arise, who, for that noble cause, 
 With better fortune, not with firmer hearts 
 Than we to th' work have yoked, will bravely strive. 
 To future heroes shall our names be known, 
 And in our graves of turf we shall be blessed. 
 
 Her. Well, then, I'm satisfied : I'll smile in death; 
 Yea, proudly will I smile ! it wounds me not 
 
 Eth. How, Selred ? thou alone art silent here : 
 To Heaven's high will what off'ring makest thou ? 
 
 Sel. Nothing, good Ethelbert. What can a man, 
 Little enriched with the mind's rare treasure, 
 And of th' unrighteous turmoil of this world 
 Right weary grown, to his great Maker offer ? 
 Yet I can die as meekly as ye will, 
 Albeit of his regard it is unworthy. 
 
 Eth. Give me thy hand, brave man ! Well hast thou 
 said ! 
 In truth thy off'ring far outprizes all ; 
 Rich in humility. Come, valiant friends ; 
 It makes my breast beat high to see you thus 
 For fortune's worst prepared with quiet minds. 
 I'll sit me down awhile ; come, gather round me, 
 And for a little space the time beguile 
 With the free use and interchange of thought ; 
 Of that which no stern tyrant can control. 
 
 (They all sit down on the ground.) 
 
 Her. (to Eth.) Nay, on my folded mantle do thou sit. 
 
 Eth. I thank thee, but I feel no cold. My children ! 
 We do but want, methinks, a blazing fire, 
 To make us thus a friendly, chosen circle 
 18 * 
 
210 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 For converse met. Then we, belike, would talk 
 Of sprites, and magic power, and marv'llous things, 
 That shorten weary hours ; now let us talk 
 Of things that do th' inquiring mind of man 
 With nobler wonder fill ; that state unseen, 
 With all its varied mansions of delight, 
 To which the virtuous go, when, like a dream 
 Smote by the beams of op'ning day, this life, 
 With all its shadowy forms, fades into nothing. 
 
 First Th. Ay, Ethelbert, thou'rt full of sacred lore : 
 Talk thou of this, and we will gladly hear thee. 
 How think'st thou we shall feel, when, like a nestling 
 Burst from its shell, we wake to this new day ? 
 
 Eth. Why, e'en, methinks, like to the very thing 
 To which, good thane, thou hast compared us : 
 For here we are but nestlings, and, I trow, 
 Pent up i' the dark we are. When that shall open 
 Which human eye hath ne'er beheld, nor mind, 
 To human body linked, hath e'er conceived, 
 Then, like a guised band, that for a while 
 Has mimicked forth a sad and gloomy tale, 
 We shall these worthless weeds of flesh cast off, 
 And be the children of our father's house. 
 
 LESSON XCV. 
 
 Description of Sand-floods in Arabia. — Bruce. 
 
 At one o'clock we alighted among some acacia trees at 
 Waadi el Halboub, having gone twenty-one miles. We 
 were here at once surprised and terrified by a sight, surely 
 one of the most magnificent in the world. In that vast ex- 
 panse of desert from west to north-west of us, Ave saw a num- 
 ber of prodigious pillars of sand at different distances, at 
 times moving with great celerity, at others stalking on with 
 a majestic slowness : at intervals we thought they were com- 
 ing in a few minutes to overwhelm us ; and small quantities 
 of sand did actually more than once reach us. Again they 
 would retreat so as to be almost out of sight, their tops reach- 
 ing to the very clouds. There the tops often separated from 
 the bodies ; and these, once disjoined, dispersed in the air, 
 and did not appear more. Sometimes they were broken 
 near the middle, as if struck with a large cannon-shot. 
 
 About noon they began to advance with considerable swift- 
 ness upon us, the wind being very strong at north. Eleven 
 of them ranged along-side of us, about the distance of three 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 211 
 
 miles. The greatest diameter of the largest appeared to me, 
 at that distance, as if it would measure ten feet. They re- 
 tired from us with a wind at south-east, leaving an impres- 
 sion upon my mind to which I can give no name, though 
 surely one ingredient in it was fear, with a considerable deal 
 of wonder and astonishment. It was in vain to think of fty- 
 ing ; the swiftest horse or the fastest sailing ship could be 
 of no use to carry us out of this danger ; and the full persua- 
 sion of this rivetted me as if to the spot where I stood, and 
 let the camels gain on me so much, in my state of lameness, 
 that it was with some difficulty I could overtake them. 
 
 On another day the same appearance of moving pillars of 
 sand presented themselves to us, in form and disposition like 
 those we had seen at Waadi el Halboub, only they seemed 
 to be more in number and less in size. They came several 
 times in a direction upon us ; that is, I believe, within less 
 than two miles. They began immediately after sun-rise, 
 like a thick wood, and almost darkened the sun : his rays, 
 shining through them for near an hour, gave them an appear- 
 ance of pillars of fire. Our people now became desperate : 
 the Greek shrieked out, and said it was the day of judgment. 
 Ismael pronounced it to be hell, and the Tucorories, that the 
 world was on fire. I asked Idris if ever he had before seen 
 such a sight. He said he had often seen them as terrible, 
 though never worse ; but what he feared most was that ex- 
 treme redness in the air, which was a sure presage of the 
 coming of the simoon. 
 
 LESSON XCVI. 
 
 Description of the Simoon or Hot Wind. — Ibid. 
 
 While we contemplated with great pleasure the rugged 
 top of Chiggre, to which we were fast approaching, and 
 where we were to solace ourselves with plenty of good wa- 
 ter, Idris, our guide, cried out with a loud voice, " Fall upon 
 your faces, for here is the simoon." I saw from the south- 
 east a haze come, in colour like the purple part of the rain- 
 bow, but not so compressed or thick. It did not occupy 
 twenty yards in breadth, and was about twelve feet high from 
 the ground. It was a kind of blush upon the air, and it 
 moved very rapidly, for I scarce could turn to fall upon the 
 ground with my face to the northward, when I felt the heat 
 of its current plainly upon my face. We all lay flat on the 
 ground as if dead, till Idris told us it was blown over. The 
 meteor or purple haze, which I saw,*was indeed past, but 
 
212 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 the light air that still blew was of heat to threaten suffocation. 
 For my part, I found distinctly in my breast that I had im- 
 bibed a part of it, nor was I free of an asthmatic sensation 
 till I had been some months in Italy, at the baths of Poretta, 
 near two years afterwards. 
 
 LESSON XCVII. 
 The Vicar of Madely. — Anonymous. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher, the vicar of Madely, had a very profligate 
 nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the 
 Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct. He 
 had engaged in two or three duels, and dissipated his re- 
 sources in a career of vice and extravagance. This des- 
 perate youth waited one day on his eldest uncle, General de 
 Gons, and, presenting a loaded pistol, threatened to shoot him 
 unless he would advance him rive hundred crowns. The 
 general, though a brave man, well knew what a desperado 
 he had to deal with, and gave a draft for the money, at the same 
 time expostulating freely with him on his conduct. The young 
 madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten acquisition. 
 
 In the evening, passing the door of his younger uncle. 
 Mr. Fletcher, he determined to call on him ; and began with 
 informing him what General de Gons had done, and, as a 
 proof, exhibited the draft under De Gons' own hand. Mr. 
 Fletcher took the draft from his nephew, and looked at it 
 with astonishment ; then, after some remarks, putting it into 
 his pocket, said, " It strikes me, young man, that you have 
 possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method, and 
 in honesty I cannot restore it but with my brother's knowl- 
 edge and approbation." The nephew's pistol was immedi- 
 ately at his breast. "My life," replied Mr. Fletcher, with 
 perfect calmness, " is secure in the protection of an Almighty 
 Power ; nor will He suffer it to be the forfeit of my integri- 
 ty, and your rashness." This firmness drew from the neph- 
 ew the observation, that his uncle De Gons, though an old 
 soldier, was more afraid of death than his brother. " Afraid 
 of death!" rejoined Mr. Fletcher; "do you think I have 
 been twenty-five years the minister of the Lord of Life to be 
 afraid of death now ? No, sir ; it is for you to fear death : 
 you are a gamester and a cheat, yet call yourself a gentle- 
 man ! you are the seducer of female innocence, and still you 
 say you are a gentleman ! you are a duellist, and for this you 
 style yourself a man of honour ! Look there, sir ; the broad 
 eye of Heaven is fixed upon us : tremble in the presence of 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 213 
 
 your Maker, who can in a moment kill your body, and for- 
 ever punish your soul in hell." 
 
 The unhappy man turned pale and trembled alternately with 
 rage — he still threatened his uncle with instant death. Fletch- 
 er, though thus menaced, gave no alarm, sought for no weapon, 
 and attempted not to escape : he calmly conversed with his 
 profligate relation ; and at length, perceiving him to be affected, 
 addressed him in language truly paternal, till he had fairly 
 disarmed and subdued him. He would not return his broth- 
 er's draft, but engaged to procure for the young man some 
 immediate relief : he then prayed with him, and, after ful- 
 filling his promise of assistance, parted with him, with much 
 good advice on one side, and many fair promises on the other. 
 
 The power of courage, founded on piety and principle, to- 
 gether with its influence in overcoming the wildest and most 
 desperate profligacy, were never more finely illustrated than 
 by this anecdote. It deserves to be put into the hands of 
 every self-styled " man of honour," to show him how far su- 
 perior is the courage that dares to die, though it dares not to 
 sin, to the boasted prowess of a mere man of the world. 
 How utterly contemptible does the desperation of a duellist 
 appear, when contrasted with the noble intrepidity of such 
 a Christian soldier as the humble vicar of Madely ! 
 
 LESSON XCVIII. 
 
 The Hatefulness of War. — Chalmers. 
 
 Apart altogether from the evil of war, let us just take a di- 
 rect look of it, and see whether we can find its character en- 
 graven on the aspect it bears to the eye of an attentive ob- 
 'Server. The stoutest heart would recoil, were he who owns 
 it to behold the destruction of a single individual by some 
 deed of violence. Were the man, who at this moment stands 
 before you in the full play and energy of health, to be in 
 another moment laid, by some deadly aim, a lifeless corpse at 
 your feet, there is not one of you who would not prove, how 
 strong are the relentings of nature at a spectacle so hideous 
 as death. There are some of you who would be haunted 
 for whole days by the image of horror you had witnessed, — 
 who would feel the weight of a most oppressive sensation 
 upon your heart, which nothing but time could wear away, — 
 who would be so pursued by it as to be unfit for business or 
 for enjoyment, — who would think of it through the day, and 
 it would spread a gloomy disquietude over your waking mo- 
 ments, — who would dream of it at night, and it would turn 
 
214 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 that bed, which you courted as a retreat from the torments 
 of an ever-meddling memory, into a scene of restlessness. 
 
 But, generally, the death of violence is not instantaneous ; 
 and there is often a sad and dreary interval between its final 
 consummation and the infliction of the blow which causes it. 
 The winged messenger of destruction has not found its direct 
 avenue to that spot where the principle of life is situated ; 
 and the soul, finding obstacles to its immediate egress, has 
 to struggle for hours, ere it can make its dreary way through 
 the winding avenues of that tenement, which has been torn 
 open by a brother's hand. O ! if there be something appal- 
 ling in the suddenness of death, think not that, when gradual 
 in its advances, you will alleviate the horrors of this sicken- 
 ing contemplation by viewing it in a milder form. ! tell 
 me, if there be any relentings of pity in your bosom, how 
 could you endure it, to behold the agonies of the dying man, 
 as, goaded by pain, he grasps the cold ground in convulsive 
 energy,— or, faint with the loss of blood, his pulse ebbs low, 
 and the gathering paleness spreads itself over his counte- 
 nance, — or, wrapping himself round in despair, he can only 
 mark, by a few feeble quiverings, that life still lurks and lin- 
 gers in his lacerated body,— or, lifting up a faded eye, he 
 casts on you a look of imploring helplessness for that succour 
 which no sympathv can yield him ? 
 
 It may be painful to dwell on such a representation ; but 
 this is the way in which the cause of humanity is served. 
 The eye of the sentimentalist turns away from its sufferings, 
 and he passes by on the other side, lest he hear that plead- 
 ing voice, which is armed with a tone of remonstrance so 
 vigorous as to disturb him. He cannot, bear thus to pause, 
 in imagination, on the distressing picture of one individual : 
 but multiply it ten thousand times,— say, how much of all this 
 distress has been heaped together on a single field,— give us 
 the arithmetic of this accumulated wretchedness, and lay it 
 before us with all the accuracy of an official computation,— 
 and, strange to tell, not one sigh is lifted up among the crowd 
 of eager listeners, as they stand on tiptoe, and catch every 
 syllable of utterance which is read to them out of the regis 
 ters of death. ! say, what mystic spell is that which so 
 blinds us to the suffering of our brethren,— which deafens to 
 our ear the voice of bleeding humanity, when it is aggravat- 
 ed by the shriek of dying thousands,— which makes the very 
 magnitude of the slaughter throw a softening disguise over 
 its cruelties and its horrors,— which causes us to eye with 
 indifference the field that is crowded with the most revolting 
 abominations, and arrests that sigh, which each individual 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 215 
 
 would singly have drawn from us, by the report of the many 
 who have fallen, and breathed their last in agony, along with 
 him ! 
 
 I have no time, and assuredly as little taste, for expatiating 
 on a topic so melancholy ; nor can I afford, at present, to 
 set before you a vivid picture of the other miseries which war 
 carries in its train, — how it desolates every country through 
 which it rolls, and spreads violation and alarm among its 
 villages, — how, at its approach, every home pours forth its 
 trembling fugitives, — how all the rights of property, and all 
 the provisions of justice, must give way before its devouring 
 exactions, — how, when Sabbath comes, no Sabbath charm 
 comes along with it, — and for the sound of the church-bell 
 which wont to spread its music over some fine landscape of 
 nature, and summon rustic worshippers to the house of 
 prayer, nothing is heard but the deathful volleys of the bat- 
 tle, and the maddening outcry of infuriated men, — how, as 
 the fruit of victory, an unprincipled licentiousness, which no 
 discipline can restrain, is suffered to walk at large among 
 the people, — and all that is pure, and reverend, and holy, in 
 the virtue of families, is cruelly trampled on, and held in 
 the bitterest derision. Were we to pursue those details, 
 which no pen ever attempts, and no chronicle perpetuates, 
 we should be tempted to ask, what that is which civilization 
 has done for the character of the species. 
 
 LESSON XCIX. 
 
 History of the English Language. — Blair. 
 
 The language which is at present spoken throughout Great 
 Britain, is neither the ancient primitive speech of the island, 
 nor derived from it, but is altogether of foreign origin. The 
 language of the first inhabitants of our island, beyond doubt, 
 was the Celtic, or Gaelic, common to them with Gaul ; 
 from which country it appears, by many circumstances, that 
 Great Britain was peopled. This Celtic tongue, which is 
 said to be very expressive and copious, and is probably one 
 of the most ancient languages in the world, obtained once in 
 most of the western regions of Europe. It was the lan- 
 guage of Gaul, of Great Britain, of Ireland, and very probably 
 of Spain also ; till, in the course of those revolutions, which, 
 by means of the conquests, first of the Romans, and afterwards 
 of the northern nations, changed the government, speech, 
 and in a manner the whole face of Europe, this tongue was 
 gradually obliterated, and now subsists only in the mountains 
 
216 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 of Wales, in the Highlands of Scotland, and among the wild 
 Irish ; for the Irish, the Welsh, and the Erse, are no other 
 than different dialects of the same tongue, the ancient 
 Celtic. 
 
 This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the 
 first inhabitants that we know of in our island, and contin- 
 ued so till the arrival of the Saxons in England, in the year 
 of our Lord 450 ; who, having conquered the Britons, did not 
 intermix with them, hut expelled them from their habitations, 
 and drove them, together with their language, into the 
 mountains of Wales. The Saxons were one of those north- 
 ern nations that overran Europe ; and their tongue, a dialect 
 of the Gothic or Teutonic, altogether distinct from the 
 Celtic, laid the foundation of the present English tongue. 
 With some intermixture of Danish, a language probably 
 from the same root with the Saxon, it continued to be spoken 
 throughout the southern part of the island till the time of 
 William the Conqueror. He introduced his Norman or 
 French as the language of the court, which made a consider- 
 able change in the speech of the nation ; and the English, 
 which was spoken afterwards^ and continues to be spoken 
 now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon and this Norman 
 French, together with such new and foreign words as com- 
 merce and learning have, in progress of time, gradually intro- 
 duced. 
 
 The history of the English language can, in this manner, 
 be clearly traced. The language spoken in the Low Coun- 
 tries of Scotland is now, and has been for many centuries, 
 no other than a dialect of the English. How, indeed, or by 
 what steps, the ancient Celtic tongue came to be banished 
 from the Low Country in Scotland, and to make its retreat 
 into the Highlands and islands, cannot be so well pointed 
 out, as how the like revolution was brought about in Eng- 
 land. Whether the southernmost part of Scotland was once 
 subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of the kingdom of 
 Northumberland; or whether the great number of English 
 exiles that retreated into Scotland upon the Norman conquest, 
 and upon other occasions, introduced into that country their 
 own language, which afterwards, by the mutual intercourse 
 of the two nations, prevailed over the Celtic, are uncertain 
 and contested points, the discussion of which would lead us 
 too far from our subject. 
 
 From what has been said it appears, that the Teutonic 
 dialect is the basis of our present speech. It has been im- 
 ported among us in three different forms, — the Saxon, the 
 Danish, and the Norman ; all which have mingled together 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 217 
 
 in our language. A very great number of our words, too, are 
 plainly derived from the Latin. These we had not directly 
 from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, entered 
 into our tongue through the channel of that Norman French 
 which William the Conqueror introduced. For, as the Ro- 
 mans had long been in full possession of Gaul, the language 
 spoken in that country, when it was invaded by the Franks 
 and Normans, was a sort of corrupted Latin, mingled with 
 Celtic, to which was given the name of Roman she ; and 
 as the Franks and Normans did not, like the Saxons in Eng- 
 land, expel the inhabitants, but, after their victories, mingled 
 with them, the language of the country became a compound 
 of the Teutonic dialect imported by these conquerors, and 
 of the former corrupted Latin. Hence the French language 
 has always continued to have a very considerable affinity with 
 the Latin; and hence a great number of words of Latin origin, 
 which were in use among the Normans in France, were in- 
 troduced into our tongue at the conquest; to which, indeed, 
 many have since been added directly from the Latin, in 
 consequence of the great diffusion of Roman literature 
 throughout all Europe. 
 
 LESSON C. 
 
 The Slave Trade. — Cowper. 
 
 Heaven speed the canvass, gallantly unfurled 
 To furnish and accommodate a world, 
 To give the pole the produce of the sun, 
 And knit the unsocial climates into one ' 
 Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave 
 Impel the fleet whose errand is to save, 
 To succour wasted regions, and replace 
 The smile of opulence in sorrow's face ? 
 Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, 
 Impede the bark that ploughs the deep serene, 
 Charged with a freight, transcending in its worth 
 The gems of India, nature's rarest birth, 
 That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, 
 An herald of God's love to pagan lands ! 
 
 But, ah ! what wish can prosper, or what prayer, 
 For merchants, rich in cargoes of despair, 
 Who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge, and span, 
 And buy, the muscles and the bones of man. 
 The tender ties of father, husband, friend, 
 All bonds of nature, in that moment end ; 
 19 
 
218 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, 
 
 A stroke as fatal as the sithe of death. 
 
 The sable warrior, frantic with regret 
 
 Of her he loves, and never can forget, 
 
 Loses in tears the far receding shore, 
 
 But not the thought that they must meet no more ; 
 
 Deprived of her and freedom at a blow, 
 
 What has he left that he can yet forego ? 
 
 Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resigned, 
 
 He feels his body's bondage in his mind ; 
 
 Puts off his generous nature ; and, to suit 
 
 His manners with his face, puts on the brute. 
 
 Oh ! most degrading of all ills that wait 
 On man, a mourner in his best estate ; 
 All other sorrows virtue may endure, 
 And find submission more than half a cure ; 
 Grief is itself a med'cine, and bestowed 
 T' improve the fortitude that bears the load, 
 To teach the wand'rer, as his woes increase, 
 The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace ; — 
 But slavery ! — virtue dreads it as her grave : 
 Patience itself is meanness in a slave : 
 Or, if the will and sovereignty of God 
 Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, 
 Wait for the dawning of a brighter day, 
 And snap the chain the moment when you may. 
 
 LESSON CI. 
 
 The Mail — Ibid. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, 
 That, with its wearisome but needful length, 
 Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
 Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright : — 
 He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
 With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, 
 News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
 Is to conduct it to the destined inn, 
 And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on. 
 He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 
 Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
 To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 219 
 
 Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
 
 Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
 
 With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 
 
 Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 
 
 Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent swains, 
 
 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 
 LESSON CII. 
 
 Recollections. — Ibid. 
 
 There is in souls a sympathy with sounds ; 
 And, as the mind is pitched, the ear is pleased 
 With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave. 
 How soft the music of those village bells, 
 Falling at intervals upon the ear 
 In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 
 Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
 Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 
 With easy force it opens all the cells, 
 Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard 
 A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 
 And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 
 Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 
 That in a few short moments I retrace 
 The windings of my way for many years. 
 
 Short as in retrospect the journey seems, 
 It seemed not always short ; the rugged path, 
 And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, 
 Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length : 
 Yet, feeling present evils, while the past 
 Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, 
 How readily we wish time spent revoked, 
 That we might try the ground again, where once 
 (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) 
 We missed that happiness we might have found ! 
 
 Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, 
 A father, whose authority, in show 
 When most severe, and mustering all its force, 
 Was but the graver countenance of love ; 
 Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, 
 And utter now and then an awful voice, 
 But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 
 Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. 
 How gladly would the man recall to life 
 
220 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The boy's neglected sire ! a mother, too, 
 That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, 
 Might he demand them at the gates of death. 
 Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed 
 The playful humour ; he could now endure 
 (Plimself grown sober in the vale of tears) 
 And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 
 But not to understand a treasure's worth 
 Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, 
 Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
 And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
 
 LESSON CIII. 
 Alnwick Castle.* — Halleck. 
 
 Home of the Percys' high-born race, 
 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial place, 
 
 Their cradle and their grave ! 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's lion stands in state, 
 
 As in his proud departed hours ; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners " flout the sky" 
 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines, 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 To meet the quiet stream which winds 
 
 Through this romantic scene 
 As silently and sweetly still, 
 As when, at evening, on that hill, 
 
 While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katherine was a happy bride, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Gaze on the abbey's ruined pile : 
 
 Does not the succouring ivy, keeping 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percys' proudest border story. 
 
 * Alnwick Castle, Northumberland a seat of the Duke of Northumberland. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 221 
 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then ran, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 
 And babe and sire, the old, the young, 
 And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song, 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom : 
 They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
 That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
 
 A templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand, 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
 
 Where the cross was damped with his dying breath ; 
 When blood ran free as festal wine, 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here ; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer, 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier, 
 
 The welcome and farewell, 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew bell. 
 
 I wandered through the lofty halls 
 
 Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
 And traced upon the chapel walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name, 
 From him* who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 
 
 Glitter the sultan's crescent moons, 
 To him who, when a younger son,| 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
 ^f, -V- -V- M. 
 
 TT TP TV- TV" 
 
 * One of the ancestors of the Percy family was an emperor of Constantinople. 
 
 t The late duke. He commanded one of the detachments of ihe British army, 
 in the affair at Lexington and Concord, in 1775. 
 
 19 * 
 
222 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 That last half stanza— it has dashed 
 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
 The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up 
 Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
 And Alnwick's but a market town, 
 And this, alas ! its marketed ay, 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
 Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scots ; 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line, 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
 From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable ; 
 Of knights, but not of the round table ; 
 
 Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy ; 
 'Tis what " our President," Munroe, 
 
 Has called "the era of good feeling :" 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
 And put on pantaloons and coat, 
 
 And leave off cattle-stealing : 
 Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 
 
 The Douglas in red herrings ; 
 And noble name, and cultured land, 
 Palace, and park, and vassal band, 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Rothschild, or the Barings. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk 
 (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start,) 
 
 Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 And on the cross and altar stone, 
 And Christendom looks tamely on, 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 223 
 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 And not a sabre blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate," 
 Are some half dozen serving men, 
 In the drab coat of William Penn ; 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
 Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, 
 From donjon keep to turret wall, 
 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 
 
 LESSON CIV. 
 May Morning. — H. Ware, Jr. 
 
 Beautifully broke forth the clear, bright sun, and balmy 
 was the breath of " incense-breathing morn," which welcom- 
 ed the coming of this queen of the months. The blue sky 
 seemed to smile, and the early birds were loud with their 
 salutations. Nature, by a thousand cheerful sights and a 
 thousand sweet sounds, testified her rejoicing, and the earth 
 had decked her bosom with the first little flowers and bud- 
 ding greens for the steps of her lovely visiter. 
 
 But what was all this to one imprisoned within the dark 
 chambers of the city ; where the early hum of human traffic 
 drowns the melody of nature's hymns, and the high piles of 
 brick shut from sight the azure heavens and the rainbow 
 clouds ? Man learns to sleep over the tokens of reviving 
 spring, hardened to its holy serenity by the bustling avoca- 
 tions of ambition and gain. But childhood yet feels its na- 
 tive sympathy with the young year, and owns its influence, 
 and loves to go forth with the glad birds and the infant flow- 
 ers. It was the voice of children cheerfully preparing for 
 their May-morning stroll, which broke my slumbers. The 
 sun, just risen, poured a tranquil light abroad, and I sprung 
 from my couch resolved once more to be a child, and taste 
 the pleasures of spring-time in the fields. 
 
224 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 I had soon passed the streets and the bridge, and was fair- 
 ly in the country. I breathed a fresher air, I trod with a 
 freer step ; I was in the domains of nature once more, escap- 
 ed from the confinement of man's invention and the crowd 
 of man's works ; I saw nothing around me but the works of 
 God, and the light and peace which he sheds upon the world 
 that he loves — loves and blesses in spite of its sins. I looked 
 upward, and, in letters of living light, the heavens spread be- 
 fore me his love. I looked around, and I saw it in the swell- 
 ing blossoms, in the budding branches, in the springing car- 
 pet of green. It came to my ear in the glad melody of the 
 birds, and in the heart-felt accents of delight which burst 
 from the groups of happy and active children. I felt it in every 
 breath I drew, laden with the morning fragrance, which is 
 sweeter than all perfume, and wafts health and pleasure on 
 its wing. It all has but one Author, I exclaimed, and he is 
 love. It is his spirit, which breathes in the gale, and lives 
 in all these signs of joy and life. 
 
 " Thy footsteps imprint the morning hills, 
 
 Thy voice is heard in the music of rills, 
 
 In the song of birds, and the heavenly chorus 
 
 That nature utters, around us, o'er us. 
 
 In every thing thy glory beameth ; 
 
 From every thing thy witness slreameth." 
 
 And so it has been from the beginning : " He has never 
 left himself without witness" — and what more delightful wit- 
 ness than these days, in which " he renews the face of the 
 earth ?" It seems like the freshness and purity of an original 
 creation. I was ready to say with Buchanan, in his beauti- 
 ful hymn, on such a morning as this it was that the new 
 created world sprung up at God's command. This is the air 
 of holy tranquillity which was then upon all things ; this the 
 clear and fragrant breath that passed over the smiling gar- 
 dens of Eden ; this the same sweet light that then shot down 
 from the new-born sun, and diffused a gentle rapture over 
 the face of nature and through the frame of living things. 
 And such, too, shall be the aspect of that morning which 
 ushers in the spring-time of heaven's eternal year : such the 
 serenity and glory of that day which shall call forth to re- 
 newed existence, not the plants and flowers from a tempo- 
 rary death, but the spirits of immortal men ; and shall roll 
 through earth and heaven, not the music of an earthly spring- 
 time, but the rapturous anthems of the ransomed children of 
 God, rising to the birth of the everlasting year. 
 
 Hail, then, all hail, thou fair morning of this fairest of the 
 months ! — emblem of the fairer morning that yet shall be 
 — memorial of the nativity of earth — image of God's ever- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 225 
 
 V 
 
 present love — pledge of an everlasting year ! Thou shalt pass 
 away, beautiful as thou art, and thy blossoms and pleasures 
 perish. The hot summer shall scorch them, and the stormy 
 winter bury them beneath his snows. But that glorious 
 spring-time, which shall revive the being of man, shall never 
 fade. The soul shall blossom and flourish forever in the 
 garden of God. His spirit breathes there a perpetual balm, 
 and the sunshine of his countenance knows no variableness 
 nor shadow of change. Roll on, ye tardy seasons ; accom- 
 plish your appointed periods, and introduce that unfading 
 May. Ye may change, but ye bring on that which cannot 
 change. Ye may waft to me sorrows and disappointments 
 as ye fly ; but ye are fast bearing me where sorrow and dis- 
 appointment cannot come. And I will welcome even the 
 winter of death, since it shall be followed by the spring of 
 heaven. 
 
 LESSON CV. 
 Account of eleven Africans rescued from Slavery. — Sparks. 
 
 In the year 1823, a vessel came into the harbour of Balti- 
 more, which, from various circumstances, was thought to 
 have negroes unlawfully detained on board. So strong was 
 the ground of suspicion, that a few individuals took on them- 
 selves the responsibility of searching the vessel, and they 
 found concealed eleven negroes, who were foreigners, inca- 
 pable of speaking or understanding the English language. 
 A prosecution was accordingly entered against the captain, 
 as being engaged in the slave trade ; but as he affirmed that 
 the negroes were his own property, lawfully acquired, and no 
 proof to the contrary could be adduced, he was acquitted. 
 The law demands, that, in all doubtful claims to the property 
 of slaves, the labour of proof shall rest on the claimant; and 
 as the captain, in the present case, could produce no such 
 proof, the negroes were detained by the court, although he 
 was permitted to escape. Through the humanity of some 
 of the active members of the Colonization Society, these ne- 
 groes were provided for, by being distributed among several 
 families in the neighbourhood of Baltimore, to remain till 
 they should learn the language, and be able to express their 
 wishes in regard to their future destination. 
 
 Fortunately, about this time, a young African by the name 
 of Wilkinson, a native of Susoo country on the Rio Pongas, 
 arrived in Baltimore. Some years ago a chief of the Susoos 
 intrusted two of his sons to the care of the captain of a 
 
226 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 French vessel, trading in the Rio Pongas, who promised to 
 take them to the West Indies, have them educated, and re- 
 turn them at the end of four years. When the stipulated 
 time had gone by, and nothing was heard of the boys, Wil- 
 kinson was despatched to the West Indies to search them out. 
 He succeeded in rinding them, but had the mortification to 
 learn, that the treacherous captain had not been true to his 
 word ; he had deserted the boys, and they were turned over 
 to work with the slaves. Wilkinson recovered them, how- 
 ever, without difficulty, sent them to their father, and came 
 himself to Baltimore to take passage home in the coloniza- 
 tion packet. He had already been in England, and spoke 
 our language with fluency. 
 
 Soon after his arrival he visited some of the recaptured 
 Africans just mentioned, and discovered that they came from 
 the region bordering on his own country, and spoke a dia- 
 lect which he well understood, although it was not his native 
 Susoo tongue. They were overjoyed at seeing a person 
 with whom they could converse, but were incredulous when 
 he told them that they were free, and might return home if 
 they chose. They said he was deceiving them, that they 
 knew they were slaves, and should never again see their na- 
 tive land, their relatives and friends. So thoroughly were 
 they impressed with the melancholy conviction of being in 
 slavery, that no protestations on his part could make them 
 believe in his entire sincerity. They exclaimed with rap- 
 tures at the thought of freedom, and of going back to Africa, 
 but would not hope that such a dream could ever be real- 
 ized. 
 
 The situation of these persons was made known by the 
 Colonization Society to the president of the United States, 
 who said, that, if proper certificates were given of their de- 
 sire to return, the government would pay the expense of 
 transportation. The navy agent at Baltimore was ordered 
 to have them examined. They were brought together for 
 this purpose, and, as the examination could only be carried 
 on through Wilkinson as interpreter, he gave his testimony 
 under oath. We shall speak of this interesting examination 
 nearly in the words of Mr. Coale, secretary .of the Baltimore 
 Auxiliary Society, who was present, and took an account of 
 the proceedings in writing. 
 
 The general question was put to them, severally, whether 
 they wished to remain in this country as freemen, or be sent 
 to Mesurado, and thence, if practicable, to their homes. 
 Dowrey was the first who was called to answer. He was a 
 chief in his own country, of whom Wilkinson had some knowl- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 227 
 
 edge. He replied, " I wish to go home ; I wish to see my 
 father, my wife, and children ; I have been at Mesurado ; I 
 live but three days' walk from that place." Barterou an- 
 swered ; " Let me go home ; I have a wife, I have two chil- 
 dren ; I live a morning's walk from Dowrey." The next per- 
 son called was Mousah, the son of a highly respectable chief r 
 with whom Wilkinson was personally acquainted. He had 
 been living with General Harper, and, when asked if he was 
 not disposed to remain, and be instructed, and go home here- 
 after and teach his countrymen, he replied, " General Harp- 
 er is a good man ; he will give me clothes and food, and be 
 kind to me, but he cannot give me my wife and children." 
 When the general question was put to Cubangerie, he re- 
 plied, " Why do you ask this over and over ? Do you not 
 know that nothing is so dear as a man's home ? I am so re- 
 joiced at the thought of returning, that I want words to ex- 
 press my thanks." Mazzey said, u My mother is living, my 
 father is living, I have two sisters, I shall be grateful to 
 those who send me to my family and friends." The answer 
 of Fanghah was, " I shall be joyful to go home ; I have a fa- 
 ther, mother, wife, sister, and three children to meet me in 
 my own country." Corree said, that all he desired was to 
 be landed in Africa, and he should soon find his way home. 
 Banhah made nearly the same reply. 
 
 After these eight persons were examined, they expressed 
 great anxiety to be joined by two of their companions not 
 present. These had been placed with a man, who, it seems, 
 was unwilling to part with them, and had reported that they 
 wished to remain. This proved to be a false pretence, setup 
 with a view to profit by the labour of the negroes ; and, what- 
 ever may be the power of the law in such a case, it will be 
 difficult to make it appear in the eye of justice in any better 
 light than the crime of being engaged in the slave trade. 
 A writ on a fictitious suit was taken out against the negroes, 
 and they were thus released from thraldom, and brought to 
 the place of examination. When they arrived, their compan- 
 ions sprang with ecstasies to meet them, embraced them 
 again and again, caught them in their arms, raised them from 
 the ground, and continued for half an hour at intervals to 
 embrace and shake them by the hand. Nothing could exceed 
 their joy when told that they were free, and would sail in a 
 day or two for Africa. 
 
 These ten persons, thus providentially rescued from per- 
 petual slavery, and made happy in the anticipations of again 
 beholding their native land, and of carrying gladness to many 
 a weeping, disconsolate heart, owed their deliverance chiefly 
 
228 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 to the Colonization Society. They have gone home to prove 
 to their countrymen and friends, that white men are not all 
 barbarians, traffickers in human flesh, and artificers of human 
 misery; but that the flame of benevolent feeling may some- 
 times kindle and burn, even in the breasts of this portion of 
 their race, whom they had hitherto known only as catchers of 
 their own species, and workers in crime. We know not the 
 springs of other men's joys, but as for ourselves, call it weak- 
 ness, or enthusiasm, or what you will, we frankly confess, 
 that the heart-felt delight of having been instrumental in re- 
 storing these men to freedom and happiness, would have 
 been to us a double compensation for all the embarrassments, 
 rebuffs, and obstacles, numerous and severe as they have 
 been, which the members of the Society have thus far expe- 
 rienced. Had they brought to pass from the beginning only 
 this one deed, we would lift up our voice in praise of their 
 noble achievement, and say they had been blessed with 
 a good reward. — These rescued Africans, full of gratitude 
 for their deliverers, sailed with Wilkinson in the Fidelity 
 for Mesurado. Dr. Ayres had directions to send them 
 home as soon as they arrived. One boy still remains. He 
 spoke a different language from any of the others, and 
 could not be understood by them. He will doubtless be re- 
 turned, when he shall have learnt our language sufficiently 
 to make known his wishes. 
 
 LESSON CVI. 
 Banger of bad Habits. — Priestley. 
 
 A man's case maybe pronounced to be desperate, when his 
 mind is brought into such a state as that the necessary means 
 of reformation shall have lost their effect upon him ; and this 
 is the natural consequence of confirmed habits of vice, and a 
 long-continued neglect of the means of religion and virtue ; 
 which is so far from being an impossible or improbable case, 
 that it is a very general one. 
 
 In order to be the more sensible of this, you are to consider 
 that vice is a habit, and therefore of a subtle and insinuating 
 nature. By easy, pleasing, and seemingly harmless actions, 
 men are often betrayed into a progress, which grows every 
 day more alarming. Our virtuous resolutions may break 
 with difficulty. It may be with pain and reluctance that 
 we commit the first acts of sin, but the next are easier to us ; 
 and use, custom, and habit, will at last reconcile us to any 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 229 
 
 thing, even things the very idea of which might at first be 
 shocking to us. 
 
 Vice is a thing not to be trifled with. You may, by the 
 force of vigorous resolution, break off in the early stages of 
 it; but habits, when they have been confirmed, and long 
 continued, are obstinate things to contend with, and are hard- 
 ly ever entirely subdued. When bad habits seem to be over- 
 come, and we think we have got rid of our chains, they may 
 perhaps only have become, as it were, invisible ; so that when 
 we thought we had recovered our freedom, and strength, so 
 as to be able to repel any temptation, we way lose all power 
 of resistance on the first approach of it. 
 
 A man who has contracted a habit of vice, and been aban- 
 doned to sinful courses for some time, is never out of danger. 
 He is exactly in the case of a man who has long laboured un- 
 der a chronical disease, and is perpetually subject to a relapse. 
 The first shock of any disorder a man's constitution may 
 bear, and, if he be not naturally subject to it, he may perfect- 
 ly recover, and be out of danger. But when the general 
 habit is such, as that- a relapse is apprehended, a man's friends 
 and physicians* are alarmed for him. 
 
 The reason is, that a relapse does not find a person in the 
 condition in which he was when the first fit of illness seized 
 Lim. That gave his constitution a shock, and left him en- 
 feebled, so as to be less able to sustain another shock ; and 
 especially if it be more violent than the former, as is gen- 
 erally the case in those disorders. 
 
 In the very same dangerous situation is the man who has 
 ever been addicted to vicious courses. He can never be 
 said to be perfectly recovered, whatever appearances may 
 promise, but is always in danger of a fatal relapse. He 
 ought, therefore, to take the greatest care of himself. He is 
 not in the condition of a person who has never known the 
 ways of wickedness. He ought, therefore, to have the great- 
 est distrust of himself, and set a double watch over his 
 thoughts, words, and actions, for fear of a surprise. For if 
 once, through the force of any particular temptation, he 
 should fall back into his former vicious courses, and his for- 
 mer disposition should return, his case will probably be des- 
 perate., He will plunge himself still deeper in wickedness ; 
 and his having abstained for a time will only, as it were, 
 have whetted his appetite, and make him swallow down the 
 poison of sin by larger and more eager draughts than ever. 
 20 " 
 
230 THE CLASSICAL, READER. 
 
 LESSON CVII. 
 
 The Slide of Alpnach. — Miss Edgeworth. 
 
 To interest Harry about Mount Pilate,* Sir Rupert prom- 
 ised to send him an account of an extraordinary mechanical 
 work, which existed there a few years ago, called the Slide 
 of Alpnach. 
 
 " Could not you give me some idea of it now, sir?" said 
 Harry ; " I dare say we should understand it as well, or 
 better, from your description, than from the book." " I will 
 endeavour to explain it," said Sir Rupert, " as you wish it ; 
 but in the book, to which I allude, there is a more clear and 
 exact description, than I can hope to give. It is written by 
 one who saw the work," continued he, turning to" Harry's 
 father, f ' ; by our great, our amiable, our ever-to-be-regretted 
 friend, Professor Playfair." 
 
 " First, Harry, I should tell you the purpose for which it 
 was made. On the south side of Mount Pilate there were 
 great forests of spruce fir ; and, at the time of which I am 
 speaking, a great deal of that timber was necessary for ship- 
 building. These forests were, however, in a situation which 
 seemed almost inaccessible, such was the steepness and rug- 
 gedness of that side of the mountain. It had rarely been 
 visited but by the hunters of the chamois or wild goat, and 
 they gave information of the great size of these trees and of 
 the extent of the forests. There these trees had stood for 
 ages useless, and there they might have stood useless to this 
 day, but for the enterprise and skill of a German engineer, 
 of the name of Rupp. His spirit of inquiry being roused by 
 the accounts of the chamois hunters, he made his way up by 
 their paths, surveyed the forests, and formed the bold project 
 of purchasing and cutting down the trees, and constructing, 
 with some of the bodies of the trees themselves, a singular 
 kind of wooden road, or trough, down which others, fit for 
 ship building, could be sent headlong into the lake below, 
 which fortunately came to the very foot of the mountain. 
 When once upon the lake, they were to be made into rafts, 
 and, without the aid of ships or boats to carry them, they 
 were to be floated down the lake. It was proposed, that 
 from thence they should be conveyed, by a very rapid stream 
 called the Reuss, into the river Aar, and thence into the 
 Rhine, down which these rafts could be easily navigated to 
 Holland, where the timber was wanted. They might further 
 be transported into the German ocean, where they could be 
 conveyed to whatever port was desired. 
 
 * One of the Swiss Alps. 
 
THE CLASSICAL. READER. 231 
 
 " Forgive me," said Sir Rupert, smiling, as he looked at 
 Lucy, "for troubling you with the German ocean, and the 
 Rhine, and the Aar, and the Reuss, and with all my geogra- 
 phy ; it is not for the sake of displaying it, nor for the pur- 
 pose of trying your patience ; but I mention their names, 
 because I am sure that you will look for them on your map. 
 and you will' understand the difficulty, and find the whole 
 thing much better fixed in your memory, by knowing all the 
 places and distances distinctly. Besides, you will be better 
 able to explain it to others, than if you could only say, there 
 was a forest on some mountain, whose name I don't know ; 
 the trees were thrown down into a lake, whose name I can't 
 recollect, and sent by a rapid stream, whose name I never 
 knew, into another, whose name 1 forget, and so on, to a 
 great river, whose name I ought to remember, but cannot, 
 and so into an ocean, which has a particular name, if I could 
 recollect it, till at last, somehow, these rafts got to wherever 
 they were wanted, but where that was I cannot well tell." 
 Lucy half laughed and looked half ashamed, for she said she 
 had often felt almost as much at loss in repeating things she 
 had heard, for want of remembering the geography of the 
 story. 
 
 " But now, sir, for the slide," said Harry. " You said, I 
 think, that it was a kind of trough made of the bodies of 
 trees ; did you mean the mere trunks, without their being 
 sawed up into boards ?" " The trunks of the trees," replied 
 Sir Rupert, " just roughly squared with the axe. Three 
 trees so prepared, and laid side by side, formed the bottom ; 
 another set formed each of the sides; and all, strongly fasten- 
 ed together, composed this enormous trough, which was 
 about three or four feet deep, and about six feet wide at the 
 top. It extended to a length of more than eight miles, from 
 the place where the forest stood on the side of the mountain, 
 to the lake below. Each tree that was to be sent down had 
 its branches lopped off, its bark stripped, and its outer sur- 
 face made tolerably smooth. Men were stationed all the 
 way down, at about half a mile distance from each other, 
 who were to give telegraphic signals, with a large board like 
 a door, which they set up when all was right and all ready 
 to begin, and lowered when any thing was wrong. These 
 signals were communicated from man to man, so that in a 
 few seconds the intelligence was known all along the line, 
 that a tree was to be launched. The tree, roaring louder 
 and louder, as it flew down the slide, soon announced itself, 
 and, as Playfair describes it, came in sight at perhaps half a 
 
232 THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 
 
 mile distance, and, in one instant after, shot past with a noise 
 of thunder and the rapidity of lightning." 
 
 " How I should like to have seen it !" said Harry. " Sir, 
 did not you say that Mr. Playfair himself saw a tree go 
 down ?" 
 
 " Yes, he and his young nephew saw five trees descend ; 
 one of them a spruce iir, a hundred feet long, and four feet 
 diameter at the lower end, which was always launched fore 
 most into the trough. After the telegraphic signals had been 
 repeated up the line again, another tree followed. Each 
 was about six minutes in descending along a distance of 
 more than eight miles. In some places the route was no! 
 straight, but somewhat circuitous, and in others almost hori- 
 zontal, though the average declivity was about one foot in 
 seventeen. Harry, I hope I am exact enough to please 
 you." 
 
 "And to instruct me too," said Harry, "for I could not 
 tell how wonderful the thing really was without knowing all 
 this." 
 
 " Did Mr. Playfair and his nephew stand at the top or 
 bottom of the hill, sir ?" said Lucy ; " did they look down 
 upon the falling trees, or up the hill, to them, as they were 
 descending ?" " Up to them," said Sir Rupert. M They 
 stationed themselves near the bottom of the descent, and 
 close to the edge of the slide, so that they might see the 
 trees projected into the lake. Their guide, however, did 
 not relish this amusement ; he hid himself behind a tree, 
 where, for his comfort, the engineer, Mr. Rupp, told him he 
 was not in the least degree safer than they were. The 
 ground where they stood had but a very slight declivity, yet 
 the astonishing velocity with which the tree passed, and the 
 force with which it seemed to shake the trough, were, Mr. 
 Playfair says, altogether formidable. You, Harry, who are 
 a mechanic, must be aware, that with bodies of such weight, 
 descending with such accelerated rapidity, there would be 
 great danger if any sudden check occurred ; but, so judicious 
 were the signals, and all the precautions taken by this engi- 
 neer, that, during the whole time the Slide of Alpnach was 
 in use, very few accidents happened. The enterprise, 
 begun and completed so as to be fit for use in the course of 
 a few months, succeeded entirely, and rewarded, I believe 
 with fortune, I am sure with reputation, the ingenious and 
 courageous engineer by whom it was planned and executed 
 in defiance of all the prophecies against him. The learned, 
 as well as the unlearned, when first they heard of it, con- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 233 
 
 demned the attempt as rash and absurd. Some set to work 
 with calculations, and proved, as they thought, and I own as 
 I should have thought, that the friction would be so great, 
 that no tree could ever slide down, but that it must wedge 
 itself, and stick in the trough. Others imagined they foresaw 
 a far greater danger, from the rapidity of the motion, and 
 predicted that the trough would take fire." 
 
 " That is what I should have been most afraid of," said 
 Harry. " And your fear would have been rational and just," 
 said Sir Rupert. " This must have happened, but for a cer- 
 tain precaution, which effectually counteracted the danger. 
 Can you guess what that precaution was, Harry ?" 
 
 Harry answered, that perhaps water might have been let 
 into the trough. 
 
 " Exactly so, Harry," said Sir Rupert ; " the mountain 
 streams were in several places conveyed over the edges, and, 
 running along the trough, kept it constantly moist." 
 
 After this, Sir Rupert and Harry's father began to talk to 
 each other about some curious circumstances concerning the 
 Slide of Alpnach, which have puzzled men of science and 
 philosophers. Harry did not comprehend all they were say- 
 ing ; but his curiosity was often excited by what little he did 
 understand. 
 
 His father said, that he could better have conceived the 
 possibility of the safe descent of the trees on this wooden 
 road, if it had been in one straight, uninterrupted line ; but 
 there were, as it appeared, bends in the road. He should 
 have judged beforehand, that a descending body of such mo- 
 mentum (weight and velocity) could not have had the direc- 
 tion of its motion changed as suddenly at these turns as 
 would be necessary, and he should have thought, that either 
 the side of the trough, against which the tree would strike at 
 the bend, must have been broken, or, more probably, that the 
 tree would, by its acquired velocity, have bolted in a straight 
 line over the side of the trough. Sir Rupert said, that he 
 should have thought the same, beforehand ; and both agreed, 
 that the facts ascertained by the unexpected success of this 
 Slide of Alpnach, opened new views and new questions of 
 philosophical discussion, as the result was contrary to some 
 of the generally received opinions of mechanics, respecting 
 friction especially. 
 20* 
 
234 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CVIII. 
 
 Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. 
 Mrs. Barbauld. 
 
 As most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from 
 disappointed desires than from positive evil, it is of the ut- 
 most consequence to attain just notions of the laws and order 
 of the universe, that we may not vex ourselves with fruitless 
 wishes, or give way to groundless and unreasonable discon- 
 tent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, are tolerably 
 understood and attended to ; and, though we may suffer in- 
 conveniences, we are seldom disappointed in consequence 
 of them. No man expects to preserve orange-trees in the 
 open air through an English winter ; or, when he has planted 
 an acorn, to see it become a large oak in a few months. 
 The mind of man naturally yields to necessity ; and our 
 wishes soon subside when we see the impossibility of their 
 being gratified. 
 
 Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall find, in the 
 moral government of the world, and the order of the intel- 
 lectual system, laws as determinate, fixed and invariable as 
 any in Newton's Principia. The progress of vegetation is 
 not more certain than the growth of habit ; nor is the power 
 of attraction more clearly proved than the force of affection 
 or the influence of example. The man, therefore, who has 
 well studied the operations of nature, in mind as well as mat- 
 ter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity in his claims 
 upon Providence. He never will be disappointed either in 
 himself or others. He will act with precision ; and expect 
 that effect, and that alone, from his efforts, which they are 
 naturally adapted to produce. 
 
 For want of this, men of merit and integrity often censure 
 the dispositions of Providence for suffering characters they 
 despise to run away with advantages which, they yet know, 
 are purchased by such means as a high and noble spirit could 
 never submit to. If you refuse to pay the price, why expect 
 the purchase ? We should consider this world as a great 
 mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view vari- 
 ous commodities, riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, 
 •knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our 
 time, our labour, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, 
 which we are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, 
 compare, choose, reject ; but stand to your own judgment ; 
 and do not, like children, when you have purchased one 
 thing, repine that you do not possess another, which you did 
 not purchase. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 235 
 
 Such is the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady 
 and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, 
 will generally ensure success. Would you, for instance, be 
 rich ? Do you think that single point worth the sacrificing 
 every thing else to ? You may then be rich. Thousands 
 have become so from the lowest beginnings by toil, and pa- 
 tient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of ex- 
 pense and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of 
 leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free, unsuspicious temper. 
 If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and 
 vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals, 
 which you brought with you from the schools, must be con- 
 siderably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jeal- 
 ous and worldly-minded prudence. You must learn to do 
 hard, if not unjust things ; and, for the nice embarrassments 
 of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary for you to 
 get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your 
 heart against the Muses, and be content to feed your under- 
 standing with plain, household truths. In short, you must 
 not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or 
 refine your sentiments ; but must keep on in one beaten 
 track, without turning aside either to the right hand or to 
 the left. " But I cannot submit to drudgery like this — I feel 
 a spirit above it." 'Tis well : be above it, then ; only do not 
 repine that you are not rich. 
 
 Is knowledge the pearl of price ? That too may be pur- 
 chased — by steady application, and long, solitary hours of 
 study and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be wise. 
 " But (says the man of letters) what a hardship is it that 
 many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of 
 the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune, and make a 
 figure, while I have little more than the common conveni- 
 ences of life." Was it in order to raise a fortune that you 
 consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retire- 
 ment ? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the mid- 
 night lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek and 
 Roman spring ? You have then mistaken your path, and ill- 
 employed your industry. " What reward have I then for 
 all my labours?" What reward ! A large, comprehensive 
 soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and 
 prejudices ; able to comprehend and interpret the works of 
 man — of God : a rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, preg- 
 nant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflec- 
 tion : ?> perpetual spring of fresh ideas ; and the conscious 
 dignity of superior intelligence. Good heaven ! and what 
 reward can vou ask besides ? 
 
23 G THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 " But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Provi- 
 dence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should 
 have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation?" No 
 in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty fellow for that 
 very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his lib- 
 erty for it ; and will you envy him his bargain ? Will you 
 hang your head, and blush in his presence, because he out- 
 shines you in equipage and show ? Lift up your brow with 
 a noble confidence, and say to yourself, I have not these 
 things, it is true ; but it is because I have not sought, be- 
 cause I have not desired them ; it is because I possess 
 something better. I have chosen my lot. I am content 
 and satisfied. 
 
 You are a modest man ; you love quiet and independence, 
 and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper, which ren- 
 der it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, 
 and be the herald of your own merits. Be content then 
 with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate 
 friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate, 
 ingenuous spirit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the 
 world to those who can better scramble for them. 
 
 The man, whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict 
 regard to the rules of morality make him scrupulous and 
 fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disad- 
 vantages he lies under in every path of honour and profit. 
 " Could I but get over some nice points, and conform to the 
 practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair 
 a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why 
 can you not ? What hinders you from discarding this trouble- 
 some scrupulosity of yours, which stands so grievously in 
 your way ? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful mind, 
 sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the keen- 
 est inspection ; inward freedom from remorse and perturba- 
 tion ; unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners ; a gen- 
 uine integrity, 
 
 " Pure in the last recesses of the mind }" 
 
 if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for 
 what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a 
 slave-merchant, a parasite, or — what you please. 
 
 " If these be motives weak, break off betimes j" 
 
 and, as you have not spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be 
 wise enough not to forego the emoluments of vice. 
 
 I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in 
 that they never attempted, as our moralists often do, to lower 
 the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent with all the 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 237 
 
 indulgences of indolence and sensuality. They never 
 thought of having the bulk of mankind for their disciples ; 
 but kept themselves as distinct as possible from a worldly 
 life. They plainly told men what sacrifices were required, 
 and what advantages they were which might be expected. 
 If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You 
 must do thus and thus : there is no other way. If not, go 
 and be one of the vulgar. 
 
 LESSON CIX. 
 On Plants. — Ibid. 
 
 Plants stand next to animals in the scale of existence : 
 they are, like them, organized bodies ; like them, increase 
 by nutrition, which is conveyed through a system of tubes 
 and fine vessels, and assimilated to their substance ; like 
 them, they propagate their race from a parent, and each seed 
 produces its own plant ; like them, they grow by insensible 
 degrees from an infant state to full vigour, and, after a certain 
 term of maturity, decay and die. In short, except the pow- 
 ers of speech and locomotion, they seem to possess every 
 characteristic of sentient life. 
 
 A plant consists of a root, a stem, leaves, and a flower or 
 blossom. 
 
 The root is bulbous, as the onion ; long, like the parsnip 
 or carrot ; or branched out into threads, as the greater num- 
 ber are, and particularly all the large ones : — a bulbous root 
 could not support a large tree. 
 
 The stem is single or branched, clinging for support or 
 upright, clothed with a skin or bark. 
 
 The flower contains the principle of reproduction, as the 
 root does of individuality. This is the most precious part 
 of the plant, to which every thing contributes. The root 
 nourishes it, the stem supports, the leaves defend and shelter 
 it : it comes forth but when Nature has prepared for it by 
 showers, and sun, and gentle, soothing warmth ; — colour, 
 beauty, scent, adorn it ; and when it is complete, the end of 
 the plant's existence is answered. It fades and dies ; or, if 
 capable by its perennial nature of repeating the process, it 
 hides in its inmost folds the precious germ of new being, 
 and itself almost retires from existence till a new year. 
 
 A tree is one of the most stately and beautiful objects in 
 God's visible creation. It does not admit of an exact defini- 
 tion, but is distinguished from the humbler plant by its size, 
 the strength of its stem, which becomes a trunk, and the 
 
238 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 comparative smallness of the blossom. In the fruit-trees, 
 indeed, the number of blossoms compensates for their want 
 of size ; but in the forest-trees the flower is scarcely visible. 
 Production seems not to be so important a process where the 
 parent tree lives for centuries. 
 
 Every part of vegetables is useful. Of many the roots are 
 edible, and the seeds are generally so ; of many the leaves, 
 as of the cabbage, spinach ; the buds, as of the asparagus, 
 cauliflower ; the bark is often employed medicinally, as the 
 quinquina and cinnamon. 
 
 The trunk of a tree determines the manner of its growth, 
 and gives firmness ; the foliage serves to form one mass of a 
 number of trees ; while the. distinct lines are partly seen, 
 partly hidden. The leaves throw over the branches a rich 
 mantle, like flowing tresses ; they wave in the wind with 
 an undulatory motion, catch the glow of the evening sun, 
 or glitter with the rain ; they shelter innumerable birds 
 and animals, and afford variety in colours, from the bright 
 green of spring to the varied tints of autumn. In winter, 
 however, the form of each tree and its elegant ramifications 
 are discerned, which were lost under the flowing robe of 
 verdure. 
 
 Trees are beautiful in all combinations : the single tree is 
 so ; the clamp, the grove, rising like an amphitheatre ; the 
 flowing line that marks the skirts of the wood, and the dark, 
 deep, boundless shade of the forest ; the green line of the 
 hedge-row, the more artificial avenue, the gothic arch of 
 verdure, the tangled thicket. 
 
 Young trees are distinguished by beauty ; in maturity their 
 characteristic is strength. ' The ruin of a tree is venerable 
 even when fallen : we are then more sensible of its tower- 
 ing height : we also observe the root, the deep fangs which 
 held it against so many storms, and the firmness of the wood; 
 a sentiment of pity mixes, too, with our admiration. The trees 
 in groves and woods shed a brown, religious horror, which 
 favoured the religion of the ancient world. Trees shelter 
 from cutting winds and sea air; they preserve moisture : but, 
 if too many, in their thick and heavy mass lazy vapours stag- 
 nate ; their profuse perspiration is unwholesome ; they shut 
 out the golden sun and ventilating breeze. 
 
 It should seem as if the number of trees must have been 
 diminishing for ages, for in no cultivated country does the 
 growth of trees equal the waste of them. A few gentlemen 
 raise plantations, but many more cut down ; and the farmer 
 thinks not of so lofty a thing as the growth of ages. Trees 
 are too lofty to want f he hand of man. The florist may mi::- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 239 
 
 gle his tulips, and spread the paper ruff on his carnations ; 
 he may trim his mount of roses and his laurel hedge ; but 
 the lofty growth of trees soars far above him. If he presumes 
 to fashion them with his shears, and trim them into fanciful 
 or mathematical shapes, offended taste will mock all his im- 
 provements. Even in planting he can do little. He may 
 succeed in fancying a clump, or laying out an avenue, and 
 may perhaps gently incline the boughs to form the arch ; but 
 a forest was never planted. 
 
 LESSON CX. 
 
 An Address to the Deity. — Ibid. 
 
 God of my life ! and author of my days ! 
 Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 
 And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue 
 That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. 
 Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
 Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. 
 Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, 
 Are equal all, — for all are nothing here. 
 All nature faints beneath the mighty name, 
 Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim. 
 I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, 
 And breathe an awful stillness through my soul ; 
 As by a charm the waves of grief subside, 
 Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide : 
 At thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
 And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, 
 Till every worldly thought within me dies, 
 And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; 
 Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 
 And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
 
 But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
 My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
 With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, 
 And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
 But he, our gracious Master, kind as just, 
 Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
 His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
 Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined ; 
 Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 
 His ears are open to the softest cry ; 
 His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; 
 
240 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 He reads the language of a silent tear, 
 And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
 Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
 Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live : 
 From each terrestrial bondage set me free ; 
 Still every wish that centres not in thee ; 
 Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, 
 And point my path to everlasting peace. 
 
 If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads 
 By living waters and through flowery meads, 
 When all is smiling, tranquil and serene, 
 And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
 
 teach me to elude each latent snare, 
 And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware ! 
 With caution let me hear the siren's voice, 
 And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. 
 If, friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, 
 
 Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, 
 Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
 And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; 
 With equal eye my various lot receive, 
 Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
 Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
 While God is seen in all, and all in God. 
 
 I read his awful name, emblazoned high 
 With golden letters on th' illumined sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree ; 
 In every leaf that trembles to the breeze 
 
 1 hear the voice of God among the trees ; 
 With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
 With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; 
 In every creature own thy forming power, 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 
 Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
 Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears control : 
 Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms, 
 Secure within the temple of thine arms ; 
 From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
 And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
 
 Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 241 
 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
 And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. 
 
 LESSON CXI. 
 
 . A Thought on Death. — Ibid. 
 
 When life, as opening buds, is sweet, 
 And golden hopes the fancy greet, 
 And youth prepares his joys to meet, — 
 Alas ! how hard it is to die ! 
 
 When just is seized some valued prize, 
 And duties press, and tender ties 
 Forbid the soul from earth to rise, — 
 How awful then it is to die ! 
 
 When, one by one, those ties are torn, 
 And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, 
 And man is left alone to mourn, — 
 Ah ! then, how easy 'tis to die ! 
 
 When faith is firm, and conscience clear, 
 And words of peace the spirit cheer, 
 And visioned glories half appear, — 
 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die. 
 
 When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
 And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, 
 And clouds obscure the mental light, — 
 'Tis nature's precious boon to die. 
 
 LESSON CXII. 
 
 The Court and Character of Queen Elizabeth. — Lucy Aikin. 
 
 The ceremonial of Elizabeth's court rivalled the servility of 
 the East : no person, of whatever rank, ventured to address 
 her otherwise than kneeling ; and this attitude was preserved 
 by all her ministers during their audiences of business, with 
 the exception of Burleigh, in whose favour, when aged and 
 infirm, she dispensed with its observance. Hentsner, a Ger- 
 man traveller, who visited England near the conclusion of 
 her reign, relates, that, as she passed through several apart- 
 ments from the chapel to dinner, wherever she turned her 
 eyes, he observed the spectators throw themselves on their 
 knees. The same traveller further relates, that the officers 
 and ladies, whose business it was to arrange the dishes, and 
 21 
 
242 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 give tastes of them to the yeoman of the guard by whom they 
 were brought in, did not presume to approach the royal table 
 without repeated prostrations and genuflections, and every 
 mark of reverence due to her majesty in person. The appro- 
 priation of her time, and the arrangement of her domestic 
 life, present more favourable traits. 
 
 First, in the morning, she spent some time at her devo- 
 tions ; then she betook herself to the despatch of her civil 
 affairs, reading letters, ordering answers, considering what 
 should be brought before the council, and consulting with 
 her ministers. When she had thus wearied herself, she 
 would walk in a shady garden or pleasant gallery, without 
 any other attendance than that of a few learned men. Then 
 she took her coach, and passed in the sight of her people to 
 the neighbouring groves and fields, and sometimes would 
 hunt or hawk. There was scarce a day but she employed 
 some part of it in reading and study ; sometimes before she 
 entered upon her state affairs, sometimes after them. 
 
 She slept little, seldom drank wine, was sparing in her 
 diet, and a religious observer of the fasts. She sometimes 
 dined alone, but more commonly had with her some of her 
 friends. At supper she would divert herself with her friends 
 and attendants ; and, if they made her no answer, would put 
 them upon mirth and pleasant discourse with great civility. 
 She would then, also, admit Tarleton, a famous comedian 
 and pleasant talker, and other such men, to divert her with 
 stories of the town, and the common jests and accidents. 
 She would recreate herself with a game at chess, dancing, 
 or singing. She would often play at cards and tables ; and, 
 if at any time she happened to win, she would be sure to 
 demand the money. Some lady always slept in her cham- 
 ber ; and, besides her guards, there was always a gentleman 
 of good quality, and some others, up in the next chamber, to 
 wake her if any thing extraordinary happened. 
 
 She loved a prudent and moderate habit in her private 
 apartment, and conversation with her own servants ; but, 
 when she appeared in public, she was ever richly adorned 
 with the most valuable clothes, set off again with much gold 
 and jewels of inestimable value ; and on such occasions she 
 ever wore high shoes, that she might seem taller than indeed 
 she was. The first day of the parliament she would appear 
 in a robe embroidered with pearls, the royal crown on her 
 head, the golden ball in her left hand, and the sceptre in her 
 right ; and, as she never failed then of the loud acclamations 
 of her people, so she was ever pleased with it, and went 
 along in a kind of triumph, with all the ensigns of majesty. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 243 
 
 The royal name was ever venerable to the English people, but 
 this queen's name was more sacred than any of her ancestors. 
 
 In the furniture of her palaces she ever affected magnifi- 
 cence, and an extraordinary splendour. She adorned the 
 galleries with pictures by the best artists ; the walls she 
 covered with rich tapestries. She was a true lover of jew- 
 els, pearls, all 'sorts of precious stones, gold and silver plate, 
 rich beds, fine couches, and chariots, Persian and Indian 
 carpets, statues, medals, &c, which she would purchase at 
 great prices. Hampton Court was the most richly furnished 
 of all her palaces ; and here she had caused her naval vic- 
 tories against the Spaniards to be worked in fine tapestries, 
 and laid up among the richest pieces of her wardrobe. When 
 she made any public feasts, her tables were magnificently 
 served, and many side-tables adorned with rich plate. At 
 these times many of the nobility waited on her at table. 
 She made the greatest display of her regal magnificence 
 when foreign ambassadors were present. At these times she 
 would also have vocal and instrumental music during dinner, 
 and after dinner dancing. 
 
 The queen was laudably watchful over the morals of her 
 court ; and, not content with dismissing from her service, or 
 banishing her presence, such of her female attendants as 
 were found offending against the laws of chastity, she was 
 equitable enough to visit with marks of her displeasure the 
 libertinism of the other sex ; and in several instances she 
 deferred the promotion of otherwise deserving young men, 
 till she saw them reform their manners in this respect. 
 Europe had assuredly never beheld a court so decent, so 
 learned, or so accomplished as hers. 
 
 LESSON CXIII. 
 
 Female Accomplishments. — Hannah More. 
 
 A young lady may excel in speaking French and Italian ; 
 may repeat a few passages from a volume of extracts ; play 
 like a professor, and sing like a siren ; have her dressing 
 room decorated with her own drawing, tables, stands, flowei 
 pots, screens, and cabinets ; nay, she may dance like Sem- 
 pronia herself, and yet we shall insist that she may have 
 been very badly educated. I am far from meaning to set no 
 value whatever on any or all of these qualifications ; they are 
 all of them elegant, and many of them properly tend to the 
 perfecting of a polite education. These things, in their mea- 
 sure and degree, may be done ; but there are others, which 
 
244 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 should not be left undone. Many things are becoming, but 
 " one thing is needful." Besides, as the world seems to be 
 fully apprized of the value of whatever tends to embellish 
 life, there is less occasion here to insist on its importance. 
 
 But, though a well bred young lady may lawfully learn 
 most of the fashionable arts ; yet, let me ask, does it seem to 
 be the true end of education to make women of fashion dan- 
 cers, singers, players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gilders, 
 varnishers, engravers, and embroiderers ? Most men are com- 
 monly destined to some profession, and their minds are 
 consequently turned each to its respective object. Would it 
 not be strange if they were called out to exercise their pro- 
 fession, or to set up their trade, with only a little general 
 knowledge of the trades and professions of all other men, 
 and without any previous definite application to their own 
 peculiar calling ? The profession of ladies, to which the bent 
 of their instruction should be turned, is that of daughters, 
 wives, mothers, and mistresses of families. They should be 
 therefore trained with a view to these several conditions, 
 and be furnished with a stock of ideas, and principles, and 
 qualifications, and habits, ready to be applied and appropri- 
 ated, as occasion may demand, to each of these respective 
 situations. For though the arts, which merely embellish life, 
 must claim admiration ; yet, when a man of sense comes to 
 marry, it is a companion whom he wants, and not an artist. 
 It is not merely a creature who can paint, and play, and sing, 
 and draw, and dress, and dance; it is a being who can com- 
 fort and counsel him ; one who can reason, and reflect, and 
 feel, and judge, and discourse, and discriminate ; one who 
 can assist him in his affairs, lighten his cares, soothe his sor- 
 rows, purify his joys, strengthen his principles, and educate 
 his children. 
 
 LESSON CXIV. 
 
 Fatal Termination of a Highland Feud. — Anonymous. 
 
 A deadly feud subsisted, almost from time immemorial, 
 between the families of Macpherson of Bendearg, and Grant 
 of Cairn, and was handed down unimpaired even to the close 
 of the last century. In earlier times the warlike chiefs of 
 these names found frequent opportunities of testifying their 
 mutual animosity ; and few inheritors of the fatal quarrel left 
 the world without having moistened it with the blood of 
 some of their hereditary enemies. But, in our own day, the 
 progress of civilization, which had reached even these wild 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 245 
 
 countries, the heart of the North Highlands, although it could 
 not extinguish entirely the transmitted spirit of revenge, at 
 least kept it within safe bounds ; and the feud of Macpherson 
 and Grant threatened, in the course of another generation, to 
 die entirely away, or, at least, to exist only in some vexatious 
 law-suit, fostered by the petty jealousies of two men of hos- 
 tile tempers and contiguous property. 
 
 It was not, however, without some ebullitions of ancient 
 fierceness, that the flame, which had burned for so many 
 centuries, seemed about to expire. Once, at a meeting of 
 the country gentlemen, on a question of privilege arising, 
 Bendearg took occasion to throw out some taunts, aimed at 
 his hereditary foe, which the fiery Grant immediately receiv- 
 ed as the signal of defiance, and a challenge was the conse- 
 quence. The sheriff of the county, however, having got 
 intimation of the affair, put both parties under arrest ; till 
 at length, by the persuasions of their friends, — not friends 
 by blood, — and the representations of the magistrate, they 
 shook hands, and each pledged his honour to forget — at least 
 never again to remember in speech or action — the ancient feud 
 of his family. This occurrence, at the time, was the object 
 of much interest in the country-side; the rather that it seem- 
 ed to give the lie to the prophecies, of which every Highland 
 family has an ample stock in its traditionary chronicles, and 
 which expressly predicted, that the enmity of Cairn and Ben- 
 dearg should not be quenched but in blood; and on this 
 seemingly cross-grained circumstance, some of the young 
 men, who had begun already to be tainted with the heresies 
 of the Lowlands, were seen to shake their heads, as they 
 reflected on the tales and the faith of their ancestors ; but 
 the gray-headed seers shook theirs still more wisely, and an- 
 swered with the motto of a noble house, — " I bide my time." 
 
 There is a narrow pass between the mountains, in the 
 neighbourhood of Bendearg, well known to the traveller 
 who adventures into these wilds in quest of the savage sub- 
 limities of nature. At a little distance it has the appearance 
 of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a tremendous 
 chasm, but, on nearer approach, is seen to be a wall of na- 
 ture's own masonry, formed of vast and rugged bodies of 
 solid rock, piled on each other as if in the giant sport of the 
 architect. Its sides are in some places covered with trees 
 of a considerable size ; and the passenger, who has a head 
 steady enough to look down the precipice, may see the 
 eyries of birds of prey beneath his feet. The path across is 
 so narrow, that it cannot admit of two persons passing along- 
 side ; and, indeed, none but natives, accustomed to the scene 
 21* 
 
246 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 from infancy, would attempt the dangerous route at all, though 
 it saves a circuit of three miles. Yet it sometimes happens, 
 that two travellers meet in the middle, owing to the curve 
 formed by the pass preventing a view across from either 
 side ; and, when this is the case, one is obliged to lie down, 
 while the other crawls over his body. 
 
 One day, shortly after the incident we have mentioned, a 
 highlander was walking fearlessly along the pass ; sometimes 
 bending over to watch the flight of the wild birds that built 
 below, and sometimes detaching a fragment from the top to 
 see it dashed against the uneven sides, and bounding from 
 rock to rock, its rebound echoing the while like a human 
 voice, and dying in faint and hollow murmurs at the bottom. 
 When he had gained the highest part of the arch, he ob- 
 served another coming leisurely up on the opposite side, and, 
 being himself of the patrician order, called out to him to halt 
 and lie down ; the person, however, disregarded the com- 
 mand, and the highlanders met face to face on the summit. 
 They were Cairn and Bendearg ! the two hereditary enemies, 
 who would have gloried and rejoiced in mortal strife with 
 each other on a hill-side. They turned deadly pale at this 
 fatal rencontre. "I was first at the top," said Bendearg, and 
 called out first, "Lie down, that I may pass over in peace." 
 
 "When the Grant prostrates himself before Macpherson, " 
 answered the other, "it must be with a sword driven through 
 his body. " " Turn back, then, " said Bendearg, " and repass 
 as you came. " "Go back yourself, if you like it," replied 
 Grant ; " I will not be the first of my name to turn before 
 the Macpherson." This was their short conference, and 
 the result exactly as each had anticipated ; — they then threw 
 their bonnets over the precipice, and advanced, with a slow 
 and cautious pace, closer to each other ; they were both un- 
 armed ; and, stretching their limbs like men preparing for a 
 desperate struggle, they planted their feet, firmly on the 
 ground, compressed their lips, knit their dark brows, and, 
 fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood there 
 prepared for the onset. 
 
 They both grappled at the same moment; but, being of 
 equal strength, were unable for some time to shift each other's 
 position, — standing fixed on a rock with suppressed breath, 
 and muscles strained to the "top of their heart," like statues 
 carved out of the solid stone. At length Macpherson, sud- 
 denly removing his right foot, so as to give him greater 
 purchase, stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with 
 him by main strength, till they both leaned over the precipice, 
 looking downward into the terrible abyss. The contest was 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 247 
 
 as yet doubtful, for Grant had placed his foot firmly on an 
 elevation at the brink, and had equal command of his enemy, 
 — but at this moment Macpherson sunk slowly and firmly on 
 his knee, and, while Grant suddenly started back, stooping 
 to take the supposed advantage, whirled him over his head 
 into the gulf. Macpherson himself fell backwards, his body 
 hanging partly over the rock; a fragment gave way beneath 
 him, and he sunk farther, till, catching with a desperate effort 
 at the solid stone above, he regained his footing. 
 
 There was a pause of death-like stillness, and the bold 
 heart of Macpherson felt sick and faint. At length, as if 
 compelled unwillingly by some mysterious feeling, he looked 
 down over the precipice. Grant had caught with a death- 
 gripe by the rugged point of a rock — his enemy was almost 
 within his reach ! — his face was turned upwards, and there 
 was in it horror and despair, — but he uttered no word or cry. 
 The next moment he loosed his hold, — and the next his 
 brains were dashed out before the eyes of his hereditary foe ' 
 The mangled body disappeared among the trees, and its last 
 heavy and hollow sound arose from the bottom. Macpherson 
 returned home an altered man. He purchased a commission 
 in the army, and fell in the wars of the Peninsula. 
 
 LESSON CXV. 
 Home. — Bernard Barton. 
 
 Where burns the loved hearth brightest, 
 
 Cheering the social breast ? 
 Where beats the fond heart lightest, 
 
 Its humble hopes possessed ? 
 Where is the smile of sadness, 
 
 Of meek-eyed patience born, 
 Worth more than those of gladness 
 
 Which mirth's bright cheek adorn ? 
 Pleasure is marked by fleetness, 
 
 To those who ever roam ; 
 While grief itself has sweetness 
 
 At Home ! dear home ! 
 
 There blend the ties that strengthen 
 
 Our hearts in hours of grief, 
 The silver links that lengthen 
 
 Joy's visits when most brief ; 
 There eyes, in all their splendour, 
 
 Are vocal to the heart, 
 
248 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 And glances, gay or tender, 
 
 Fresh eloquence impart; 
 Then dost thou sigh for pleasure ! 
 
 ! do not widely roam ; 
 But seek that hidden treasure 
 
 At Home ! dear home ! 
 
 Does pure religion charm thee 
 
 Far more than aught below ? 
 Wouldst thou that she should arm thee 
 
 Against the hour of wo ? 
 Think not she dwelleth only 
 
 In temples built for prayer ; 
 For Home itself is lonely 
 
 Unless her smiles be there ; 
 The devotee may falter, 
 
 The bigot blindly roam ; 
 If worshipless her altar 
 
 At Home ! dear home ! 
 
 Love over it presideth, 
 
 With meek and watchful awe, 
 Its daily service guideth, 
 
 And shows its perfect law ; 
 If there thy faith shall fail thee, 
 
 If there no shrine be found, 
 What can thy prayers avail thee 
 
 With kneeling crowds around ? 
 Go ! leave thy gift unotfered 
 
 Beneath Religion's dome, 
 And be her first-fruits proffered 
 
 At Home ! dear home ! 
 
 .aSjS, 
 
 LESSON CXVI. 
 Adventures of a bashful Man. — Anonymous. 
 
 And now, sir, behold me, at the age of twenty-five, well 
 stocked with Latin, Greek, and mathematics, possessed of 
 an ample fortune, but so awkward and unversed in any gen- 
 tlemanlike accomplishment, that I am pointed at by all who 
 see me as the wealthy, learned clown. 
 
 I have lately purchased an estate in the country, which 
 abounds in what is called a fashionable neighbourhood ; and, 
 when you reflect upon my parentage and uncouth manner, 
 you will hardly think how much my company is courted by 
 the surrounding families, especially by those who have mar- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 249 
 
 riageable daughters. From these gentlemen I have received 
 familiar calls, and the most pressing invitations; and, though 
 I wished to accept their offered friendship, I have repeatedly 
 excused myself under the pretence of not being quite settled ; 
 for the truth is, that when I have rode or walked, with full 
 intention to return their several visits, my heart has failed me 
 as I approached their gates, and I have frequently returned 
 homeward, resolving to try again to-morrow. 
 
 However, I at length determined to conquer my timidity, 
 and three days ago accepted of an invitation to dine this day 
 with one whose open, easy manner left me no room to doubt, 
 a cordial welcome. Sir Thomas Friendly, who lives about 
 two miles distant, is a baronet, with an estate of about two 
 thousand pounds a year, joining to that I purchased. He 
 has two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living 
 with their mother, and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's, at 
 Friendly-Hall^ dependent on their father. 
 
 Conscious of my unpolished gait, I have for some time past 
 taken private lessons from a professor who teaches " grown 
 gentlemen to dance;" and, although I at first found won- 
 drous difficulty in the art he taught, my knowledge of 
 mathematics was of prodigious use in teaching me the equi- 
 librium of my body, and the due adjustment of the centre of 
 gravity to the five positions. Having now acquired the art 
 of walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I 
 boldly ventured to accept the Baronet's invitation to a family 
 dinner, not doubting but my new acquirements would enable 
 me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity ; but, alas ! 
 how vain are all the hopes of theory when unsupported by 
 habitual practice ! 
 
 As I approached the house, a dinner bell alarmed my fears 
 lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality. Im- 
 pressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson as 
 my name was repeatedly announced by the several livery 
 servants, who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing 
 what or whom I saw. At my first entrance I summoned 
 all my fortitude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady 
 Friendly ; but, unfortunately, bringing back my left foot to 
 the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir 
 Thomas, who had followed close at my heels to be the nom- 
 enclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me 
 is hardly to be conceived, since none but bashful men can 
 judge of my distress; and, of that description, the number, I 
 believe, is very small. The Baronet's politeness by de- 
 grees dissipated my concern ; and I was astonished to see how 
 far good-breeding could enable him to suppress his feelings, 
 
250 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 and to appear with perfect ease after so painful an acci- 
 dent. 
 
 The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of 
 the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve 
 and sheepishness, till at length I ventured to join in conver- 
 sation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library being 
 richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, I conceived 
 Sir Thomas to be a man of literature ; and ventured to give 
 my opinion concerning the several editions of the Greek clas- 
 sics, in which the Baronet's ideas exactly coincided with 
 my own. To this subject I was led by observing an edition 
 of Xenophon in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never be- 
 fore heard of such a thing) greatly excited my curiosity, and I 
 rose up to examine what it could be. Sir Thomas saw what 
 I was about, and, (as I supposed,) willing to save me trouble, 
 rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to 
 prevent him ; and, hastily laying my hand on the first volume, 
 I pulled it forcibly ; but, lo ! instead of books, a board, 
 which, by leather and gilding, had been made to look like 
 sixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched 
 upon a Wedgewood ink-stand on the table under it. In vain 
 did Sir Thomas assure me there was no harm. I saw the 
 ink streaming from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, 
 scarce knowing what I did, attempted to stop its progress 
 with my cambrick handkerchief. In the height of this con- 
 fusion we were informed that dinner was served up; and I 
 with joy then understood that the bell, which at first had so- 
 alarmed my fears, was only the half-hour dinner-bell. 
 
 In walking through the hall and suite* of apartments to 
 the dining-room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, 
 and was desired to take my seat betwixt Lady Friendly and 
 her eldest daughter at the table. Since the fall of the wood- 
 en Xenophon, my face had been continually burning like a 
 fire-brand ; and I was just beginning to recover myself, and 
 to feel comfortably cool, when an unlooked-for accident rekin- 
 dled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup 
 too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, 
 who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I 
 tumbled the whole scalding contents into my lap. In spite 
 of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my 
 clothes, my black silk dress was not stout enough to save me 
 from the painful effects of this sudden fomentation, and for 
 some minutes I seemed to be in a boiling caldron ; but, 
 recollecting how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture when 
 
 # Pron. sweet. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 251 
 
 I trod upon his toes, I firmly bore my pain in silence, and 
 sat with my lower extremities parboiled, amidst the stifled 
 giggling of the ladies and the servants. 
 
 I will not relate the several blunders which I made during 
 the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being de- 
 sired to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood 
 near me, spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt- 
 cellar ; rather let me hasten to the second course, where fresh 
 disasters quite overwhelmed me. 
 
 I had a piece of rich sweet pudding on my fork, when Miss 
 Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that stood 
 near me. In my haste, scarce knowing what I did, I whip- 
 ped the pudding into my mouth hot as a burning coal : 
 it was impossible to conceal my agony ; my eyes were starting 
 from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolution, 
 I was obliged to drop the cause of torment on my plate. 
 Sir Thomas and the ladies all compassionated my misfortune, 
 and each advised a different application. One recommend- 
 ed oil, another water, but all agreed that wine was best 
 for drawing out the heat ; and a glass of sherry was brought 
 me from the sideboard, which I snatched up with eagerness : 
 but, oh ! how shall I tell the sequel ? Whether the butler by 
 accident mistook, or purposely designed to drive me mad, he 
 gave me the strongest brandy, with which I filled my mouth 
 already flayed and blistered. Totally unused to every kind 
 of ardent spirits, with my tongue, throat, and palate as raw 
 as beef, what could I do ? I could not swallow ; and, clapping 
 my hands upon my mouth, the liquor forced its way through 
 my fingers over the table, — and I was crushed by bursts of 
 laughter from all quarters. 
 
 In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and Lady 
 Friendly chide her daughters ; for the measure of my shame 
 and their diversion was not yet complete. To relieve me 
 from the intolerable state of perspiration which this accident 
 had caused, without considering what I did, I wiped my 
 face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was still wet from 
 the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my 
 features with streaks of ink in every direction. The Baronet 
 himself could not support this shock, but joined his lady in 
 the general laugh ; while I sprung from the table in despair, 
 rushed out of the house, and ran home in an agony of confu- 
 sion and disgrace, which the most poignant sense of guilt 
 could not have excited. 
 
252 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXVII. 
 Education prevents Crime. — Edinburgh Review. 
 
 Crime,wc fear, must increase numerically in every nation^ 
 with the increase of population and wealth : but it is a great 
 mistake to suppose, that they increase more than acts of vir- 
 tue and beneficence, and a still greater to suppose, that any 
 part of the former increase is owing to the diffusion of 
 knowledge. This, on the contrary, is, beyond all doubt, a 
 great counteracting cause. Vice, it is now generally agreed, 
 proceeds from ignorance ; and the only sure way to reclaim or 
 to secure men from its temptations, is to instruct them as to 
 the consequences of their yielding. The great causes of 
 crime are, — the want of means to prosecute lawful industry 
 with success ; the want of habits of reflection and self-com- 
 mand to point out the consequences of misconduct, and to 
 ensure effect to the conviction ; and the want of innocent 
 and interesting occupations to dispel the ennui of idleness 
 and insignificance. Now, education strikes directly at the 
 root of all these causes of evil : and to say that a man, who 
 has been qualified by instruction for almost every species of 
 honest industry; whose faculties and powers of reflection have 
 been cultivated by study ; and to whom boundless sources 
 of interesting speculation and honourable ambition have 
 thus been laid open, is, in consequence of these very things, 
 more likely to commit crimes than one in opposite circum- 
 stances, is obviously to maintain, not an erroneous, but an 
 absurd proposition, and in fact to be guilty of a plain contra- 
 diction in terms. 
 
 It is very true that education will not absolutely eradicate 
 our evil propensities, and that to those depraved individuals, 
 whom it has not been able to correct, it may occasionally af- 
 ford the means of more deliberate and more effective guilt. 
 It is quite true, for example, that a man who has been taught 
 to write is better qualified to commit forgery than one who 
 has not. But it is equally true, that a man who can speak 
 is better fitted to commit perjury than one who is dumb ; 
 and that one who has been cured of palsy, is more likely 
 to engage in assaults than one who is still disabled by such 
 a malady : but it is no more the natural or common use of 
 the power of writing to facilitate forgery, than it is of speech 
 or manual vigour to forward deceit or violence ; — and the 
 reasoning is not less absurd, which would, on such grounds, 
 arraign the expediency of teaching all men to write, than 
 that by which it should be concluded, that the world would 
 be much happier and better if the bulk of mankind were 
 mute and incapable of motion ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 253 
 
 LESSON CXVIII. 
 
 Washington's Resignation of the Command of the American 
 
 Army. — Marshall. 
 
 On the 25th of November, 1783, the British troops evacu- 
 ated New York, and a detachment from the American army 
 took possession of that town. 
 
 The guards being posted for the security of the citizens, 
 G eneral Washington, accompanied by Governor Clinton, and 
 attended by many civil and military officers, and a large 
 number of respectable inhabitants on horseback, made his 
 public entry into the city ; where he was received with every 
 mark of respect and attention. His military course was now 
 on the point of terminating ; and, previous to divesting him- 
 self of the supreme command, he was about to bid adieu to 
 his comrades in arms. 
 
 The affecting interview took place on the 4th of Decem- 
 ber. At noon, the principal officers of the army assembled 
 at Frances' tavern ; soon after which their beloved comman- 
 der entered the room. His emotions were too strong to be 
 concealed. He turned to them and said, "With a heart full 
 of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you ; I most devoutly 
 wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy 
 as your former ones have been glorious and honourable." 
 He added, " I cannot come to each of you to take my leave, 
 but shall be obliged to you, if each of you will come and 
 take me by the hand." General Knox, being nearest, turned 
 to him. Incapable of utterance, Washington grasped his 
 hand, and embraced him. In the same affectionate manner 
 he took leave of each succeeding officer. In every eye was 
 the tear of dignified sensibility; and not a word was articu- 
 lated to interrupt the majestic silence and the tenderness of 
 the scene. 
 
 Leaving the room, he passed through the corps of light 
 infantry, and walked to White-hall, where a barge waited to 
 convey him to Powles' Hook. The whole company followed 
 in mute and solemn procession, with dejected countenances, 
 testifying feelings of delicious melancholy, which no language 
 can describe. Having entered the barge, he turned to the 
 company, and, waving his hat, bade them a silent adieu. 
 They paid him the same affectionate compliment, and, after 
 the barge had left them, returned in the same solemn manner 
 to the place where they had assembled. 
 
 Congress was then in session at Annapolis in Maryland, 
 to which place General Washington repaired for the purpose 
 of resigning into their hands the authority with which they 
 22 
 
254 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 had invested him. He arrived on the 19th of December. 
 The next day he informed that body of his intention to ask 
 leave to resign the commission he had the honour of hold- 
 ing in their service, and requested to know, whether it would 
 be their pleasure that he should offer his resignation in 
 writing or at an audience. 
 
 To give the more dignity to the act, they determined that 
 it should be offered at a public audience on the following 
 Tuesday, at twelve o'clock. 
 
 When the hour arrived for performing a ceremony so well 
 calculated to recall to the mind the various interesting scenes 
 which had passed since the commission now to be returned 
 was granted, the gallery was crowded with spectators ; and 
 many respectable persons, among whom were the legislative 
 and executive characters of the state, several general officers, 
 and the consul general of France, were admitted on the 
 floor of congress. 
 
 The representatives of the sovereignty of the union re- 
 mained seated and covered. The spectators were standing 
 and uncovered. The general was introduced by the secretary, 
 and conducted to a chair. After a decent interval, silence 
 was commanded, and a short pause ensued. The president* 
 then informed him, that "The United States in congress 
 assembled were prepared to receive his communications.''' 
 With a native dignity improved by the solemnity of the occa- 
 sion, the general rose, and delivered the following address : 
 " Mr. President, 
 
 "The great events, on which my resignation depended, 
 having at length taken place, I have now the honour of 
 offering my sincere congratulations to congress, and of pre- 
 senting myself before them, to surrender into their hands the 
 trust committed to me, and to claim the indulgence of retiring 
 from the service of my country. 
 
 " Happy in the confirmation of our independence and sove- 
 reignty, and pleased with the opportunity afforded the Unit- 
 ed States of becoming a respectable nation, I resign with 
 satisfaction the appointment I accepted with diffidence ; a 
 diffidence in my abilities to accomplish so arduous a task, 
 which, however, was superseded by a confidence in the 
 rectitude of our cause, the support of the supreme power of 
 the union, and the patronage of Heaven. 
 
 "The successful termination of the war has verified the 
 most sanguine expectations ; and my gratitude for the inter- 
 position of Providence, and the assistance I have received 
 from my countrymen, increases with every review of the 
 momentous contest. 
 
 # General Mifflin. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 255 
 
 " While I repeat my obligations to the army in general, I 
 should do injustice to my own feelings not to acknowledge, 
 this place, the peculiar services and distinguished merits 
 of the gentlemen who have been attached to my person dur- 
 ing the war. It was impossible the choice of confidential 
 officers to compose my family should have been more 
 fortunate. Permit me, sir, to recommend, in particular, 
 those who have continued in the service to the present mo- 
 ment, as worthy of the favourable notice and patronage of 
 congress. 
 
 " I consider it as an indispensable duty to close this last 
 act of my official life, by commending the interests of our 
 dearest country to the protection of Almighty God, and 
 those who have the superintendence of them to his holy 
 keeping. 
 
 "Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire 
 from the great theatre of action, and, bidding an affectionate 
 farewell to this august body, under whose orders I have so 
 long acted, I here offer my commission, and take my leave 
 of ail the employments of public life." 
 
 After advancing to the chair, and delivering his commis- 
 sion to the president, he returned to his place, and received, 
 standing, the following answer of congress, which was deliv- 
 ered by the president : 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 "The United States, in congress assembled, receive, with 
 emotions too affecting for utterance, the solemn resignation 
 of the authorities under which you have led their troops with 
 success through a perilous and a doubtful war. Called upon 
 by your country to defend its invaded rights, you accepted 
 the sacred charge before it had formed alliances, and whilst 
 it was without funds or a government to support you. You 
 have conducted the great military contest with wisdom and 
 fortitude, invariably regarding the rights of the civil power, 
 through all disasters and changes. You have, by the love 
 and confidence of your fellow-citizens, enabled them to dis- 
 play their martial genius, and transmit their fame to posterity. 
 You have persevered, until these United States, aided by a 
 magnanimous king and nation, have been enabled, under a 
 just Providence, to close the war in freedom, safety, and in- 
 dependence ; on which happy event we sincerely join you 
 in congratulations. 
 
 " Having defended the standard of liberty in this new 
 
 world ; having taught a lesson useful to those who inflict, 
 
 ..and to those who feel oppression, you retire from the great 
 
 theatre of action with the blessings of your fellow citizens : 
 
256 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 but the glory of your virtues will not terminate with your 
 military command ; it will continue to animate remotest ages. 
 
 " We feel with you our obligations to the army in general, 
 and will particularly charge ourselves with the interests of 
 those confidential officers, who have attended your person to 
 this affecting moment. 
 
 "We join you in commending the interests of our dearest 
 country to the protection of Almighty God, beseeching him 
 to dispose the hearts and minds of its citizens to improve 
 the opportunity afforded them of becoming a happy and re- 
 spectable nation. And for you we address to him our earnest 
 prayers, that a life so beloved may be fostered with all his 
 care ; that your days may be happy as they have been illus- 
 trious; and that he will finally give you that reward which 
 this world cannot give." 
 
 This scene being closed, — a scene rendered peculiarly in- 
 teresting by the personages who appeared in it, by the great 
 events it recalled to the memory, and by the singularity of the 
 circumstances under which it was displayed, — the American 
 chief withdrew from the hall of congress, leaving the silent 
 and admiring spectators deeply impressed with those senti- 
 ments which its solemnity and dignity were well calculated 
 to inspire. 
 
 Having laid down his military character, General Wash- 
 ington retired to Mount Vernon, to which place he was fol- 
 lowed by the enthusiastic love, esteem, and admiration of his 
 countrymen. Relieved from the agitations of a doubtful con- 
 test, and from the toils of an exalted station, he returned with 
 increased delight to the duties and the enjoyments of a private 
 citizen. In the shade of retirement, under the protection of 
 a free government, and the benignant influence of mild and 
 equal laws, he indulged the hope of tasting that felicity, which 
 is the reward of a mind at peace with itself, and conscious of 
 its own purity. 
 
 LESSON CXIX. 
 
 Description of the Natural Bridge in Virginia. — Jefferson. 
 
 The Natural Bridge, the most sublime of nature's works, 
 is on the ascent of a bill, which seems to have been cloven 
 through its length by some great convulsion. The fissure, 
 just at the bridge, is, by some admeasurements, 270 feet deep, 
 by others only 205. It is about 45 feet wide at the bottom, 
 and 90 feet at the top ; this of course determines the length 
 of the bridge, and its height from the water ; its breadth in 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 257 
 
 the middle is about 60 feet, but more at the ends, and the 
 thickness of the mass, at the summit of the arch, about 40 
 feet. A part of this thickness is constituted by a coat of earth, 
 which gives growth to many large trees. The residue, with 
 the hill on both sides, is one solid rock of lime-stone. 
 
 The arch approaches the semi-elliptical form; but the 
 larger axis of the ellipses, which would be the chord of the 
 arch, is many times longer than the transverse. Though the 
 sides of this bridge are provided, in some parts, with a parapet 
 of fixed rocks, yet few men have resolution to walk to them, 
 and look over into the abyss. You involuntarily fall on your 
 hands and feet, creep to the parapet, and peep over it. Look- 
 ing down from this height about a minute, gave me a violent 
 headache. 
 
 If the view from the top be painful and intolerable, that 
 from below is delightful in an equal extreme. It is impossi- 
 ble for the emotions arising from the sublime to be felt beyond 
 what they are here : so beautiful an arch, so elevated, so light, 
 and springing, as it were, up to heaven, the rapture of the 
 spectator is really indescribable ! The fissure, continuing 
 narrow, deep, and straight, for a considerable distance above 
 and below the bridge, opens a short but very pleasing view 
 of the North Mountain on one side, and Blue Ridge on the 
 other, at the distance, each of them, of about five miles. 
 
 This bridge is in the county of Rockbridge, to which it 
 has given name, and affords a public and commodious pas- 
 sage over a valley, which cannot be crossed elsewhere for a 
 considerable distance. The stream passing under it is called 
 Cedar Creek. It is a water of James' River, and sufficient, in 
 the driest seasons, to turn a grist-mill, though its fountain is 
 not more than two miles above. 
 
 LESSON CXX. 
 
 Extract from President Jefferson's Inaugural Address. — Ibid. 
 
 During the contest of opinion, through which we have 
 passed, the animation of discussions and of exertions has 
 sometimes worn an aspect which might impose on strangers, 
 unused to think freely, and to speak and to write what they 
 think ; but this being now decided by the voice of the nation, 
 announced according to the rules of the constitution, all will, 
 of course, arrange themselves under the will of the law, and 
 unite in common efforts for the common good. All, too, 
 will bear in mind this sacred principle, — that, though the 
 will of the majority is, in all cases, to prevail, that will, to 
 22* 
 
258 THE CLASSICAL, READER. 
 
 be rightful, must be reasonable ; that the minority possess 
 their equal rights, which equal laws must protect, and to vio- 
 late which would be oppression. Let us then, fellow-citizens, 
 unite with one heart, and one mind. Let us restore to social 
 intercourse that harmony and affection, without which liberty, 
 and even life itself, are but dreary things ; and let us reflect, 
 that, having banished from our land that religious intolerance, 
 under which mankind so long bled and suffered, we have yet 
 gained little, if we countenance a political intolerance, as 
 despotic, as wicked, and capable of as bitter and bloody per- 
 secutions. 
 
 During the throes and convulsions of the ancient world— 
 during the agonizing spasms of infuriated man, seeking, 
 through blood and slaughter, his long lost liberty — it was not 
 wonderful that the agitation of the billows should reach even 
 this distant and peaceful shore — that this should be more felt 
 and feared by some, and less by others — and should divide 
 opinions, as to measures of safety. But every difference of 
 opinion is not a difference of principle. We have called by 
 different names brethren of the same principle. We are all 
 republicans ; we are all federalists. If there be any among 
 us who would wish to dissolve this union, or to change its 
 republican form, let them stand undisturbed, as monuments 
 of the safety with which error of opinion may be tolerated, 
 where reason is left free to combat it. 
 
 I know, indeed, that some honest men fear that a republican 
 government cannot be strong — that this government is not 
 strong enough. But would the honest patriot, in the full tide 
 of successful experiment, abandon a government which has so 
 far kept us free and firm, on the theoretic and visionary fear, 
 that this government, the world's best hope, may, by possi- 
 bility, want energy to preserve itself? — I trust not — I believe 
 this, on the contrary, the strongest government on earth — I 
 believe it the only one where every man, at the call of the 
 law, would fly to the standard of the law, and would meet 
 invasions of the public order as his own personal concern. 
 Sometimes it is said, that man cannot be trusted with the 
 government of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the 
 government of others ? ' or have we found angels, in the form 
 of kings, to govern him ? Let history answer this question. 
 
 Let us, then, with courage and confidence, pursue our own 
 federal and republican principles — our attachment to unioo 
 and representative government. Kindly separated, by nature 
 and a wide ocean, from the exterminating havoc of one quar- 
 ter of the globe — too highminded to endure the degradations 
 of the others — possessing a chosen country, with room enough 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 259 
 
 for our descendants to the thousandth and thousandth genera- 
 tion — entertaining a due sense of our equal right to the use of 
 our own faculties — to the acquisitions of our own industry — to 
 honour and confidence from our fellow-citizens ; resulting not 
 from birth, hut from our actions, and their sense of them — en- 
 lightened by a benign religion, professed, indeed, and practis- 
 ed in various forms, yet all of them inculcating honesty, truth, 
 temperance, gratitude, and the love of man — acknowledging 
 and adoring an over-ruling Providence, which, by all its 
 dispensations, proves that it delights in the happiness of man 
 here and his greater happiness hereafter — with all these bless- 
 ings, what more is necessary to make us a happy and pros- 
 perous people ? — Still one thing more, fellow-citizens — a 
 wise and frugal government, which shall restrain men from 
 injuring one another ; shall leave them otherwise free to reg- 
 ulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement ; and 
 shall not take from the mouth of labour ,the bread it has 
 earned. This is the sum of good government ; and this is 
 necessary to close the circle of our felicities. 
 
 LESSON CXXI. 
 
 President Adams's Opinion of the American Constitution. Ex- 
 tracted from his Inaugural Address. — John Adams. 
 
 Employed in the service of my country abroad, I first saw 
 the constitution of the United States in a foreign country. 
 Irritated by no literary altercation, animated by no public 
 debate, heated by no party animosity, I read it with great 
 satisfaction, as a result of good heads, prompted by good 
 hearts ; as an experiment better adapted to the genius, char- 
 acter, situation, and relations of this nation and country, than 
 any which had ever been proposed or suggested. In its 
 general principles and great outlines, it was conformable to 
 such a system of government as I had ever most esteemed, 
 and in some states, my own native state in particular, had con- 
 tributed to establish. Claiming a right of suffrage in common 
 with my fellow-citizens, in the adoption or rejection of a 
 constitution which was to rule me and my posterity, as well 
 as them and theirs, I did not hesitate to express my appro- 
 bation of it, on all occasions, in public and in private. It 
 was not then, nor has been since, any objection to it, in my 
 mind, that the executive and senate were not more perma- 
 nent. Nor have I entertained a thought of promoting any 
 alteration in it, but such as the people themselves, in the 
 course of their experience, should see and feel to be neces- 
 
260 THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 
 
 sary or expedient, and, by their representatives in congress 
 and the state legislatures, according to the constitution itself, 
 adopt and ordain. 
 
 Returning to the bosom of my country, after a painful sep- 
 aration from it for ten years, I had the honour to be elected 
 to a station under the new order of things, and I have repeat- 
 edly laid myself under the most serious obligations to support 
 the constitution. The operation of it has equalled the most 
 sanguine expectations of its friends ; and, from an habitual 
 attention to it, satisfaction in its administration, and delight 
 in its effects, upon the peace, order, prosperity, and happiness 
 of the nation, I have acquired an habitual attachment to it, 
 and veneration for it. What other form of government, in- 
 deed, can so well deserve our esteem and love ? 
 
 There may be little solidity in an ancient idea, that con- 
 gregations of men into cities and nations are the most 
 pleasing objects in the sight of superior intelligencies : but 
 this is very certain, that, to a benevolent human mind, there 
 can be no spectacle, presented by any nation, more pleasing, 
 more noble, majestic, or august, than an assembly like that 
 which has so often been seen in this and the other chamber 
 of congress ; of a government, in which the executive au- 
 thority, as well as that of all the branches of the legislature, 
 are exercised by citizens selected at regular periods by their 
 neighbours to make and execute laws for the general good. 
 Can any thing essential, any thing more than mere ornament 
 and decoration, be added to this by robes or diamonds ? Can 
 authority be more amiable or respectable, when it descends 
 from accidents or institutions established in remote antiquity, 
 than when it springs fresh from the hearts and judgments of 
 an honest and enlightened people ? For it is the people only 
 that are represented : it is their power and majesty that is 
 reflected, and only for their good, in every legitimate gov- 
 ernment, under whatever form it may appear. The existence 
 of such a government as ours, for any length of time, is a full 
 proof of a general dissemination of knowledge and virtue 
 throughout the whole body of the people. And what object 
 of consideration more pleasing than this can be presented to 
 the human mind ? If national pride is ever justifiable or ex- 
 cusable, it is when it springs, not from power or riches, 
 grandeur or glory, but from conviction of national innocence, 
 information and benevolence. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 261 
 
 LESSON CXXII. 
 
 Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jefferson.* — Webster. 
 
 Adams and Jefferson are no more. On our fiftieth 
 anniversary, the great day of National Jubilee, in the very 
 hour of public rejoicing, in the midst of echoing and re-echo- 
 ing voices of thanksgiving, while their own names were on all 
 tongues, they took their flight, together, to the world of spirits. 
 
 If it be true that no one can safely be pronounced happy 
 while he lives; if that event which terminates life can alone 
 crown its honours and its glory, what felicity is here ! The 
 great epic of their lives, how happily concluded ! Poetry 
 itself has hardly closed illustrious lives, and finished the ca- 
 reer of earthly renown^ by such a consummation. If we had 
 the power, we could not wish to reverse this dispensation of 
 the Divine Providence. The great objects of life were ac- 
 complished ; the drama was ready to be closed. It has closed ; 
 our patriots have fallen ; but so fallen, at such age, with such 
 coincidence, on such a day, that we cannot rationally lament 
 that that end has come, which we knew could not be long 
 deferred. 
 
 Neither of these great men could have died, at any time, 
 without leaving an immense void in our American society. 
 They have been so intimately, and for so long a time, blend- 
 ed with the history of the country, and especially so united, 
 in our thoughts and recollections, with the events of the 
 revolution, that the death of either would have touched the 
 strings of public sympathy. We should have felt that one 
 great link, connecting us with former times, was broken ; 
 that we had lost something more, as it were, of the presence 
 of the revolution itself, and of the act of independence, and 
 were driven on, by another great remove, from the days 
 of our country's early distinction, to meet posterity, and 
 to mix with the future. Like the mariner, whom the ocean 
 and the winds carry along, till he sees the stars, which have 
 directed his course, and lighted his pathless way, descend, 
 one by one, beneath the rising horizon, we should have felt 
 that the stream of time had borne us onward, till another 
 great luminary, whose light had cheered us, and whose gui- 
 dance we had followed, had sunk away from our sight. 
 
 But the concurrence of their death, on the anniversary of 
 independence, has naturally awakened stronger emotions. 
 Both had been presidents, both had lived to great age, both 
 were early patriots, and both were distinguished and ever 
 honoured by their immediate agency in the act of indepen- 
 
 * They died July 4th, 1826. 
 
262 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 dence. It cannot but seem striking and extraordinary, that 
 these two should live to see the fiftieth year from the date of 
 that act ; that they should complete that year ; and that then, 
 on the day which had fast linked forever their own fame 
 with their country's glory, the heavens should open to receive 
 them both at once. As their lives themselves were the gifts 
 of Providence, who is not willing to recognise in their hap- 
 py termination, as well as in their long continuance, proofs 
 that our country, and its benefactors, are objects of his care ? 
 
 Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As human 
 beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 
 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence ; no more, 
 as on subsequent periods, the head of the government ; no 
 more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable ob- 
 jects of admiration and regard. They are no more. They 
 are dead. But how little is there, of the great and good, 
 which can die ! To their country they yet live, and live for- 
 ever. They live in all that perpetuates the remembrance of 
 men on earth, in the recorded proofs of their own great 
 actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved 
 lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of 
 mankind. They live in their example ; and they live, em- 
 phatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives 
 and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and 
 will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in 
 their own country, but throughout the civilized world. 
 
 A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great 
 man, when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, is .not a tempo- 
 rary flame, burning bright for a while, and then expiring, 
 giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of 
 fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle 
 the common mass of human mind ; so that when it glimmers, 
 in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night fol- 
 lows, but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the 
 potent contact of its own spirit. Bacon died ; but the human 
 understanding, roused, by the touch of his miraculous wand, 
 to a perception of the true philosophy, and the just mode of 
 inquiring after truth, has kept on its course, successfully and 
 gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the spheres 
 are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which 
 he saw, and described for them, in the infinity of space. 
 
 No two men now live, perhaps it may be doubted wheth- 
 er any two men have ever lived, in one age, who, more than 
 those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sen- 
 timents, in regard to politics and government, on mankind, 
 infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 263 
 
 others, or given a more lasting direction to the current of 
 human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. 
 The tree, which they assisted to plant, will nourish, although 
 they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its 
 roots deep ; it has sent them to the very centre ; no storm, 
 not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches 
 spread wide'; they stretch their protecting arms broader and 
 broader ; and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 
 
 We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No 
 age will come, in which the American Revolution will ap- 
 pear less than it is, — one of the greatest events in human his- 
 tory. No age will come, in which it will cease to be seen 
 and felt, on either continent, that a mighty step, a great ad- 
 vance, not only in American affairs, but in human affairs, was 
 made on the fourth of July, 1776. And no age will come, 
 we trust, so ignorant or so unjust, as not to see and acknowl- 
 edge the efficient agency of these we now honour, in pro- 
 ducing that momentous event. 
 
 LESSON CXXIII. 
 
 Eloquence of John Adams. — Ibid. 
 
 The eloquence of Mr. Adams resembled his general char- 
 acter, and formed, indeed, a part of it. It was bold, manly, 
 and energetic ; and such the crisis required. When public 
 bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when 
 great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, noth- 
 ing is valuable, in speech, farther than it is connected with 
 high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, 
 and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. 
 
 True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It 
 cannot be brought from far. Labour and learning may toil 
 for it ; but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be 
 marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It 
 must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. 
 Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declama- 
 tion, all may aspire after it — they cannot reach it. It comes, 
 if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the 
 earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontane- 
 ous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, 
 the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, 
 shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate 
 of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the 
 decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, 
 rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even 
 
264 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the pres- 
 ence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent ; then, 
 self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-run- 
 ning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm re- 
 solve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming 
 from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole 
 man onward, right onward to his object — this, this is elo- 
 quence ; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than 
 all eloquence ; it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 LESSON CXXIV. 
 The Sleep of the Brave. — Collins. 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
 By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
 There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 
 
 LESSON CXXV. 
 A Thought on Eternity. — Gay. 
 
 Ere the foundations of the world were laid, 
 Ere kindling light th' Almighty word obeyed, 
 Thou wert ; and when the subterraneous flame 
 Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame, 
 From angry heaven when the keen lightning flies, 
 When fervent heat dissolves the melting skies, 
 Thou still shalt be ; still as thou wert before, 
 And know no change, when time shall be no more 
 O endless thought ! divine eternity ! 
 Th' immortal soul shares but a part of thee ; 
 For thou wert present when our life began, 
 When the warm dust shot up in breathing man. 
 
 Ah ! what is life ? with ills encompassed round 
 Amidst our hopes, fate strikes the sudden wound * 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 265 
 
 To-day the statesman of new honour dreams, 
 To-morrow death destroys his airy schemes. 
 Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confined ? 
 Think all that treasure thou must leave behind ; 
 Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazoned hearse, 
 And all thy hoards with lavish hand disperse. 
 Should certain fate th' impending blow delay, 
 Thy mirth will sicken, and thy bloom decay ; 
 Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm, 
 No more thy blood its narrow channels warm. 
 Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span, 
 To suffer life beyond the date of man ? 
 
 The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim, 
 And life regards but as a fleeting dream : 
 She longs to wake, and wishes to get free, 
 To launch from earth into eternity. 
 For, while the boundless theme extends our thought, 
 Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought. 
 
 LESSON CXXVI. 
 
 Paraphrase on the latter Part of the sixth Chapter of Matthew's 
 
 Gospel. — Thomson. 
 
 When my breast labours with oppressive care, 
 And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear ; 
 While all my warring passions are at strife, 
 Oh let me listen to the words of life ! 
 Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart, 
 And thus he raised from earth the drooping heart. 
 
 Think not, when all your scanty stores afford 
 Is spread at once upon the sparing board ; 
 Think not when worn the homely robe appears, 
 While on the roof the howling tempest bears ; 
 What farther shall this feeble life sustain ? 
 And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again ? 
 Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ? 
 And the fair body its investing weed ? 
 Behold ! and look away your low despair — 
 See the light tenants of the barren air ; 
 To them nor stores nor granaries belong, 
 Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song ; 
 Yet your kind, heavenly Father bends his eye 
 On the least wing that flits along the sky. 
 To him they sing when spring renews the plain, 
 To him they cry in winter's pinching reign ; 
 23 
 
266 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Nor is their music or their plaint in vain ; 
 He hears the gay and the distressful call, 
 And with unsparing bounty fills them all. 
 
 Observe the rising lily's snowy grace, 
 Observe the various vegetable race ; 
 They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow ; 
 Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow ! 
 What regal vestments can with them compare ? 
 What king so shining, or what queen so fair ? 
 
 If ceaseless thus the fowls of heaven he feeds, 
 If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads, 
 Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say ? 
 Is he unwise ? or are ye less than they ? 
 
 LESSON CXXVII. 
 A Winter Storm at Midnight. — Ibid. 
 
 Nor less at land the loosened tempest reigns : 
 The mountain thunders ; and its sturdy sons 
 Stoop to the bottom of the rocks they shade. 
 Lone on the midnight steep, and all aghast, 
 The dark way-faring stranger breathless toils, 
 And, often falling, climbs against the blast. 
 Low waves the rooted forest, vexed, and sheds 
 What of its tarnished honours yet remain ; 
 Dashed down, and scattered by the tearing wind's 
 Assiduous fury, its gigantic limbs. 
 Thus struggling through the dissipated grove, 
 The whirling tempest raves along the plain ; 
 And on the cottage thatched, or lordly roof, 
 Keen fastening, shakes them to the solid base. 
 Sleep frighted flies ; and round the rocking dome, 
 For entrance eager, howls the savage blast. 
 Then too, they say, through all the burdened air, 
 Long groans are heard, shrill sounds, and distant sighs, 
 That, uttered by the demon of the night, 
 Warn the devoted wretch of wo and death. 
 
 Huge uproar lords it wide. The clouds, commixed 
 With stars, swift gliding, sweep along the sky. 
 All nature reels. Till nature's King, who oft 
 Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone, 
 And on the wings of the careering wind 
 Walks dreadfully serene, commands a calm ; 
 Then straight air, sea, and earth, are hushed at once. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 267 
 
 As yet 'tis midnight deep. The weary clouds, 
 Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. 
 Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep, 
 Let me associate with the serious night, 
 And contemplation, her sedate compeer ! 
 Let me shake off th' intrusive cares of day, 
 And lay the meddling senses all aside. 
 
 Where now, ye lying vanities of life ! 
 Ye ever-tempting, ever-cheating train ! 
 Where are you now, and what is your amount ? 
 Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. 
 Sad, sickening thought ! and yet deluded man, 
 A scene of crude disjointed visions past, 
 And broken slumbers, rises still resolved, 
 With new-flushed hopes, to run the giddy round. 
 
 Father of light and life ! thou Good Supreme ! 
 teach me what is good ! teach me Thyself ' 
 Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, 
 From every low pursuit ! and feed my soul 
 With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure ; 
 Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss ! 
 
 LESSON CXXVIII. 
 Moses* Bargain of green Spectacles. — Goldsmith. 
 
 As we were now, said the Vicar of Wakefield, to hold up 
 our heads a little higher in the world, my wife thought it 
 would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a 
 neighbouring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single 
 or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at 
 church, or upon a visit. This, at first, I opposed stoutly ; 
 but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, 
 my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved to 
 part with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions 
 of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a 
 cold; and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from 
 home. " No, my dear," said she, " our son Moses is a dis- 
 creet boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage ; you 
 know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He al- 
 ways stands out, and higgles, and actually tires them, till he 
 gets a bargain." 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing 
 enough to intrust him with this commission ; and the next 
 
268 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out 
 Moses for the fair ; trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, 
 and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet 
 being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him moun- 
 ted upon the colt, with a deal box before him, to bring home 
 groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call 
 thunder-and-lightning, which, though grown too short, was 
 much too good to be thrown away ; his waistcoat was of 
 gosling green ; and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad 
 black riband. We all followed him several paces from the 
 door, bawling after him, Good luck, good luck, till we could 
 see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarce gone, when Mr. ThornhilPs butler came 
 to congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying, that he 
 overheard his young master mention our names with great 
 commendations. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another 
 footman from the same family followed with a card for my 
 daughters, importing, that the two ladies had received such 
 pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after a 
 few previous inquiries more, they hoped to be perfectly sat- 
 isfied. "Ay," cried my wife, " I now see it is no easy matter 
 to get into the families of the great ; but when one once 
 gets in, then, as Moses says, they may go sleep." To this 
 piece of humour, for she intended it for wit, my daughters 
 assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was 
 her satisfaction at this message, that she actually put her hand 
 into her pocket, and gave the messenger sevenpence half- 
 penny. 
 
 This was to be our visiting-day. The next that came was 
 Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my 
 little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife 
 undertook to keep for them, and give them by letters at a 
 time. He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in 
 which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, 
 when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel- 
 skin-purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by the by. We 
 had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude 
 behaviour was in some measure displeasing ; nor could we 
 now avoid communicating our happiness to him, and asking 
 his advice : although we seldom followed advice, we were all 
 ready enough to ask it. 
 
 When he read the note from the two ladies, he shook hisl 
 head, and observed, that an affair of this sort demanded the 
 utmost circumspection. — This air of diffidence highly dis-l 
 pleased my wife. "I never doubted, sir," cried she, "yourl 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 2G9 
 
 readiness to be against my daughters and me. You have 
 more circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy, 
 when we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons who 
 seem to have made use of it themselves." — "Whatever my 
 own conduct may have been, madam," replied he, "is not 
 the present question ; though, as I have made no use of ad- 
 vice myself, I should, in conscience, give it to those that 
 will." — As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on 
 ' a repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I 
 changed the subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep 
 our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night-fall. — 
 "Never mind our son, " cried my wife ; " depend upon it he 
 knows what he is about. I'll warrant we'll never see him 
 sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains 
 as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about that, 
 that will make you split your sides with laughing. But, as 
 I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box at 
 his back. 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating un- 
 der the deal-box, which he had strapped round his shoulders. 
 — " Welcome, welcome, Moses ; well, my boy, what have 
 you brought us from the fair?" — "I have brought you my- 
 self," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on 
 the dresser. — "Ay, Moses," cried my wife, " that we know ; 
 but where is the horse ?" — " I have sold him," cried Moses, 
 " for three pounds five shillings and two-pence." " Well done, 
 my good boy," returned she, " I knew you would touch them 
 off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and two- 
 pence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it then." " I 
 have brought back no money," cried Moses again ; " I have laid 
 it all out in a bargain ; and here it is," puljing out a bundle 
 from his breast: "here they are; a gross of green spectacles, 
 with silver rims, and shagreen cases." 
 
 "A gross of green spectacles !" repeated my wife in a faint 
 voice : " and you have parted with the colt, and brought us 
 back nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles !" — " Dear 
 mother," cried the boy, " why won't you listen to reason ? I 
 had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. 
 The silver rims alone will sell for double the money." — "A 
 fig for the silver rims," cried my wife in a passion ; " I dare 
 say they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of 
 broken silver, five shillings an ounce." "You need be un- 
 der no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims ; for I 
 perceive they are only copper, varnished over." — "What 1 " 
 cried my wife, " not silver ! the rims not silver !" " No," cried 
 I, " no more silver than your saucepan." " And so," returned 
 23* 
 
270 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 she, " we have parted with the colt, and have only got a 
 gross of green spectacles, with copper rims, and shagreen 
 cases ! A murrain take such trumpery ! The blockhead has 
 been imposed upon, and should have known his company 
 better." "There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he 
 should not have known them at all." "Marry, hang the 
 idiot," returned she again, "to bring me such stuff; if I had 
 them, I would throw them into the fire." — " There again 
 you are wrong, my dear," cried I; "for, though they be 
 copper, we will keep them by us; as copper spectacles, you 
 know, are better tban nothing. 
 
 By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He 
 now saw that he had indeed been imposed upGn by a 
 prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked 
 him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances 
 of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked 
 the fair in search of another. A reverend looking man 
 brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell. 
 "Here," continued Moses, "we met another man, very 
 well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon 
 these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of 
 them for a third of the value. The first gentleman, who 
 pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and 
 cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for 
 Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they 
 did me ; and so, at last, we were persuaded to buy the two 
 gross between us. 
 
 LESSON CXXIX. 
 
 The Vicar of Wakefield?s Family Picture. — Ibid. 
 
 My wife and daughters, happening to return a. visit to 
 neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got 
 their pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, 
 and did them for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and 
 ours had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit 
 took the alarm at this stolen march upon us ; and, notwith- 
 standing all I could say, (and I said much,) it was resolved 
 that we should have our pictures done too. Having, there- 
 fore, engaged the limner, (for what could I do ?) our next 
 deliberation was, to show the superiority of our taste in the 
 attitudes. As for our neighbour's family, there were seven 
 of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges ; a thing 
 quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the 
 world. We desired to have something done in a brighter 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 271 
 
 style ; and, after many debates, at length came to an unani- 
 mous resolution to be drawn together in one large, historical 
 family-piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would 
 serve for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all 
 families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. 
 
 As we did not immediately recollect an historical subject 
 to hit us, we were, each of us, contented with being drawn as 
 independent historical figures. My wife desired to be repre- 
 sented as Venus, with a stomacher richly set with diamonds, 
 and her two little ones as Cupids by her side ; while I, in my 
 gown and band, was to present her with my books on the 
 Bangorean controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Am- 
 azon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Jo- 
 seph, laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was 
 to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could 
 spare ; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and 
 white feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire, that 
 he insisted on being put in as one of the family, in the char- 
 acter of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was con- 
 sidered, by us all, as an indication of his desire to be intro- 
 duced into the family, in reality ; nor could we refuse his 
 request. 
 
 The painter was therefore set to work ; and, as he wrought 
 with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the 
 N whole was completed. The piece was large; and, it must 
 be owned, he did not spare his colours ; for which my wife 
 gave him great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied 
 with his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance had 
 not occurred, till the picture was finished, which now struck us 
 with dismay. It was so very large, that we had no place in 
 the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so mate- 
 rial a point, is inconceivable ; but, certain it is, we were, at 
 this time, all greatly overseen. Instead, therefore, of grati- 
 fying our vanity, as we hoped, there it leaned, in a most mor- 
 tifying manner, against the kitchen-wall, where the canvass 
 was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through 
 any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbours. One 
 compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be 
 removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bot- 
 tle ; some wondered how it should be got out, and still more 
 were amazed how it ever got in. 
 
272 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXXX. 
 
 The Swiss Peasantry. — Ibid. 
 
 My soul, turn from them — turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
 No product here the barren hills afford 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array 
 ~ But winter, ling'ring, chills the lap of May; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain breast, 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still e'en here content can spread a charm, 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes : 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
 Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the wav. 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, 
 He sits him down, the monarch of a shed*, 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
 And haply, too, some pilgrim, thither led, 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart, 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those hills that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 273 
 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast ; 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 LESSON CXXXI. 
 
 The good Pastor. — Ibid. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the pkce disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
 He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain. 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast , 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed : 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their wo ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all. 
 And as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
 
274 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The rev'rend champion stood : at his control 
 Despair and anguish tied the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed with endearing wile, 
 And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile ; 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their care distressed ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 LESSON CXXXII. 
 Affectation of Sentiment and Feeling. — Mrs. Chapone. 
 
 He who " requires truth in the inward parts" will not 
 excuse our self-deception ; for he has commanded us to ex- 
 amine ourselves diligently, and has given us such rules as 
 can never mislead us, if we desire the truth, and are willing 
 to see our faults in order to correct them. But this is the 
 point in w T hich we are defective : we are desirous to gain our 
 own approbation, as well as that of others, at a cheaper rate 
 than that of being really what we ought to be ; and we take 
 pains to persuade ourselves that we are that which we indo- 
 lently admire and approve. 
 
 There is nothing in which this self-deception is more no- 
 torious, than in what regards sentiment and feeling. Let a 
 vain young woman be told, that tenderness and softness are 
 the peculiar charm of the sex ; that even their weakness is 
 lovely, and their fears becoming ; and you will presently ob- 
 serve her grow so tender as to be ready to weep for a fly ; 
 so fearful, that she starts at a feather ; and so weak-hearted, 
 that the smallest accident quite overpowers her. Her fond- 
 ness and affection become fulsome and ridiculous ; her com- 
 passion grows contemptible weakness ; and her apprehensive- 
 ness the most abject cowardice ; for, when once she quits 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 275 
 
 the direction of nature, she knows not where to stop, and 
 continually exposes herself by the most absurd extremes. 
 
 Nothing so effectually defeats its own ends as this kind 
 of affectation ; for, though warm affections and tender feel- 
 ings are beyond measure amiable and charming, when per- 
 fectly natural^ and kept under the due control of reason and 
 principle ; yet nothing is so truly disgusting as the affecta- 
 tion of them, or even the unbridled indulgence of such as 
 are real. 
 
 Remember that our feelings were not given us for our or- 
 nament, but to spur us on to right actions. Compassion, for 
 instance, was not impressed upon the human heart only to 
 adorn the fair face with tears, and to give an agreeable lan- 
 guor to the eyes ; it was designed to excite our utmost en- 
 deavours to relieve the sufferer. Yet, how often have I heard 
 that selfish weakness, which flies from the sight of distress, 
 dignified with the name of tenderness ! — " My friend is, I 
 hear, in the deepest affliction and misery : — I have not seen 
 her; — for, indeed, I cannot bear such scenes, — they affect 
 me too much ! — Those who have less sensibility are fitter 
 for this world ; — but for my part, I own, I am not able to 
 support such things. — I shall not attempt to visit her, till I 
 hear she has recovered her spirits." 
 
 This have I heard said, with an air of complacence ; and 
 the poor, selfish creature has persuaded herself, that she had 
 finer feelings than those generous friends who are sitting pa- 
 tiently in the house of mourning ; watching in silence the 
 proper moment to pour in the balm of comfort ; who sup- 
 pressed their own sensations, and only attended to those of 
 the afflicted person ; and whose tears flowed in secret, whilst 
 their eyes and voice were taught to enliven the sinking heart 
 with the appearance of cheerfulness. 
 
 That sort of tenderness which makes us useless may in- 
 deed be pitied and excused, if owing to natural imbecility ; 
 but, if it pretends to loveliness and excellence, it becomes 
 truly contemptible. 
 
 The same degree of active courage is not to be expected 
 in woman as in man ; and, not belonging to her nature, it is 
 not agreeable iti her : but passive courage, patience and for- 
 titude under sufferings, presence of mind, and calm resigna- 
 tion in danger, are surely desirable in every rational crea- 
 ture ; especially in one professing to believe in an overruling 
 Providence, in which we may, at all times, quietly confide, 
 and which we may safely trust with every event that does 
 not depend upon our own will. Whenever you find your- 
 self deficient in these virtues, let it be a subject of shame and 
 
276 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 humiliation, — not of vanity and self-complacence. Do not 
 fancy yourself the more amiable for that which really makes 
 you despicable; but content yourself with the faults and 
 weaknesses that belong to you, without putting on more by 
 way of ornament. 
 
 With regard to tenderness, remember that compassion is 
 best shown by an ardour to relieve, and affection by assidu- 
 ity to promote the good and happiness of the persons you 
 love : that tears are unamiable, instead of being ornamental, 
 when voluntarily indulged ; and can never be attractive but 
 when they flow irresistibly, and avoid observation as much 
 as possible. The same may be said of every other mark of 
 passion : it attracts our sympathy, if involuntary and not de- 
 signed for our notice ; it offends if we see that it is purposely 
 indulged, and intruded on our observation. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIII. 
 
 Religious Reflections for Monday.* — Miss Talbot. 
 
 " Blessed are they that do hunger and thirst after right- 
 eousness." — Our Lord and Saviour has pronounced this 
 blessedness, and, through his grace, I hope to partake of it. 
 Hunger and thirst naturally prompt us to seek, without delay, 
 t^e means of satisfying them. What, then, is the food of 
 the mind ? Wholesome instruction and religious meditation. 
 If, then, I sincerely do hunger and thirst after righteousness, I 
 shall be frequently feeding my mind with pious books and 
 thoughts. I shall make the returns of these meals as regu- 
 lar as I can, and seldom shall I find any necessity strong 
 enough to make me miss them a whole day together. 
 
 But then it ought to be remembered, too, that even these, 
 the best hours of my life, ought never to encroach upon the 
 duties and employments of my station, whatever they may 
 be. Am I in a superior station of life ? My duty then prob- 
 ably takes in a large compass; and I am accountable to my 
 Maker for all those talents intrusted with me, by him, for 
 the benefit of my fellow-creatures. I must not think of liv- 
 ing to myself alone, or of devoting that time to imitate the 
 employment of angels, which was given me for the service 
 of men. Religion must be my chief end, and my best de- 
 light ; it must regulate all I think or do : but, whatever my 
 station is, I must fulfil all its duties. 
 
 * This lesson should be read on the day of the week to which it is appropriated 
 The same may be said of Lesson LV. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 277 
 
 Have I leisure and genius ? I must give a due portion of 
 my time to the elegant improvements of life ; to the study 
 of those sciences that are an ornament to human nature ; to 
 such things as may make me amiable and engaging to all 
 whom I converse with, that by any means I may win them 
 over to religion and goodness. For, if I am always shut up 
 in my closet, and spend my time in nothing but exercises of 
 devotion, I shall be looked upon as morose and hypocritical, 
 and be disregarded as useless in the world. When this life 
 is ended, we have a whole eternity before us, to spend in 
 those noblest employments and highest delights. But man, 
 in this low state of mortality, pays the most acceptable obe- 
 dience to God by serving his fellow creatures. 
 
 Perhaps all these considerations are wide from my case. 
 So far from having leisure upon my hands, I have scarce a 
 moment free from the necessary engagements of business 
 and bodily labour. While I am working hard for bread for 
 myself and my family, or attending diligently the commands 
 of a strict master, to whom I am justly accountable for every 
 hour I have, how can I find frequent opportunities for study- 
 ing the word of God, or much time to spend in devout med- 
 itation ? Why, happily, much is not required, provided I 
 make the best use of what little I have. Some time I must 
 needs have on Sundays, and this I may improve. I may 
 diligently attend to what I hear at church ; I may examine 
 whether my own practice is conformable to what I am there 
 taught ; and I may spend some hours in that day, either in 
 good discourse with such as are able to instruct me, or in 
 reading such religious books as are put into my hands. 
 
 Still enough will be left for cheerful conversation and 
 pleasant walks. Why should either of them be the less 
 cheerful for a mixture of religious thoughts ? What, indeed, 
 is there so gladdening as they are ? Be my state ever so 
 mean and toilsome, as a Christian, if indeed I behave like 
 one, I am equal to the greatest monarch upon earth. Be my 
 misfortunes and sorrows ever so severe, as a Christian, I can 
 look beyond death to an eternity of happiness, of happiness 
 certain and unspeakable. 
 
 These thoughts, therefore, I should keep upon my mind 
 through the whole week : they should be the amusement of 
 my labour, and the relief of my weariness ; and, when my 
 heart is thus ready, I shall gladly take every opportunity to 
 sing and give praise. I shall awake early to worship that 
 God, who is my defence and my delight; and I shall close 
 every evening with prayer and thanksgiving to him whose 
 24 
 
278 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 " ways are ways of pleasantness, and all whose paths are 
 peace." 
 
 Whenever I can have a quarter of an hour to spare from 
 the necessary business and the necessary relaxations of life, 
 which, while they are innocent, moderate, and reasonable, 
 will never be disapproved by that good God who has created 
 every thing that is comely and pleasant in the world, and in- 
 vites us to rejoice, and do good all the days of our life ; when 
 I have any spare time, I shall gladly spend it in reading, with 
 reverence and attention, some portions of the Bible. 
 
 In all my common conversation, I shall have my eye con- 
 tinually up to Him, who alone can direct my paths to happi- 
 ness and improvement, and crown all my endeavours with 
 the best success. I shall try to be something the better for 
 every scene of life I am engaged in ; to be something the 
 wiser for every day's conversation and experience. And let 
 me not fear but that, if I daily thus faithfully strive to grow 
 in holiness and goodness, be my growth, at the present, ever 
 so imperceptible, I " shall, in due time, arrive at the measure 
 of the stature of the fulness of Christ." 
 
 LESSON CXXXIV. 
 
 Speech in Reply to Mr. Corry. — Grattan. 
 
 Has the gentleman done ? has he completely done ? He 
 was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his 
 speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not 
 a violation of the privileges of this house. But I did not call 
 him to order — why ? because the limited talents of some men 
 render it impossible for them to be severe without being un- 
 parliamentary. But, before I sit down, I shall show him 
 how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On 
 any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable in treat- 
 ing with silent contempt any thing which might fall from 
 that honourable member ; but there are times when the in- 
 significance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the ac- 
 cusation. 
 
 I know 7 the difficulty the honourable gentleman laboured 
 under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a compara- 
 tive view of our characters, public and private, there is noth- 
 ing he could say which would injure me. The public would 
 not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such 
 were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the man- 
 ner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to 
 it when not made by an honest man. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 279 
 
 The right honourable gentleman has called me ie an unim- 
 peached traitor." I ask, why not "traitor" unqualified by 
 any epithet ? I will tell him ; it was because he durst not. 
 It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but 
 has not courage to give the blow. 
 
 He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. 
 The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the 
 honourable gentleman rely on the report of the house of 
 lords for the foundation of his assertion ? If he does, I can 
 prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of 
 that report being true. 
 
 The right honourable member has told me I deserted a 
 profession where wealth and station were the reward of in- 
 dustry and talent. If I mistake not, that gentleman endeav- 
 oured to obtain those rewards by the same means; but he 
 soon deserted the occupation of a barrister for that of a para- 
 site. He fled from the labour of study to flatter at the table 
 of the great. He found the lords' parlour a better sphere for 
 his exertions than the hall of the four courts ; the house of 
 a great man a more convenient way to power and to place ; 
 and that it was easier for a statesman of middling talents to 
 sell his friends, than a lawyer of no talents to sell his clients. 
 
 The right honourable gentleman says I fled from the coun- 
 try after exciting rebellion ; and that I have returned to raise 
 another. No such thing. The charge is false. The civil 
 war had not commenced when I left the kingdom; and I 
 could not have returned without taking a part. On the one 
 side was the camp of the rebel ; on the other the camp of 
 the minister, a greater traitor than the rebel. The strong 
 hold of the constitution was no where to be found. I agree 
 that the rebel who rises against the government should have 
 suffered ; but I missed on the scaffold the right honourable 
 gentleman. — Two desperate parties were in arms against the 
 constitution. The right honourable gentleman belonged to 
 one of these parties, and deserved death. I could not join 
 the rebel — I could not join the government — I could not join 
 torture — I could not join half-hanging — I could not join free 
 quarter — I could take part with neither. I was, therefore, 
 absent from a scene, where I could not be active without 
 self-reproach, nor indifferent with safety. Many honourable 
 gentlemen thought differently from me. I respect their opin- 
 ions, but I keep my own ; and I think now, as I thought 
 then, that the treason of the minister against the liberties of 
 the people was infinitely worse than the rebellion of the peo- 
 ple against the minister. 
 
280 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 I have returned, not, as the right honourable member has 
 said, to raise another storm — I have returned to discharge an 
 honourable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred a 
 great reward for past services, which, I am proud to say, 
 was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect 
 that constitution, of which I was the parent and the founder, 
 from the assassination of such men as the right honourable 
 gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt — 
 they are seditious — and they, at this moment, are in a con- 
 spiracy against their county. I have returned to refute a 
 libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the 
 appellation of a report of the committee of the lords. 
 
 Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. I dare ac- 
 cusation. I defy the honourable gentleman ; I defy the gov- 
 ernment ; I defy their whole phalanx. Let them come forth. 
 1 tell the ministers, I will neither give them quarter nor take 
 it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitu- 
 tion on the floor of this house, in defence of the liberties of 
 my country. 
 
 LESSON CXXXV. 
 Ode to Evening. — Joseph Warton. 
 
 Hail, meek-eyed maiden, clad in sober gray, 
 Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves, 
 
 As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes, 
 Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves. 
 
 When Phoibus sinks beneath the gilded hills, 
 You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk, 
 
 The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews, 
 And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk. 
 
 The panting Dryads, that, in day's fierce heat, 
 To inmost bowers and cooling caverns ran, 
 
 Return to trip in wanton evening dance : 
 Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan. 
 
 To the dee,p wood the clam'rous rooks repair, 
 Light skims the swallow o'er the wat'ry scene ; 
 
 And from the sheep-cot, and fresh furrowed field, 
 Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green. 
 
 The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock, 
 
 His supping sheep and length'ning shadow spies, 
 
 Pleased with the cool, the calm, refreshing hour, 
 And with hoarse humming of unnumbered flies. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 281 
 
 Now ev'ry passion sleeps ; desponding love, 
 
 And pining envy, ever restless pride ; 
 A holy calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul, 
 
 Anger and mad ambition's storms subside. 
 
 modest evening ! oft let me appear 
 
 A wand'ring votary in thy pensive train ; 
 List'ning to ev'ry wildly-warbling note 
 
 That fills with farewell sweet thy dark'ning plain. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVI. 
 On Procrastination. — Young. 
 
 Be wise to day ; 'tis madness to defer ; 
 Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
 Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. 
 Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 
 And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
 The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
 
 Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
 The palm, "That all men are about to live," 
 For ever on the brink of being born. 
 All pay themselves the compliment to think 
 They, one day, shall not drivel ; and their pride 
 On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
 At least, their own ; their future selves applaud, 
 How excellent that life they — ne'er will lead ! 
 Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails ; 
 That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign. 
 The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 
 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool ; 
 And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 
 All promise is poor dilatory man, 
 And that through every stage. When young, indeed, 
 In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
 Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
 At thirty man suspects himself a fool : 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms — his plan : 
 At fifty chides his infamous delay, 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
 In all the magnanimity of thought 
 Resolves, and re-resolves : — then dies the same. 
 
 And why ? because he thinks himself immortal. 
 All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 
 24 * 
 
282 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; 
 But their hearts, wounded, like the wounded air, 
 Soon close ; where passed the shaft no trace is found. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVII. 
 
 True and false Grandeur. — Ibid. 
 -What is station high ? 
 
 'Tis a proud mendicant ; it boasts, and begs ; 
 It begs an alms of homage from the throng, 
 And oft the throng denies its charity. 
 Monarchs and ministers are awful names ; 
 Whoever wear them challenge our devoir. 
 Religion, public order, both exact 
 External homage, and a supple knee, 
 To beings pompously set up to serve 
 The meanest slave ; all more is merit's due, 
 Her sacred and inviolable right, 
 Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man. 
 Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth ; 
 Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. 
 
 Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account, 
 And vote the mantle into majesty. 
 Let the small savage boast his silver fur; 
 His royal robe unborrowed and unbought ; 
 His own, descending fairly from his sires. 
 Shall man be proud to wear his livery, 
 And souls in ermine scorn a soul without ? 
 Can place or lessen us or aggrandize ? 
 Pigmies are pigmies still, though perched on Alps, 
 And pyramids are pyramids in vales. 
 Each man makes his own stature, builds himself: 
 Virtue alone out-builds the pyramids ; 
 Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall. 
 
 Of these sure truths dost thou demand the cause ? 
 The cause is lodged in immortality. 
 Hear, and assent. Thy bosom burns for power. 
 'Tis thine. And art thou greater than before ? 
 Then thou before wert something less than man. 
 Has thy new post betrayed thee into pride ? 
 That pride defames humanity, and calls 
 The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 283 
 
 LESSON CXXXVIII. 
 
 Description of Arabia. — Gibbon. 
 
 In the vacant space between Persia, Syria, Egypt, and 
 iEthiopia, the Arabian peninsula may be conceived as a tri- 
 angle of spacious but irregular dimensions. From the 
 northern point of Beles on the Euphrates, a line of fifteen 
 hundred miles is terminated by the Straits of Babelmandel 
 and the land of frankincense. About half this length may 
 be allowed for the middle breadth from east to west, from 
 Bassora to Suez, from the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea. The 
 sides of the triangle are gradually enlarged, and the southern 
 basis presents a front of a thousand miles to the Indian Ocean. 
 
 The entire surface of the peninsula exceeds in a fourfold 
 proportion that of Germany or France ; but the far greater 
 part has been justly stigmatized with the epithets of the stony 
 and the sandy. Even the wilds of Tartary are decked by 
 the hand of nature with lofty trees and luxuriant herbage ; 
 and the lonesome traveller derives a sort of comfort and so- 
 ciety from the presence of vegetable life. But in the dreary 
 waste of Arabia, a boundless level of sand is intersected by 
 sharp and naked mountains, and the face of the desert, with- 
 out shade or shelter, is scorched by the direct and intense 
 rays of a tropical sun. Instead of refreshing breezes, the 
 winds, particularly from the south-west, diffuse a noxious 
 and even deadly vapour; the hillocks of sand, which they 
 alternately raise and scatter, are compared to the billows of 
 the ocean; and whole caravans, whole armies, have been 
 lost and buried in the whirlwind. The common benefits of 
 water are an object of desire and contest ; and such is the 
 scarcity of wood, that some art is requisite to preserve and 
 propagate the element of fire. 
 
 Arabia is destitute of navigable rivers, which fertilize the 
 soil, and convey its produce to the adjacent regions : the tor- 
 rents that fall from the hills are imbibed by the thirsty earth : 
 the rare and hardy plants, the tamarind or the acacia, that 
 strike their roots into the clefts of the rocks, are nourished 
 by the dews of the night : a scanty supply of rain is collected 
 in cisterns and aqueducts : the wells and springs are the se- 
 cret treasure of the desert ; and the pilgrim of Mecca, after 
 many a dry and sultry march, is disgusted by the taste of the 
 waters which have rolled over a bed of sulphur or salt. 
 
 Such is the general and genuine picture of the climate of 
 Arabia. The experience of evil enhances the value of any 
 local or partial enjoyments. A shady grove, a green pasture, 
 a stream of fresh water, are sufficient to attract a colony of 
 
284 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 sedentary Arabs to the fortunate spots, which can afford food 
 and refreshment to themselves and their cattle, and which 
 encourage their industry in the cultivation of the palm tree 
 and the vine. The high lands, that border on the Indian 
 Ocean, are distinguished by their superior plenty of wood 
 and water : the air is more temperate, the fruits are more de- 
 licious, the animals and the human race more numerous ; 
 the fertility of the soil invites and rewards the toil of the hus- 
 bandman ; and the peculiar gifts of frankincense and coffee 
 have attracted, in different ages, the merchants of the world. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIX. 
 
 The Horse and Camel. — Ibid. 
 
 Arabia, in the opinion of the naturalist, is the genuine 
 and original country. of the horse; the climate most propi- 
 tious, not indeed to the size, but to the spirit and swiftness 
 of that generous animal. The merit of the Barb, the Span- 
 ish and the English breed, is derived from a mixture of 
 Arabian blood : the Bedo weens preserve, with superstitious 
 care, the honours and the memory of the purest race : the 
 males are sold at a high price, but the females are seldom 
 alienated ; and the birth of a noble foal was esteemed among 
 the tribes as a subject of joy and mutual congratulation. 
 
 These horses are educated in the tents, among the chil- 
 dren of the Arabs, with a tender familiarity, which trains 
 them in the habits of gentleness and attachment. They are 
 accustomed only to walk and to gallop : their sensations are 
 not blunted by the incessant abuse of the spur and the whip ; 
 their powers are reserved for the movements of flight and 
 pursuit ; but no sooner do they feel the touch of the hand or 
 the stirrup, than they dart away with the swiftness of the wind ; 
 and, if their friend be dismounted in the rapid career, they 
 instantly stop till he has recovered his seat. 
 
 In the sands of Africa and Arabia, the camel is a sacred 
 and precious gift. That strong and patient beast of burden 
 can perform, without eating or drinking, a journey of several 
 days ; and a reservoir of fresh water is preserved in a large 
 bag, a fifth stomach of the animal, whose body is imprinted 
 with the marks of servitude ; the larger breed is capable of 
 transporting a weight of a thousand pounds ; and the drom- 
 edary, of a lighter and more active frame, outstrips the fleetest 
 courser in the race. 
 
 Alive or dead, almost every part of the camel is servicea- 
 ble to man : her milk is plentiful and nutritious ; the young 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 285 
 
 and tender flesh has the taste of veal ; the dung supplies the 
 deficiency of fuel ; and the long hair, which falls each year, 
 and is renewed, is coarsely manufactured into the garments, 
 the furniture, and the tents, of the Bedoweens. In the rainy 
 seasons, they consume the rare and insufficient herbage of the 
 desert : during the heats of summer and the scarcity of win- 
 ter, they remove their encampments to the sea-coast, the hills 
 of Yemen, or the neighbourhood of the Euphrates, and have 
 often extorted the dangerous license of visiting the banks of 
 the Nile, and the villages of Syria and Palestine. 
 
 The life of a wandering Arab is a life of danger and dis- 
 tress ; and though, sometimes, by rapine or exchange, he 
 may appropriate the fruits of industry, a private citizen in 
 Europe is in the possession of more solid and pleasing luxu- 
 ry than the proudest emir, who marches in the field at the 
 head of ten thousand horse. 
 
 LESSON CXL. 
 A Water Party in Danger. — Crabbe. 
 
 Sometimes a party, rowed from town, will land 
 On a small islet formed of shelly sand, 
 Left by the water when the tides are low, 
 But which the floods in their return o'erflow ; 
 There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view 
 The watery waste, a prospect wild and new ; 
 The now receding billows give them space, 
 On either side the growing shores to pace ; 
 And then, returning, they contract the scene, 
 Till small and smaller grows the walk between ; 
 As sea to sea approaches, shores to shores, 
 Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores. 
 
 Then what alarm, what danger and dismay, 
 If all their trust, their boat, should drift away ! 
 And once it happened — Gay the friends advanced, 
 They walked, they ran, they played, they sang, they danced ; 
 The urns were boiling, and the cups went round, 
 And not a grave or thoughtful face was found ; 
 On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet, 
 Dry, shelly sand, that made the summer-seat ; 
 The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head, 
 And waves ran softly up their shining bed. 
 
 Some formed a party from the rest to stray, 
 Pleased to collect the trifles in their way ; 
 
2S6 THF CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 These to behold, they call their friends around ; 
 No friends can hear, or hear another sound ; 
 Alarmed, they hasten, yet perceive not why, 
 But catch the fear that quickens as they fly. 
 
 For, lo ! a lady sage, who paced the sand 
 With her fair children, one in either hand, 
 Intent on home, had turned, and saw the boat 
 Slipped from her moorings, and now far afloat ; 
 She gazed, she trembled, and, though faint her call, 
 It seemed, like thunder, to confound them all. 
 Their sailor-guides, the boatman and his mate, 
 Had drank, and slept regardless of their state ; 
 " iVwake !" they cried aloud : a Alarm the shore ! 
 Shout all, or never shall we reach it more !" 
 Alas ! no shout the distant land can reach, 
 Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach ; 
 Again they join in one loud, powerful cry, 
 Then cease, and eager listen for reply — 
 None came — the rising wind blew sadly by : 
 They shout once more, and then they turn aside, 
 To see how quickly flowed the coming tide ; 
 Between each cry they find the waters steal 
 On their strange prison, and Dew horrors feel ; 
 Foot after foot on the contracted ground 
 The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound ; 
 Less and yet less the sinking isle became, 
 And there was wailing, weeping, wrath and blame. 
 
 Had one been there, with spirit strong and high, 
 Who could observe, as he prepared to die, 
 He might have seen of hearts the varying kind, 
 And traced the movement of each different mind. 
 He might have seen, that not the gentle maid 
 Was more than stern and haughty man afraid : 
 Such, calmly-grieving, will their fears suppress, 
 And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address ; 
 While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud, 
 Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd : 
 The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried, 
 " Why would you urge me ? I at first denied." 
 Fiercely they answered, " Why will you complain, 
 Who saw no danger, or was warned in vain ?" 
 A few essayed the troubled soul to calm, 
 But dread prevailed, and anguish and alarm. 
 
 Now rose the water through the lessening sand, 
 And they seemed sinkin while they yet could stand; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 287 
 
 The sun went down, they looked from side to side, 
 Nor aught except the gathering sea descried ; 
 Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew, 
 And the most lively bade to hope adieu j 
 Children, by love then lifted from the seas, 
 Felt not the waters at the parent knees, 
 But wept aloud ; the wind increased the sound, 
 And the cold billows as they broke around. 
 
 " Once more, yet once again, with all our strength, 
 Cry to the land — we may be heard at length." 
 Vain hope, if yet unseen ! But hark ! an oar, 
 That sound of bliss ! comes dashing to their shore : 
 Still, still the water rises. "Haste !" they cry, 
 " Oh ! hurry, seamen ! in delay we die :" 
 (Seamen were these who in their ship perceived 
 The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) 
 And now the keel just cuts the covered sand, 
 Now to the gunwale stretches every hand ; 
 With trembling pleasure all confused embark, 
 And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark ; 
 While the most giddy, as they reach the shore, 
 Think of their danger, and their God adore. 
 
 LESSON CXLI. 
 
 The Degeneracy of Spain. — Anonymous. 
 
 Ay, wear the chain, ye that for once have known 
 The sweets of freedom, yet could crouch again 
 In blind and trembling worship of a throne ; 
 Ay, wear, — for ye are worthy, — wear the chain, 
 And bow, till ye are weary, to the yoke 
 
 That once your patriots broke. 
 
 Degenerate Spaniards ! let the priestly band 
 Again possess your realm, and let them wake 
 The fires of pious murder o'er the land, 
 And drag your best and bravest to the stake, 
 And tread down truth, and in the dungeon bind 
 
 The dreadful strength of mind 
 
 Give up the promise of bright days, that cast 
 A glory on your nation from afar ; 
 Call back the darkness of the ages past 
 To quench that holy dawn's new-risen star ; 
 Let only tyrants, and their slaves, be found 
 
 Alive on Spanish ground. 
 
2S8 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Yet mark ! — ye cast the gift of Heaven away ; 
 And your best blood for this shall yet be shed ; 
 The fire shall waste your borders, and the day 
 Dawn sadly on the dying and the dead; 
 And vultures of the cliff, on every plain, 
 
 Feast high upon the slain. 
 
 The spirit, that of yore did sleep so long, 
 Then woke, and drove the Moors to Afric's shore, 
 Lives ; and, repressed, shall rise one day more strong- 
 Rise, and redeem your shackled race once more, 
 And crush, 'mid showers of blood, and shrieks, and groans, 
 
 Mitres, and stars, and thrones ! 
 
 LESSON CXLII. 
 Character of Charles Townshend.- — Burke. 
 
 From his speech on American taxation, 1774. 
 
 This light, too, is past and set forever. You understand, 
 to be sure, that I speak of Charles Townshend, officially the 
 re-producer of this fatal scheme, whom I cannot, even now, 
 remember without some degree of sensibility. In truth, sir, 
 he was the delight and ornament of this house, and the charm 
 of every private society which he honoured with his pres- 
 ence. Perhaps there never arose in this country, nor in any 
 country, a man of a more pointed and finished wit, and 
 (where his passions were not concerned) of a more refined, 
 exquisite, and penetrating judgment. If he had not so great 
 a stock, as some have had who flourished formerly, of knowl- 
 edge long treasured up, he knew better by far, than any man 
 I ever was acquainted with, how to bring together, within a 
 short time, all that was necessary to establish, to illustrate, 
 and to decorate that side of the question he supported. He 
 stated his matter skilfully and powerfully. He particularly 
 excelled in a most luminous explanation, and display of his 
 subject. His style of argument was neither trite and vulgar, 
 nor subtle and abstruse. He hit the house just between wind 
 and water; and, not being troubled with too anxious a zeal 
 for any matter in question, he was never more tedious, or 
 more earnest, than the preconceived opinions, and present 
 temper of his hearers, required ; to whom he was always in 
 perfect unison. 
 
 There are many young members in the house, (such of 
 late has been the rapid succession of public men,) who never 
 saw that prodigy, Charles Townshend ; nor, of course, know 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 289 
 
 what a ferment he was able to excite in every thing by the 
 violent ebullition of his mixed virtues and failings. For fail- 
 ings he had undoubtedly ; many of us remember them ; we 
 are this day considering the effect of them. But he had no 
 failings which were not owing to a noble cause; to an 
 ardent, generous, perhaps an immoderate passion for fame ; 
 a passion which is the instinct of all great souls. He worship- 
 ped .that goddess wheresoever she appeared ; but he paid his 
 particular devotions to her in her favourite habitation, in her 
 chosen temple, the house of commons. Besides the charac- 
 ters of the individuals that compose our body, it is impossible, 
 Mr. Speaker, not to observe, that this house has a collective 
 character of its own. That character too, however imperfect, 
 is not unamiable. Like all great public collections of men, 
 you possess a marked love of virtue, and an abhorrence of 
 vice. But among vices, there is none which the house abhors 
 in the same degree with obstinacy. Obstinacy, sir, is cer- 
 tainly a great vjce, and, in the changeful state of political 
 affairs, it is frequently the cause of great mischief. It happens, 
 however, very unfortunately, that almost the whole line of 
 the great and masculine virtues, constancy, gravity, magna- 
 nimity, fortitude, fidelity, and firmness, are closely allied to 
 this disagreeable quality, of which you have so just an 
 abhorrence ; and in their excess all these virtues very easily 
 fall into it. He who paid such a punctilious attention to all 
 your feelings, certainly took care not to shock them by that 
 vice which is the most disgustful to you. 
 
 That fear of displeasing those who ought most to be pleased, 
 betrayed him sometimes into the other extreme. He had 
 voted, and, in the year 1765, had been an advocate for the 
 stamp-act. Things and the disposition of men's minds were 
 changed. In short, the stamp-act began to be no favourite 
 in this house. He therefore attended at the private meeting, 
 in which the resolutions moved by a right honourable gen- 
 tleman were settled ; resolutions leading to the repeal. The 
 next day he voted for that repeal ; and he would have spoken 
 for it too, if an illness (not, as was then given out, a political, 
 but, to my knowledge, a very real illness) had notprevented it. 
 
 The very next session, as the fashion of this world passeth 
 away, the repeal began to be in as bad an odour in this house 
 as the stamp-act had been in the session before. To conform 
 to the temper which began to prevail, and to prevail mostly 
 amongst those most in power, he declared, very early in the 
 winter, that a revenue must be had out of America. Instant- 
 ly he was tied down to his engagements by some, who had 
 no objection to such experiments, when made at the cost of 
 25 
 
290 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 persons for whom they had no particular regard. The whole 
 body of courtiers drove him onward. They always talked 
 as if the king stood in a sort of humiliated state, until some- 
 thing of the kind should be done. 
 
 Here this extraordinary man, then chancellor of the ex- 
 chequer, found himself in great straits. To please universally 
 was the object of his life ; but to tax and to please, no more 
 than to love and to be wise, is not given to men. However, he 
 attempted it. To render the tax palatable to the partisans of 
 American revenue, he made a preamble stating the necessity 
 of such a revenue. To close with the American distinction, 
 this revenue was external or port-duty ; but again, to soften 
 it to the other party, it was a duty of supply. To gratify the 
 colonists, it was laid on British manufactures ; to satisfy the 
 merchants of Britain, the duty was trivial, and (except that 
 on tea, which touched only the devoted East India Company) 
 on none of the grand objects of commerce. To counterwork 
 the American contraband, the duty on tea was reduced from 
 a shilling to three-pence. But, to secure the favour of those 
 who would tax America, the scene of collection was changed, 
 and, with the rest, it was levied in the colonies. What 
 need I say more ? This fine-spun scheme had the usual 
 fate of all exquisite policy. But the original plan of the du- 
 ties, and the mode of executing that plan, both arose singly 
 and solely from a love of our applause. He was truly the 
 child of the house. He never thought, did, or said any thing, 
 but with a view to you. He every day adapted himself to 
 your disposition ; and adjusted himself before it as at a look- 
 ing-glass. 
 
 He had observed, (indeed it could not escape him,) that 
 several persons, infinitely his inferiors in all respects, had 
 formerly rendered themselves considerable in this house by 
 one method alone. They were a race of men, (I hope in 
 God the species is extinct,) who, when they rose in their 
 place, no man living could divine, from any known adhe- 
 rence to parties, to opinions, or to principles ; from any order 
 or system in their politics ; or from any sequel or connexion 
 in their ideas, what part they were going to take in any 
 debate. It is astonishing how much this uncertainty, es- 
 pecially at critical times, called the attention of all parties on 
 such men. All eyes were fixed on them, all ears open to 
 hear them ; each party gaped, and looked alternately for their 
 vote, almost to the end of their speeches. While the house 
 hung in this uncertainty, now the hear hims rose from this 
 side — now they rebellowed from the other ; and that party 
 to whom they fell at length, from their tremulous and dancing 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER, 291 
 
 balance, always received them in a tempest of applause. The 
 fortune of such men was a temptation too great to be resisted 
 by one, to whom a single whiff of incense withheld gave 
 much greater pain than he received delight in the clouds of 
 it, which daily rose about him from the prodigal superstition 
 of innumerable admirers. He was a candidate for contradic- 
 tory honours ; and his great aim was to make those agree in 
 admiration of him who never agreed in any thing else. 
 
 Hence arose this unfortunate act, the subject of this day's 
 debate ; from a disposition which, after making an Ameri- 
 can revenue to please one, repealed it to please others, and 
 again revived it in hopes of pleasing a third, and of catching 
 something in the ideas of all. 
 
 LESSON CXLIII. 
 
 The early Increase of American Resources. — Ibid. 
 
 Mr. Speaker, I cannot prevail on myself to hurry over 
 this great consideration. It is good for us to be here. We 
 stand where we have an immense view of what is, and what 
 is past. Clouds indeed, and darkness, rest upon the future. 
 Let us, however, before we descend from this noble eminence, 
 reflect that this growth of our national prosperity has happen- 
 ed within the short period of the life of man. 
 
 It has happened within sixty-eight years. There are those 
 alive whose memory might touch the two extremities. For 
 instance, my Lord Bathurst might remember all the stages of 
 the progress. He was in 1704 of an age at least to be made 
 to comprehend such things. Suppose, sir, that the angel of 
 this auspicious youth should have drawn up the curtain, and 
 unfolded the rising glories of his country, and, whilst he was 
 gazing with admiration on the then commercial grandeur of 
 England, the genius should point out to him a little speck, 
 scarce visible in the mass of the national interest, a small 
 seminal principle, rather than a formed body, and should tell 
 him — "Young man, there is America — which at this day 
 serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of savage 
 men, and uncouth manners ; yet shall, before you taste of 
 death, show itself equal to the whole of that commerce which 
 now attracts the envy of the world. Whatever England has 
 been growing to by a progressive increase of improvement, 
 brought in by varieties of people, by succession of civilizing 
 conquests and civilizing settlements in a series of seventeen 
 hundred years, you shall see as much added to her by Amer- 
 ica in the course of a single life !" If this state of his country 
 
292 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 had been foretold to him, would it not require all the sanguine 
 credulity of youth, and all the fervid glow of enthusiasm, to 
 make him believe it ? Fortunate man ! he has lived to see it ! 
 Fortunate indeed, if he lives to see nothing that shall vary 
 the prospect, and cloud the setting of his day ! 
 
 Excuse me, sir, if, turning from such thoughts, I resume 
 this comparative view once more. You have seen it on a 
 large scale ; look at it on a small one. I will point out to 
 your attention a particular instance of it in the single province 
 of Pennsylvania. In the year 1 704, that province called for 
 £ 11,459 in value of your commodities, native and foreign. 
 This was the whole. What did it demand in 1772 ? Why, 
 nearly fifty times as much ; for in that year the export to 
 Pennsylvania was £ 507,909, nearly equal to the export to all 
 the colonies together in the first period. 
 
 I choose, sir, to enter into these minute and particular 
 details ; because generalities, which, in all other cases, are 
 apt to heighten and raise the subject, have here a tendency 
 to sink it. When we speak of the commerce with our colo- 
 nies, fiction lags after truth, invention is unfruitful, and 
 imagination cold and barren. 
 
 So far, sir, as to the importance of the object in the view 
 of its commerce, as concerned in the exports from England. 
 If I were to detail the imports, I could show how many en- 
 joyments they procure, which deceive the burthen of life ; 
 how many materials, which invigorate the springs of national 
 industry, and extend and animate every part of our foreign 
 and domestic commerce. This would be a curious subject 
 indeed — but I must prescribe bounds to myself in a matter 
 so vast and various. 
 
 I pass, therefore, to the colonies in another point of view — 
 their agriculture. This they have prosecuted with such a 
 spirit, that, besides feeding plentifully their own growing 
 multitude, their annual export of grain, comprehending rice, 
 has some years ago exceeded a million in value. Of their 
 last harvest, I am persuaded, they will export much more. 
 At the beginning of the century, some of these colonies im- 
 ported corn from the mother country. For some time past, 
 the old world has been fed from the new. The scarcity 
 which you have felt would have been a desolating famine, 
 if this child of your old age, with a true filial piety, with a 
 Roman charity, had not put the full breast of its youthful ex- 
 uberance to the mouth of its exhausted parent. 
 
 As to the wealth which the colonies have drawn from the 
 sea by their fisheries, you had all that matter fully opened at 
 your bar. You surely thought those acquisitions of value, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 293 
 
 for they seemed even to excite your envy ; and yet the spirit, 
 by which that enterprising employment has been exercised, 
 ought rather, in my opinion, to have raised your esteem and 
 admiration. And pray, sir, what in the world is equal to it ? 
 Pass by the other parts, and look at the manner in which the 
 people of New England have of late carried on the whale 
 fishery. Whilst we follow them among the tumbling moun- 
 tains of ice, and behold them penetrating into the deepest 
 frozen recesses of Hudson's Bay and Davis's Straits, whilst 
 we are looking for them beneath the arctic circle, we hear 
 that they have pierced into the opposite region of polar cold, 
 that they are at the antipodes, and engaged under the frozen 
 serpent of the south. Falkland Island, which seemed too 
 remote and romantic an object for the grasp of national ambi- 
 tion, is but a stage and resting-place in the progress of their 
 victorious industry. Nor is the equinoctial heat more dis- 
 couraging to them than the accumulated winter of both the 
 poles. We know that whilst some of them draw the line 
 and strike the harpoon on the coast of Africa, others run the 
 longitude, and pursue their gigantic game along the coast of 
 Brazil. No sea but what is vexed by their fisheries. No 
 climate that is not witness to their toils. Neither the per- 
 severance of Holland, nor the activity of France, nor the dex- 
 terous and firm sagacity of English enterprise, ever carried 
 this most perilous mode of hardy industry to the extent to 
 which it has been pushed by this recent people ; a people 
 who are still, as it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hard- 
 ened into the bone of manhood. 
 
 When I contemplate these things ; when I know that the 
 colonies, in general, owe little or nothing to any care of ours, 
 and that they are not squeezed into this happy form by the 
 constraints of watchful and suspicious government, but that, 
 through a wise and salutary neglect, a generous nature has 
 been suffered to take her own way to perfection ; when I 
 reflect upon these effects ; when I see how profitable they 
 have been to us ; I feel all the pride of power sink, and ail 
 presumption in the wisdom of human contrivances melt, and 
 die away within me. My rigour relents. I pardon some- 
 thing to the spirit of liberty. 
 
 LESSON CXLIV. 
 
 Ode to Adversity. — Gray. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 
 25* 
 
294 THE CLASSICAL. READER. 
 
 Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain, 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain ; 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 
 
 When first thy sire to send on earth 
 Virtue, his darling child, designed, 
 To thee he gave the heavenly birth, 
 And bade to form her infant mind : 
 Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore ; 
 What sorrow was thou bad'st her know, 
 And from her own she learned to melt at others' wo. 
 
 Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 
 Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
 Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse, and with them go 
 The summer friend, the flatt'ring foe ; 
 By vain Prosperity received, 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. 
 
 Wisdom, in sable garb arrayed, 
 Immersed in rapt'rous thought profound, 
 And Melancholy, silent maid, 
 With leaclen eye that loves the ground, 
 Still on thy solemn steps attend ; 
 Warm Charity, the general friend, 
 With Justice, to herself severe, 
 And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 
 
 Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, 
 Dread goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand ! 
 Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
 Nor circled with the vengeful band, 
 (As by the impious thou art seen,) 
 With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien, 
 With screaming Horror's fun'ral cry, 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 
 
 Thy form benign, goddess, wear, 
 Thy milder influence impart ; 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 To soften, not to wound, my heart. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 295 
 
 The gen'rous spark extinct revive ; 
 Teach me to love, and to forgive ; 
 Exact, my own defects to scan ; 
 What others are, to feel ; and know myself a man. 
 
 LESSON CXLV. 
 
 Extract from " The Progress of Poesy." — Ibid. 
 
 In climes beyond the solar road, 
 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, 
 The Muse has broke the twilight gloom, 
 To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. 
 And oft, beneath the od'rous shade 
 Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
 She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 
 In loose numbers, wildly sweet, 
 Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. 
 Her track, where'er the goddess roves, 
 Glory pursues, and gen'rous shame, 
 Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame. 
 
 Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep ; 
 Isles, that crown the Egean deep ; 
 Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, 
 Or where Maeander's amber waves 
 In ling'ring lab'rinths creep, 
 How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
 Mute but to the voice of anguish ! 
 Where each old poetic mountain 
 Inspiration breathed around ; 
 Ev'ry shade and hallowed fountain 
 Murmured deep a solemn sound : 
 Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, 
 Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains : 
 Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, 
 And coward vice, that revels in her chains. 
 When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
 They sought, O Albion ! next thy sea-encircled coast. 
 
 Far from the sun and summer gale, 
 In thy green lap was Nature's darling* laid, 
 What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 
 To him the mighty mother did unveil 
 Her awful face ; the dauntless child 
 Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 
 
 * Shakspeare. 
 
296 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 This pencil take, (she said,) whose colours clear 
 
 Richly paint the vernal year : 
 
 Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy ! 
 
 This can unlock the gates of joy; 
 
 Of horror that, and thrilling fears, 
 
 Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. 
 
 Nor second he,* that rode sublime 
 Upon the seraph wings of ecstasy, 
 The secrets of th' abyss to spy. 
 He passed the flaming bounds of space and time ; 
 The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
 Where angels tremble while they gaze, 
 He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, 
 Closed his eyes in endless night. 
 Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car 
 Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
 Two coursers of ethereal race, 
 With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace. 
 
 Hark ! his hands the lyre explore ! 
 Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 
 But, ah ! 'tis heard no more — 
 O lyre divine ! what daring spirit 
 Wakes thee now ! Though he inherit 
 Nor the pride nor ample pinion, 
 That the Theban eagle bare, 
 Sailing with supreme dominion 
 Through the azure deep of air : 
 Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
 Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, 
 With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun ; 
 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
 Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
 Beneath the good how far — but far above the great. 
 
 LESSON CXLVI. 
 
 The baneful Effects of Intemperance. — Kirkland. 
 
 Words are vain, eloquence is feeble, to represent the horror 
 and misery of intemperance. The loss of a person by death 
 is often a deplorable calamity ; but the loss of one by vice, 
 and by vice of this character, is to those near him, by nature 
 
 * Milton. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 297 
 
 or friendship, the infliction of a blow, which makes the grief 
 of mourners seem light. 
 
 In respect to all the instances of this offence against God 
 and man, every person of consideration, of piety, or benevo- 
 lence, must be able to say, with the utmost truth, " I beheld 
 the transgressors, and was grieved." 
 
 Intoxication is the paroxysm of a disease attended with 
 symptoms, that make the person under its influence an object 
 of mingled contempt and pity, and frequently of horror and dis- 
 gust. In the earlier stages of the malady it is marked by an 
 excited tone and preternatural energy ; next by failing limbs, 
 encumbered speech, and peculiar tokens of debility ; then 
 almost apoplectic stupor, concluded with pain, loathing, and 
 dejection. If a single act of ebriety work these and other 
 effects so violent on the animal economy, we need not won- 
 der at the retinue of pains and diseases, following repeated 
 and habitual drunkenness. We can easily believe, also, what 
 observation proves, that there is an inordinate and free use of 
 stimulating drink, which may be thought consistent with a 
 character of sobriety, because producing no such immediate 
 excitement, but which makes a not less certain, though slow- 
 er, inroad upon the constitution. 
 
 Who can think of this self-destruction with unconcern ? 
 Health is an essential want, a fundamental good, requisite to 
 usefulness and enjoyment. Who can be unmoved at the 
 spectacle of a young man, inflaming his blood and impairing 
 his strength, incurring premature disease, and " sowing his 
 temples with untimely snows!" his genius wasted, and his 
 opportunities irrecoverably lost ; obliged to nurse a distemper- 
 ed body at the period designed for rearing the mind ; an adult 
 person, in the proper season of useful and honourable activity, 
 affected with one morbid complaint after another, till his frame 
 sinks under some violent attack, or a gradual decay ; or an 
 old man, trembling on life's miserable verge, shaking the 
 sands that measure his few remaining days, having added to 
 the unavoidable infirmities of declining age an insupportable 
 weight of voluntary sufferings ; and paying the dreadful for- 
 feiture of his sins at a time demanding the consolations of 
 virtue and the cordial of hope ? 
 
 If we attend to the effects of this vice on the mind, habits, 
 and character, we have ample cause to think of it with deep 
 concern. Let us consider it in relation to these particulars, 
 not less than its operation on the animal frame. 
 
 Reason is our distinguishing prerogative, and self-govern- 
 ment the proper exercise of reason. Can we fail to be shocked 
 and afflicted at the effect of intemperance in its lower degrees 
 
298 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 to weaken, and in its higher to subvert, the authority of reason, 
 and to impair or destroy the power of self-government ? It 
 generates an uncomfortable irritability of temper, or consigns 
 its victims to the mercy of their headstrong passions. Infect- 
 ed with this poison, the man, according to his disposition 
 and temperament, becomes an idiot, a maniac, a savage, cr 
 a brute. Decent hilarity is changed to boisterous mirth or 
 ungoverned riot, and animated conversation and chaste wit 
 give place to noise, brawling, and ribaldry. Under this ex- 
 citement, the native and prevailing character is often reversed. 
 The polite are made rude ; the gentle furious ; the peaceable 
 become testy and contentious ; and the discreet find them- 
 selves in the haunts of infamy. The identity of the man is 
 destroyed. The sense of shame and religious awe, which 
 he evinced when sober, are expelled by the cup of sorcery ; 
 the language of profaneness and indecency fills the mouth 
 which used to speak without offence. 
 
 Business and employment, the preservation and exercise 
 of the respectable faculties of the mind, and the duties of a 
 calling and sphere of life, are essential to reputation, useful- 
 ness, and comfort, and required by our social relations. Ex- 
 pect these parts of our destination, as men and members of 
 society, to remain unfulfilled by those, who are addicted to in- 
 temperance. After a course of indulgence, stupidity of mind and 
 confusion of ideas take place. The memory fades. Engage- 
 ments and cares lose their power to excite an interest. The 
 spirit of exertion becomes extinct, and honourable ambition 
 dies in the breast. Even the consciousness of being despised 
 is endured by the slave of this base appetite with hardened, 
 unblushing composure. His heart, that used to swell with 
 kind affection and generous sympathy, has become insensible. 
 
 Losing the confidence of society, and neglecting his busi- 
 ness, he is probably soon met by want or dependence. If 
 young, the prospect of entering life with advantage, and 
 reaping the fruits of a careful education, is prematurely 
 closed ; and he, who might have rendered important services 
 to the world, lives only to be a cumberer of the ground. 
 The substance of the intemperate person almost invariably 
 disappears ; the possessions acquired by former diligence and 
 care, or received from ancestors, pass into the hands of stran- 
 gers ; whilst the distresses of poverty, the importunities of 
 injured creditors, and the cries of children for bread, are 
 added to the torment of an appetite never ceasing to crave, 
 and all the deep distemperature of the soul and body. 
 
 The family is designed, by the Creator, as a school of vir- 
 tue, and the seat of our best enjoyments. If the heads or 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 299 
 
 members of a family betray their trust, and disregard the 
 happiness of the little community, the world can supply no 
 equivalent for the loss. 
 
 Farewell to order, endearment, and peace, in the dwelling 
 where this pestilence has entered. Shall the father or moth- 
 er have authority in their household, with no command over 
 themselves ? or inculcate religion and virtue, with an example 
 that belies their sincerity and shames their principles ? There 
 is an end to all confidence and love in the intercourse with 
 a parent or husband, in habits of intemperance. He is petu- 
 lant and captious ; a son of Belial, that one cannot speak to 
 him ; enraged at every attempt to chide or expostulate ; re- 
 senting the tears of his wife and children, in proportion as he 
 is convinced they have cause to weep ; squandering the sub- 
 stance necessary for their comfort, perhaps for their suste- 
 nance, and leaving those, who are cast upon his care, to 
 penury and anguish. When he goes abroad, they expect his 
 return with terror, and at home the presence of a visitor 
 covers their faces with crimson. 
 
 What ray of consolation cheers the midnight gloom sur 
 rounding a family, where a wife or mother can forget her sex 
 and her duties in this unnatural indulgence ? Is it a son or a 
 brother, who has abandoned himself to the society and the 
 practices of the drunken ? the hearts that desire to love him 
 feel unutterable pangs. 
 
 The power of conscience is placed within us as the guide 
 and monitor of life. Intemperance destroys the perception 
 and the sense of right and wrong. "It hardens all within." 
 A moral lethargy is induced. The transgressor may profess 
 to be a votary of religion and virtue, he may talk fluently 
 •jpon sacred subjects, he may pray and join in prayers; but 
 God rejects, virtue disowns the forms, words, feelings, that 
 leave the will and actions under the dominion of an allowed 
 and cherished vice. 
 
 We are to view our character and prospects in the light 
 which the Christian revelation imparts. The privileges and 
 hopes, founded in the covenant of the gospel, are forever de- 
 nied to the wilful transgressor of the law of temperance. 
 It declares he shall not enter into the kingdom of God. The 
 Arbiter of his destiny shall cut him in sunder, and appoint 
 him his portion with hypocrites, 
 
 I have suggested a few of the many reasons for considering 
 the existence and prevalence of this vice with heartfelt con- 
 cern. Its destructive effect on the body and the mind, its 
 blasting influence upon social happiness, the depravation of 
 the moral sentiments, and the forfeiture of the Christian 
 
« 
 
 00 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 prerogatives and immortal hopes of those who commit it, are 
 awful and affecting considerations, appealing to every pious 
 and tender feeling of our souls. If we heard only of a fellow 
 man thus degraded from his rank, and cut off from the ex- 
 pectation of good, it should awaken emotion. Do we not 
 only hear but see ? are the victims of ebriety in our country, 
 our state, and neighbourhood ? may they sometimes be found 
 in our houses, at the tables where we sit, among our near 
 connexions ? have they appeared among the young, who once 
 gave promise of excellence, among the middle aged and the 
 old, and even in the delicate sex ? Has this destroyer brought 
 down the mighty — some who stood high in the world, and 
 had a name for piety as well as talents ? and has the evil 
 spread and increased in the body of the community ? It is 
 surely a cause of solicitude, of grief, and dismay. 
 
 LESSON CXLVII. 
 
 Description of Rivers, and Praise of Water. — Armstrong. 
 
 Now come, ye Naiads ! to the fountain lead ; 
 Now let me wander through your gelid reign. 
 I burn to view th' enthusiastic wilds 
 By mortal else untrod. I hear the din 
 Of waters thund'ring o'er the ruined cliffs. 
 With holy rev'rence I approach the rocks 
 Whence glide the streams renowned in ancient song. 
 Here, from the desert down the rumbling steep, 
 First springs the Nile ; here bursts the sounding Po 
 In angry waves ; Euphrates hence devolves 
 A mighty flood to water half the east ; 
 And there, in Gothic solitude reclined, 
 The cheerless Tanais pours his hoary urn. 
 What solemn twilight, what stupendous shades, 
 Inwrap these infant floods ! Through ev'ry nerve 
 A sacred horror thrills, a pleasing fear 
 Glides o'er my frame. The forest deepens round ; 
 And, more gigantic still, th' impending trees 
 Stretch their extravagant arms athwart the gloom. 
 Are these the confines of some fairy world, 
 A land of Genii ? Say, beyond these wilds 
 What unknown nations ? if indeed beyond 
 Aught habitable lies. And whither leads, 
 To what strange regions, or of bliss or pain, 
 That subterraneous way ? Propitious maids, 
 Conduct me, while with fearful steps I tread 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 301 
 
 This trembling ground. The task remains to sing 
 Your gifts, (so Paeon, so the powers of health 
 Command,) to praise your crystal element : 
 The chief ingredient in Heaven's various works, 
 Whose flexile genius sparkles in the gem, 
 Grows firm in oak, and fugitive in wine ; 
 The vehicle, the source, of nutriment 
 And life, to all that vegetate or live. 
 
 comfortable streams ! with eager lips, 
 And trembling hand, the languid thirsty quaff 
 New life in you : fresh vigour fills their veins. 
 No warmer cups the rural ages knew ; 
 None warmer sought the sires of human kind, 
 Happy in temperate peace ! Their equal days 
 Felt not the alternate fits of fev'rish mirth 
 And sick dejection. Still serene and pleased, 
 They knew no pains but what the tender soul 
 With pleasure yields to, and would ne'er forget. 
 Blest with divine immunity from ails, 
 Long centuries they lived ; their only fate 
 Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death. 
 Oh ! could those worthies from the world of gods 
 Return to visit their degenerate sons, 
 How would they scorn the joys of modern time, 
 With all our art and toil improved to pain ! 
 Too happy they ! But wealth brought luxury, 
 And luxury on sloth begot disease. 
 
 LESSON CXLVIII. 
 
 Tendency of all Things to decay. — Ibid. 
 
 What does not fade ? The tower, that long has stood 
 The crush of thunder and the warring winds, 
 Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, 
 Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base ; 
 And flinty pyramids, and walls of brass, 
 Descend : the Babylonian spires are sunk ; 
 Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down. 
 Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, 
 And tottering empires crush by their own weight. 
 This huge rotundity we tread grows old, 
 And all those worlds that roll around the sun. 
 The sun himself shall die, and ancient night 
 Again involve the desolate abyss, 
 Till the great Father through the lifeless gloom 
 26 
 
302 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Extend his arm to light another world, 
 And bid new planets roll by other laws. 
 For, through the regions of unbounded space, 
 Where uneonfined Omnipotence has room, 
 Being, in various systems, fluctuates still 
 Between creation and abhorred decay ; 
 It ever did, perhaps, and ever will. 
 New worlds are still emerging from the deep ; 
 The old descending, in their turns to rise. 
 
 LESSON CXLIX. 
 
 A Hebrew Tale. — Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Twilight was deepening with a tinge of eve, 
 As toward his home in Israel's sheltered vales 
 A stately Rabbi drew. His camels spied 
 Afar the palm-trees' lofty heads, that decked 
 The dear, domestic fountain, — and in speed 
 Pressed, with broad foot, the smooth and dewy glade. 
 The holy man his peaceful threshold passed 
 With hasting step. — The evening meal was spread, 
 And she, who from life's morn his heart had shared, 
 Breathed her fond welcome. — Bowing o'er the board, 
 The blessing of his fathers' God he sought, 
 Ruler of earth and sea. — Then, raising high 
 The sparkling wine-cup, " Call my sons," he bade, 
 "And let me bless them ere their hour of rest." 
 — The observant mother spake with gentle voice 
 Somewhat of soft excuse, — that they were wont 
 To linger long amid the Prophet's school, 
 Learning the holy law their father loved. — 
 
 His sweet repast with sweet discourse was blent, 
 
 Of journeying and return. — "Would thou hadst seen. 
 With me, the golden morning break to light 
 Yon mountain summits, whose blue, waving line 
 Scarce meets thine eye, where chirp of joyous birds, 
 And breath of fragrant shrubs, and spicy gales, 
 And sigh of waving boughs, stirred in the soul 
 Warm orisons. — Yet most I wished thee near 
 Amid the temple's pomp, when the high priest, 
 Clad in his robe pontifical, invoked 
 The God of Abraham, while from lute and harp, 
 Cymbal, and trump, and psaltery, and glad breath 
 Of tuneful Levite, — and the mighty shout 
 Of all our people like the swelling sea, 
 
THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 303 
 
 Loud hallelujahs burst. When next I seek 
 Blest Zion's glorious hill, our beauteous boys 
 Must bear me company. — Their early prayers 
 Will rise as incense. Thy reluctant love 
 No longer must withhold them : — the new toil 
 ^^ill give them sweeter sleep, — and touch their cheek 
 ^Vith brighter crimson. — Mid their raven curls 
 My hand I'll lay, — and dedicate them there, 
 Even in those hallowed courts, to Israel's God, 
 Two spotless lambs, well pleasing in his sight. 
 — But yet, methinks, thou'rt paler grown, my love ! — 
 And the pure sapphire of thine eye looks dim, 
 As though 'twere washed with tears." — 
 
 — Faintly she smiled, — 
 " One doubt, my lord, I fain would have thee solve. — 
 Gems of rich lustre and of countless cost 
 Were to my keeping trusted. — Now, alas ! 
 They are demanded. — Must they be restored ? — 
 Or may I not a little longer gaze 
 Upon their dazzling hues ?" — His eye grew stern, 
 And on his lip there lurked a sudden curl 
 
 Of indignation.- •" Doth my wife propose 
 
 Such doubt ? — as if a master might not claim 
 
 His own again !" "Nay, Rabbi, come, behold 
 
 These priceless jewels ere I yield them back." — 
 
 So to their spousal chamber with soft hand 
 
 Her lord she led. — There, on a snow-white couch, 
 
 Lay his two sons, pale, pale and motionless, 
 
 Like fair twin-lilies, which some grazing kid 
 
 In wantonness had cropped. — " My sons ! — my sons ! — 
 
 Light of my eyes !" the astonished father cried, — 
 
 " My teachers in the law ! — whose guileless hearts, 
 And prompt obedience warned me oft to be 
 More perfect with my God !" — 
 
 To earth he fell, 
 Like Lebanon's rent cedar ; while his breast 
 Heaved with such groans as when the labouring soul 
 Breaks from its clay companion's close embrace. — 
 — The mourning mother turned- away and wept, 
 Till the first storm of passionate grief was still. 
 Then, pressing to his ear her faded lip, 
 She sighed in tone of tremulous tenderness, 
 " Thou didst instruct me, Rabbi, how to yield 
 The summoned jewels — See ! the Lord did give, 
 The Lord hath taken away." 
 
304 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 " Yea V said the sire, 
 " And blessed be his name. Even for thy sake 
 Thrice blessed be Jehovah." — Long he pressed 
 On those cold, beautiful brows his quivering lip, 
 While from his eye the burning anguish rolled ; 
 Then, kneeling low, those chastened spirits poured 
 Their mighty homage. 
 
 LESSON CL. 
 
 Dialogue in the Shades, between Pliny the Elder and Pliny the 
 Younger. — Lord Lyttleton. 
 
 Pliny the Elder. The account that you give me, nephew, 
 of your behaviour amidst the terrors and perils that accom- 
 panied the first eruption of Vesuvius, does not please me 
 much. There was more of vanity in it than of true magna- 
 nimity. Nothing is great that is unnatural and affected. When 
 the earth was shaking beneath you ; when the whole heaven 
 was darkened with sulphureous clouds ; when all nature 
 seemed falling into its final destruction, to be reading Livy, 
 and making extracts, was an absurd affectation. To meet 
 danger with courage is manly; but to be insensible of it is 
 brutal stupidity ; and to pretend insensibility, where it can- 
 not be supposed, is ridiculous falseness. When you after- 
 wards refused to leave your aged mother, and save yourself 
 without her, you indeed acted nobly. It was also becoming 
 a Roman to keep up her spirit, amidst all the horrors of that 
 tremendous scene, by showing yourself undismayed. But 
 the real merit and glory of this part of your behaviour is 
 sunk by the other, which gives an air of ostentation and van- 
 ity to the whole. 
 
 Pliny the Younger. That vulgar minds should consider 
 my attention to my studies, in such a conjuncture, as unnatu- 
 lal and affected, I should not much wonder. But that you 
 would blame it as such, I did not apprehend ; you, whom no 
 business could separate from the muses ; you, who approach- 
 ed nearer to the fiery storm, and died by the suffocating heat 
 of the vapour. 
 
 Pliny the Elder. I died in doing my duty. Let me recall 
 to your remembrance all the particulars, and then you shall 
 judge yourself on the difference of your behaviour and mine. 
 
 I was the prsefect of the Roman fleet which then lay at 
 Misenum. On the first account I received of the very un- 
 usual cloud that appeared in the air, I ordered a vessel to 
 carry me out, to some distance from the shore, that I might 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 305 
 
 the better observe tlie phenomenon, and endeavour to dis- 
 cover its nature and cause. This I did as a philosopher, 
 and it was a curiosity proper and natural to an inquisitive 
 mind. I offered to take you with me, and surely you should 
 have, gone ; for Livy might have been read at any other time, 
 and such spectacles are not frequent. 
 
 When I came out from my house, I found all the inhab- 
 itants of Misenum flying to the sea. That I might assist 
 them, and all others who dwelt on the coast, I immediately 
 commanded the whole fleet to put out, and sailed with it all 
 round the Bay of Naples, steering particularly to those parts 
 of the shore where the danger was greatest, and from whence 
 the affrighted people were endeavouring to escape with the 
 most trepidation. Thus I happily preserved some thousands 
 of lives ; noting, at the same time, with an unshaken com- 
 posure and freedom of mind, the several phenomena of the 
 eruption. 
 
 Towards night, as we approached to the foot of Mount 
 Vesuvius, our galleys were covered with ashes, the showers 
 of which grew continually hotter and hotter ; then pumice 
 stones, and burnt and broken pyrites, began to fall on our 
 heads ; and we were stopped by the obstacles which the ruins 
 of the volcano had suddenly formed, by falling into the sea, 
 and almost filling it up, on that part of the coast. I then 
 commanded my pilot to steer to the villa of my friend Pom- 
 ponianus, which, you know, was situated in the inmost recess 
 of the bay. 
 
 The wind was very favourable to carry me thither, but 
 would not allow him to put off from the shore, as he was de- 
 sirous to have done. We were therefore constrained to pass 
 the night in his house. The family watched, and I slept, 
 till the heaps of pumice stones, which incessantly fell from 
 the clouds, that had by this time been impelled to that side 
 of the bay, rose so high in the area of the apartment I lay in, 
 that, if I had staid any longer, I could not have got out ; and 
 the earthquakes were so violent as to threaten every mo- 
 ment the fall of the house. We therefore thought it more safe 
 to go into the open air, guarding our heads, as well as we 
 were able, with pillows tied upon them. The wind contin- 
 uing contrary, and the sea very rough, we all remained on 
 the shore, till the descent of a sulphureous and fiery vapour 
 suddenly oppressed my weak lungs, and put an end to my 
 life. In all this I hope that I acted as the duty of my station 
 required, and with true magnanimity. 
 
 But on this occasion, and in many other parts of your con- 
 duct, I must say, my dear nephew, there was a mixture of 
 26 * 
 
306 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 vanity, blended with your virtue, which impaired and dis- 
 graced it. Without that, you would have been one of the 
 worthiest men whom Rome has ever produced ; for none ex- 
 celled you in sincere integrity of heart and greatness of sen- 
 timents. Why would you lose the substance of glory by 
 seeking the shadow ? 
 
 Your eloquence had, I think, the same fault as your man- 
 ners ; it was generally too affected. You professed to make 
 Cicero your guide and pattern. But when one reads his 
 panegyric upon Julius Csesar, in his oration for Marcellus, 
 and yours upon Trajan, the first seems the genuine language 
 of truth and nature, raised and dignified with all the majesty 
 of the most sublime oratory ; the latter appears the harangue 
 of a florid rhetorician, more desirous to shine, and to set off his 
 own wit, than to extol the great man whose virtues he was 
 praising. 
 
 Pliny the Younger. I will not question your judgment 
 either of my life or my writings. They might both have been 
 better, if I had not been too solicitous to render them perfect. 
 It is, perhaps, some excuse for the affectation of my style, 
 that it was the fashion of the age in which I wrote. Even 
 the eloquence of Tacitus, however nervous and sublime, was 
 not unaffected. Mine, indeed, was more diffuse, and the orna- 
 ments of it were more tawdry ; but his laboured conciseness, 
 the constant glow of his diction, and pointed brilliancy of his 
 sentences, were no less unnatural. One principal cause of 
 this I suppose to have been, that, as we despaired of excel- 
 ling the two great masters of oratory, Cicero and Livy, in 
 their own manner, we took up another, which, to many, 
 appeared more shining, and gave our compositions a more 
 original air. 
 
 But it is mortifying to me to say much on this subject. 
 Permit me, therefore, to resume the contemplation of that 
 on which our conversation turned before. What a direful 
 calamity was the eruption of Vesuvius, which you have been 
 describing ! Don't you remember the beauty of that fine 
 coast, and of the mountain itself, before it was torn with the 
 violence of those internal fires, that forced their way through 
 its surface ? The foot of it was covered with corn-fields and 
 rich meadows, interspersed with splendid villas and magnifi- 
 cent towns : the sides of it were clothed with the best vines 
 in Italy. How quick, how unexpected, how terrible was the 
 change ! All was at once overwhelmed with ashes, cin- 
 ders, broken rocks, and fiery torrents, presenting to the eye 
 the most dismal scene of horror and desolation ' 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 307 
 
 Pliny the Elder. You paint it very truly. But has it never 
 occurred to your philosophical mind, that this change is a 
 striking emblem of that which must happen, by the natural 
 course of things, to every rich, luxurious state ? While the 
 inhabitants of it are sunk in voluptuousness, while all is 
 smiling around them, and they imagine that no evil, no dan- 
 ger is nigh,- the latent seeds of destruction are fermenting 
 within ; till, breaking out on a sudden, they lay waste all 
 their opulence, all their boasted delights, and leave them a 
 sad monument of the fatal effects of internal tempests and 
 convulsions. 
 
 LESSON CLI. 
 Admirable Structure of the Mole. — Paley. 
 
 The strong, short legs of the mole, the palmatedfeet, arm- 
 ed with sharp nails, the pig-like nose, the teeth, the velvet 
 coat, the small external ear, the sagacious smell, the sunk, 
 protected eye, all conduce to the utilities or to the safety of 
 its underground life. It is a special purpose, specially con- 
 sulted throughout. 
 
 The form of the feet fixes the character of the animal. 
 They are so many shovels : they determine its action to that of 
 rooting in the ground ; and every thing about its body agrees 
 with this destination. The cylindrical figure of the mole, as 
 well as the compactness of its form, arising from the terse- 
 ness of its limbs, proportionally lessens its labour ; because, 
 according to its bulk, it thereby requires the least possible 
 quantity of earth to be removed for its progress. 
 
 It has nearly the same structure of the face and jaws as a 
 swine, and the same office for them. The nose is sharp, 
 slender, tendinous, strong ; with a pair of nerves going down 
 to the end of it. The plush covering, which, by the smooth- 
 ness, closeness, and polish of the short piles that compose it, 
 rejects the adhesion of almost every species of earth, defends 
 the animal from cold and wet, and from the impediment, 
 which it would experience by the mould sticking to its body. 
 From soils of all kinds the little pioneer comes forth bright 
 and clean. Inhabiting dirt, it is of all animals the neatest. 
 
 But what I have always most admired in the mole is its 
 eyes. This animal occasionally visiting the surface, and 
 wanting, for its safety and direction, to be informed when it 
 does so, or when it approaches it, a perception of light was 
 necessary. I do not know that the clearness of sight depends 
 at all upon the size of the organ. What is gained by the 
 
308 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 largeness or prominence of the globe of the eye, is width in 
 the field of vision. Such a capacity would be of no use to 
 an animal which was to seek its food in the dark. The 
 mole did not want to look about it ; nor would a large, ad- 
 vanced eye have been easily defended from the annoyance, 
 to which the life of the animal must constantly expose it. 
 
 How, indeed, was the mole, working its way under grounl, 
 to guard its eyes at all ? In order to meet this difficulty, the 
 eyes are made scarcely larger than the head of a corking pin; 
 and these minute globules are sunk so deeply in the skull, 
 and lie so sheltered within the velvet of its covering, as that 
 any contraction of what may be called the eye-brows, not 
 only closes up the apertures which lead to the eyes, but pre- 
 sents a cushion, as it were, to any sharp or protruding sub- 
 stance, which might push against them. This aperture, even 
 in its ordinary state, is like a pin-hole in a piece of velvet, 
 scarcely pervious to loose particles of earth. 
 
 Observe then, in this structure, that which we call rela- 
 tion. There is no natural connexion between a small, sunk 
 eye and a shovel, palmated foot. Palmated feet might have 
 been joined with goggle eyes ; or small eyes might have been 
 joined with feet of any other form. What was it, therefore, 
 which brought them together in the mole ? That which 
 brought together the barrel, the chain, and the fusee in a watch 
 — design ; and design, in both cases, inferred from the rela- 
 tion which the parts bear to one another in the prosecution 
 of a common purpose. 
 
 LESSON CLII. 
 
 Instances of Compensation in the Structure of different 
 
 Animals. — Ibid. 
 
 Compensation is a species of relation. It is relation, 
 when the defects of one part, or of one organ, are supplied 
 by the structure of another part, or of another organ. Thus, 
 the short, unbending neck of the elephant is compensated by 
 the length and flexibility of his proboscis. He could not 
 have reached the ground without it : or, if it be supposed 
 that he might have fed upon the fruit, leaves, or branches of 
 trees, how was he to drink ? Should it be asked, Why is the 
 elephant's n eck so short ? it may be answered, that the weight 
 of a head so heavy could not have been supported at the end 
 of a long lever. To a form, therefore, in some respects ne- 
 cessary, but in some respects also inadequate to the occasions 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 309 
 
 of the animal, a supplement is added, which exactly makes 
 up the deficiency under which he laboured. 
 
 Were we to enter into an examination of the structure and 
 anatomy of the proboscis itself, we should see in it one of 
 the most curious of all examples of animal mechanism. The 
 disposition of the ringlets and fibres, for the purpose, first, of 
 forming a long cartilaginous pipe ; secondly, of contracting 
 and lengthening that pipe ; thirdly, of turning it in every di- 
 rection at the will of the animal ; with the super-additioo, at 
 the end, of a fleshy production, of about the length and thick- 
 ness of a finger, and performing the office of a finger, so as 
 to pick up a straw from the ground ; these properties of the 
 same organ, taken together, exhibit a specimen, not only of 
 design, (which is attested by the advantage,) but of consum- 
 mate art, and, as I may say, of elaborate preparation, in ac- 
 complishing that design. 
 
 The hook in the wing of a hat is strictly a mechanical, 
 and, also, a compensating contrivance. At the angle of its 
 wing there is a bent claw, exactly in the form of a hook, by 
 which the bat attaches itself to the sides of rocks, caves, 
 and buildings, laying hold of crevices, joinings, chinks, and 
 roughnesses. It hooks itself by this claw ; remains suspended 
 by this hold ; takes its flight from this position ; which ope- 
 rations compensate for the decrepitude of its legs and feet. 
 Without her hook, the bat would be the most helpless of all 
 animals. She can neither run upon her feet, nor raise her- 
 self from the ground. These inabilities are made up to her 
 by the contrivance in her wing ; and, in placing a claw on 
 that part, the Creator has deviated from the analogy observed 
 in winged animals. A singular defect required a singular 
 substitute. 
 
 The crane kind are to live and seek their food amongst 
 the waters ; yet, having no web-feet, are incapable of swim- 
 ming. To make up for this deficiency, they are furnished 
 with long legs for wading, or long bills for groping ; or usu- 
 ally with both. This is compensation. But I think the true 
 reflection upon the present instance, is, how every part of 
 nature is tenanted by appropriate inhabitants. Not only is 
 the surface of deep waters peopled by numerous tribes of 
 birds that swim, but marshes and shallow pools are furnished 
 with hardly less numerous tribes of birds that wade. 
 
 The common parrot has, in the structure of its beak, both 
 an inconveniency, and a compensation for it. When I speak 
 of an inconveniency, I have a view to a dilemma which fre- 
 quently occurs in the works of nature, viz. that the peculiar- 
 ity of structure, by which an organ is made to answer one 
 
310 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 purpose, necessarily unfits it for some other purpose. This 
 is the case before us. The upper bill of the parrot is so 
 much hooked, and so much overlaps the lower, that, if, as in 
 other birds, the lower chap alone had motion, the bird could 
 scarcely gape wide enough to receive its food : yet this hook 
 and overlapping of the bill could not be spared, for it forms 
 the very instrument by which the bird climbs : to say noth- 
 ing of the use which it makes of it in breaking nuts, and the 
 hard substances upon which it feeds. How, therefore, has 
 nature provided for the opening of this occluded mouth ? By 
 making the upper chap moveable, as well as the lower. In 
 most birds the upper chap is connected, and makes but one 
 piece with the skull ; but, in the parrot, the upper chap is 
 joined to the bone of the head by a strong membrane, placed 
 on each side of it, which lifts and depresses it at pleasure. 
 
 The spiders web is a compensating contrivance. The spider 
 lives upon flies, without wings to pursue them ; a case, one 
 would have thought, of great difficulty, yet provided for ; 
 and provided for by a resource, which no stratagem, no ef- 
 fort of the animal, could have produced, had not both its ex- 
 ternal and internal structure been specifically adapted to the 
 operation. 
 
 In many species of insects the eye is fixed ; and, conse- 
 quently, without the power of turning the pupil to the object. 
 This great defect is, however, perfectly compensated ; and 
 by a mechanism which we should not suspect. The eye is 
 a multiplying glass ; with a lens looking in every direction, 
 and catching every object ; by which means, although the 
 orb of the eye be stationary, the field of vision is as ample 
 as that of other animals ; and is commanded on every side. 
 When this lattice work was first observed, the multiplicity 
 and minuteness of the surfaces must have added to the sur- 
 prise of the discovery. Adams tells us, that fourteen hun- 
 dred of these reticulations have been counted in the two eyes 
 of a drone bee. 
 
 In other cases, the compensation is effected by the number 
 and position of the eyes themselves. The spider has eight 
 eyes, mounted upon different parts of the head ; two in front, 
 two in the top of the head, two on each side. These eyes 
 are without motion, but, by their situation, suited to com- 
 prehend every view, which the wants or safety of the animal 
 render it necessary for it to take. 
 
 The Memoirs for the Natural History of Animals, publish- 
 ed by the French Academy, A. D. 1687, furnish us with 
 some curious particulars in the eye of the chameleon. Instead 
 of two eyelids, it is covered by an eyelid with a hole in it. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 311 
 
 This singular structure appears to be compensatory, and to an- 
 swer to some other singularities in the shape of the animal. 
 The neck of the chameleon is inflexible. To make up for this, 
 the eye is so prominent as that more than half of the ball 
 stands out of the head; by means of which extraordinary 
 projection, the pupil of the eye can be carried by the muscles 
 in every direction, and is capable of being pointed towards 
 every object. But then so unusual an exposure of the globe 
 of the eye requires, for its lubricity and defence, a more than 
 ordinary protection of eyelid, as well as a more than ordinary 
 supply of moisture ; yet the motion of an eyelid, formed ac- 
 cording to the common construction, would be impeded, as 
 it should seem, by the convexity of the organ. The aperture 
 in the lid meets this difficulty. It enables the animal to keep 
 the principal part of the surface of the eye under cover, and 
 to preserve it in a due state of humidity, without shutting 
 out the light, or without performing every moment a nicti- 
 tation, which, it is probable, would be more laborious to this 
 animal than to others. 
 
 But the works of the Deity are known by expedients. 
 Where we should look for absolute destitution ; where we 
 can reckon up nothing but wants ; some contrivance always 
 comes in to supply the privation. A snail, without wings, 
 feet, or thread, climbs up the stalks of plants by the sole aid 
 of a viscid humour discharged from her skin. She adheres to 
 the stems, leaves, and fruits of plants, by means of a sticking 
 plaster. A muscle, which might seem, by its helplessness, 
 to lie at the mercy of every wave that went over it, has the 
 singular power of spinning strong, tendinous threads, by 
 which she moors her shell to rocks and timbers. A cockle, 
 on the contrary, by means of its stiff tongue, works for itself 
 a shelter in the sand. 
 
 The provisions of nature extend to cases the most desper- 
 ate. A lobster has in its constitution a difficulty so great, 
 that one could hardly conjecture beforehand how nature 
 would dispose of it. In most animals, the skin grows with 
 their growth. If, instead of a soft skin, there be a shell, 
 still it admits of a gradual enlargement. If the shell, as in 
 the tortoise, consist of several pieces, the accession of sub- 
 stance, is made at the sutures. Bivalve shells grow bigger 
 by receiving an accretion at their edge ; it is the same with 
 spiral shells at their mouth. The simplicity of their form 
 admits of this. But the lobster's shell, being applied to the 
 limbs of the body as well as to the body itself, allows not 
 of either of the modes of growth which are observed to take 
 place in other shells. Its hardness resists expansion, and 
 
a 
 
 12 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 its complexity renders it incapable of increasing its size by 
 addition of substance to its edge. 
 
 How, then, was the growth of the lobster to be provided 
 for ? Was room to be made for it in the old shell, or was it 
 to be successively fitted with new ones ? If a change cf shell 
 became necessary, how was the lobster to extricate himself 
 from his present confinement ? How was he to uncase his 
 buckler, or draw his legs out of his boots ? The process, 
 which fishermen have observed to take place, is as follows. 
 At certain seasons, the shell of the lobster grows soft ; the 
 animal swells its body ; the seams open, and the claws burst 
 at the joints. When the shell is thus become loose upon the 
 body, the animal makes a second effort, and, by a tremulous, 
 spasmodic motion, casts it off. In this state the liberated, 
 but defenceless fish retires into holes in the rock. The re- 
 leased body now suddenly pushes its growth. In about eight 
 and forty hours, a fresh concretion of humour upon the surface, 
 that is, a new shell, is formed, adapted in every part to the 
 increased dimensions of the animal. This wonderful muta- 
 tion is repeated every year. 
 
 LESSON CLIII. 
 
 The Charms of Nature to be prefewecl. — Beattie. 
 
 Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand ; 
 Nor was perfection made for man below. 
 Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned, 
 Good counteracting ill, and gladness wo. 
 With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow ; 
 If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise ; 
 There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow ; 
 Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, 
 And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. 
 
 Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse 
 Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire : 
 Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
 Th' imperial banquet, and the rich attire. 
 Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. 
 Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined ? 
 No ; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, 
 To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned ; 
 Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind. 
 
 Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul 
 In each fine sense so exquisitely keen, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 313 
 
 On the dull couch of luxury to loll, 
 Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen ; 
 Fain to implore the aid of flattery's screen, 
 Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide 
 (The mansion then no more of joy serene,) 
 Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide, 
 And impotent desire, and disappointed pride 1 
 
 how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
 And all that echoes to the song of even, 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven ; 
 O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ? 
 
 These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, 
 And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. 
 But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth 
 E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart : 
 For, ah ! it poisons like a scorpion's dart ; 
 Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme, 
 The stern resolve unmoved by pity's smart, 
 The troublous day, and long distressful dream. 
 
 LESSON CLIV. 
 
 Sketch of the History of Printing. — V. Knox. 
 
 The business of transcribing the remains of Grecian and 
 Roman literature became a useful, an innocent, and a 
 pleasing employ to many of those, who, in the dark ages, 
 would else have pined in the listless languor of monastic re- 
 tirement. Exempt from the avocations of civil life, incapable 
 of literary exertion from the want of books and opportunities 
 of improvement, they devoted the frequent intervals of reli- 
 gious duty to the transcription of authors whom they often 
 little understood. The servile office of a mere copyist was 
 not disdained by those who knew not to invent; and the 
 writers in the scriptorium were inspired with an emulation 
 to excel, in the beauty and variety of their illuminations, the 
 fidelity of their copy, and the multitude of their performances. 
 
 But when every letter of every copy was to be formed by 
 the immediate operation of the hand, the most persevering 
 assiduity could effect but little. The books appear not to 
 27 
 
314 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 have been written with the rapidity of a modern transcriber, 
 but with formal stiffness, or a correct elegance, equally in- 
 consistent with expedition. They were therefore rare, and 
 consequently much valued, and, whenever sold, were sold at 
 a great price. Few, indeed, but crowned and mitred heads, 
 or incorporated communities, were able to procure a number 
 sufficient to merit the appellation of a library ; and even the 
 boasted libraries of princes and prelates were such as are 
 now easily exceeded by every private collection. To be 
 poor, with whatever ability or inclination, was, at one time, 
 an insurmountable obstacle to literary improvement; and, 
 perhaps, we indulge an unreasonable acrimony in our gener- 
 al censure of monkish sloth and ignorance, not considering 
 that an involuntary fault ceases to be blameable; that igno- 
 rance is necessary where the means of information are scarce ; 
 and that sloth is not to be avoided, where the requisites of 
 proper employment are not attainable without great ex- 
 pense, or earnest solicitation. 
 
 It was, nerhaps, less with a view to obviate these incon- 
 
 J i 1 7 
 
 veniences, than from the interested motives of deriving greater 
 gain by exacting the usual price for copies multiplied with 
 more ease and expedition, that a new mode was at length 
 practised, derived from the invention of the art of printing ; 
 a discovery which, of all those 1 recorded in civil history, is 
 of the most important and extensive consequence. 
 
 That the first productions of the press were intended to 
 pass for manuscripts, we are led to conclude from the resem- 
 blance of the type to the written characters, from the omission 
 of illuminations, which were to be supplied by the pen to 
 facilitate the deception, and from the inventor's concealment 
 of his process, so far as to incur suspicion of witchcraft or 
 magic, by which alone the first observers could account for 
 the extraordinary multiplication of the transcripts. 
 
 But the deceit was soon detected. The perfect resem- 
 blance in the shape of the letters, in the place and number 
 of the words on every page, the singular correctness, and, 
 above all, the numerous copies of the same author, inevitably 
 led to a discovery of the truth. To conceal it, indeed, was 
 no longer desired, when experience had suggested the great 
 lucrative advantages, and the practicability of multiplying 
 books without end by the process newly invented. It soon 
 appeared, though it was not obvious at first, that the new 
 mode would be more agreeable to the reader, as well as ea- 
 sier to the copyist, and that printed books would universally 
 supersede the use of manuscripts, from a choice founded on 
 judicious preference. The art was soon professed as a trade, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 315 
 
 and the business of copying, which had once afforded only 
 amusement or gain to the curious and the idle, became the 
 constant employment and support of a numerous tribe of 
 artisans, and constituted a very considerable source of mer- 
 cantile advantage. 
 
 Of an art, which, though it had yet acquired but small- 
 degrees of perfection, appeared of most extensive utility in 
 religion, in politics, in literature, and even in commerce, no 
 labour has been spared to investigate the history ; but, un- 
 fortunately, the inquirers into the origin of arts, instigated by 
 the zeal of minute curiosity to push their researches too far, 
 often discover them so rude, obvious, and inartificial at their 
 commencement, as to reflect very little honour on those whom 
 they ostentatiously exhibit as the earliest inventors. Such 
 has been the result of the investigations of those, who, dis- 
 satisfied with the commonly received opinions on the date of 
 the invention of printing, pretend to have discovered traces 
 of it many years before the first production of Faustus, in 
 1457 ; and it is true, that the Speculum Salutis, and a few 
 other books, are extant, which are, on good reasons, judged 
 to have been stamped, not printed secundum artem,* long be- 
 fore the erection of a press at Mentz ; but the mode in which 
 they were executed, like the Chinese, bears but little resem- 
 blance to the art of printing, properly so called ; it appears 
 not, by any historical memoir, to have suggested the first 
 hint of it, and is too imperfect to deserve notice as even the 
 infant state of this momentous invention. 
 
 National pride, like the pride of individuals, is often found- 
 ed on slight or dubious pretensions. Thus have Germany 
 and Holland contended, with all the warmth of party, for 
 the imaginary honour of giving birth to the inventor of 
 printing, who, after all, was probably led to the discovery, 
 not by the enlarged views of public utility, but by fortunate 
 circumstances concurring with the desire of private and pe- 
 cuniary advantage : but, though the history of printing, like 
 all other histories, is in some degree obscure and doubtful at 
 its earliest period ; though Strasburg has boasted of Mentel, 
 and Haarlem of Coster, as the inventor ; yet is there great 
 reason to conclude, that the few arguments advanced in their 
 favour are supported only by forgery and falsehood : and we 
 may safely assert, with the majority of writers, and with the 
 general voice of Europe, that the time of the invention was 
 about the year 1440, the place Mentz, and the persons Gu- 
 tenburg, Faustus, and Schaeffer, in conjunction. 
 
 * Agreeably to the rules of art. 
 
316 THE CLASSICAL P.EADEH. 
 
 LESSON CLV. 
 
 Exhortation to filial Gratitude and Obedience. — Ogden. 
 
 Stop, young man, stop a little to look towards thy poor 
 parents. Think it not too much to bestow a moment's re- 
 flection on those who never forget thee. Recollect what 
 they have done for thee. Remember all — all, indeed, thou 
 canst not : alas ! ill had been thy lot, had not their care begun 
 before thou couldst remember or know any thing. 
 
 Now so proud, self-willed, inexorable, then couldst thou 
 only ask by wailing, and move them with thy tears. And 
 they were moved. Their hearts were touched with thy dis- 
 tress ; they relieved and watched thy wants before thou 
 knewest thine own necessities, or their kindness. They 
 clothed thee ; thou knewest not that thou wast naked : thou 
 askedst not for bread ; but they fed thee. And ever since — 
 for the particulars are too many to be recounted, and too 
 many, surely, to be all utterly forgotten — it has been the very 
 principal endeavour, employment, and study of their lives to 
 do service unto thee. If by all these endeavours they can 
 obtain their child's comfort, they arrive at the full accom- 
 plishment of their wishes. They have no higher object of 
 their ambition. Be thou but happy, and they are so. 
 
 And now, tell me, is not something to be done, I do not 
 now say for thyself, but for them ? If it be too much to de- 
 sire of thee to be good, and wise, and virtuous, and happy 
 for thy own sake ; yet be happy for theirs. Think that a 
 sober, upright, and, let me add, religious life, besides the 
 blessings it will bring upon thy own head, will be a fountain 
 of unfeigned comfort to thy declining parents, and make the 
 heart of the aged sing for joy. 
 
 What shall we say ? which of these is happier ? the son 
 that maketh a glad father ? or the father, blessed with such 
 
 a son ? 
 
 Fortunate young man ! who hast a heart open so early to 
 virtuous delights, and canst find thy own happiness in return- 
 ing thy father's blessing upon his own head ! 
 
 And happy father ! whose years have been prolonged, not, 
 as it often happens, to see his comforts fall from him, one 
 after another, and to become at once old and destitute ; but 
 to taste a new pleasure, not to be found among the pleasures 
 of youth, reserved for his age, to reap the harvest of all his 
 cares and labours, in the duty, affection, and felicity of his 
 dear child. His very look bespeaks the inward satisfaction 
 of his heart. The infirmities of his age sit light on him. He 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 317 
 
 feels not the troubles of life : he smiles at the approach of 
 death : sees himself still living and honoured in the memory 
 and the person of his son, his other dearer self; and passes 
 down to the receptacle of all the living in the fulness of con- 
 tent and joy. 
 
 How unlike to this is the condition of him, who has the 
 affliction to Be the father of a wicked offspring ! Poor, un- 
 happy man ! no sorrow is like unto thy sorrow. Diseases 
 and death are blessings, if compared with the anguish of thy 
 heart, when thou seest thy dear children run heedlessly and 
 headlong in the ways of sin, forgetful of their parents' coun- 
 sel, and their own happiness. Unfortunate old man ! how 
 often does he wish that he had never been born, or had been 
 cut off before he was a father ! No reflection is able to 
 afford him consolation. He grows old betimes ; and the 
 afflictions of age are doubled on his head. In vain are instru- 
 ments of pleasure brought forth. His soul refuses comfort. 
 Every blessing of life is lost upon him. No success is able 
 to give him joy. His triumphs are like that of David : while 
 his friends, captains, and soldiers were rending the air with 
 shouts of victory — he, poor conqueror, went up, as it is writ- 
 ten, to the chamber over the gate, and wept : and, as he went, 
 thus he said ; O, my son Absalom ! my son, my son Absalom ! 
 would to God I had died for thee ! Absalom, my son, my 
 son ! 
 
 LESSON CLVI. 
 
 The Complaint of the dying Year ; an Allegory. — 
 
 Henderson. 
 
 Reclining on a couch of fallen leaves, wrapped in fleecy 
 mantle, with withered limbs, hoarse voice, and snowy beard, 
 appears a venerable old man. His pulse beats feebly ; his 
 breath becomes shorter ; he exhibits every mark of approach- 
 ing dissolution. 
 
 This is old Eighteen Hundred and ;* and as every 
 
 class of readers must remember him a young man, as rosy 
 and blithesome as themselves, they will, perhaps, feel inter- 
 ested in hearing some of his dying expressions, with a few 
 particulars of his past life. His existence is still likely to be 
 prolonged a few days by the presence of his daughter Decem- 
 ber, the last and sole survivor of his twelve fair children ; 
 but it is thought the father and daughter will expire together. 
 
 * The reader will fill up this blank, and another in the following- page with the 
 proper year. 
 
 27* 
 
31 S THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The following are some of the expressions which have been 
 taken down as they fell from his dying lips : — " I am," said 
 he, "the son of old father Time, and the last of a numerous 
 progeny; for he has had no less than five thousand eight 
 
 hundred and ■ of us ; but it has ever been his fate to 
 
 see one child expire before another was born. It is the 
 opinion of some, that his own constitution is beginning to 
 break up, and that, when he has given birth to a hundred or 
 two more of us, his family will be complete, and then he 
 himself will be no more." 
 
 Here the Old Year called for his account-book, and turned 
 over the pages with a sorrowful eye. He has kept, it appears, 
 an accurate account of the moments, minutes, hours, and 
 months, which he has issued, and subjoined in some places 
 memorandums of the uses to which they have been applied, 
 and of the Josses he has sustained. These particulars it 
 would be tedious to detail, and perhaps the recollection of 
 the reader may furnish them as well or better. But we must 
 notice one circumstance : — upon turning to a certain page in 
 his accounts, the old man was much affected — and the tears 
 streamed down his furrowed cheeks as he examined it. This 
 was the register of the forty-eight Sundays which he had 
 issued, and which, of all the wealth he had to dispose of, have 
 be*en, it appears, the most scandalously wasted. "These," 
 said he, " were my most precious gifts. I had but fifty-two 
 of them to bestow. Alas ! — how lightly have they been 
 esteemed !" 
 
 Here, upon referring back to certain old memorandums, 
 he found a long list of vows an£$resolutions, which had a 
 particular reference to these fifty-two Sundays. This, with 
 a mingled emotion of grief and anger, he tore into a hundred 
 pieces, and threw them on the embers by which he was 
 endeavouring to warm his shivering limbs. " I feel, how- 
 ever," said he, " more pity than indignation towards these 
 offenders, since they were far greater enemies to themselves 
 than to me. But there are a few outrageous ones, by whom 
 I have been defrauded of so much of my substance, that it 
 is difficult to think of them with patience, particularly that 
 notorious thief, Procrastination, of whom every body has 
 heard, and who is well known to have wronged my venerable 
 father of much of his property. There are also three noted 
 ruffians, Sleep, Sloth, and Pleasure, from whom I have suf- 
 fered much ; besides a certain busy-body, called Dress, who, 
 under the pretence of making the most of me, and taking 
 great care of me, steals away more of my gifts than any two 
 of them. 
 
THE CLASSICAL, READER. 319 
 
 " As for me, all must acknowledge that I have performed 
 my part towards my friends and foes. I have fulfilled my 
 utmost promise, and been more bountiful than many of my 
 predecessors. My twelve fair children have, each in their 
 turn, aided my exertions ; and their various tastes and dispo- 
 sitions have all conduced to the general good. Mild Febru- 
 ary, who sprinkled the naked boughs with delicate buds, and 
 brought her wonted offering of early flowers, was not of more 
 essential service than that rude, blustering boy, March, who, 
 though violent in his temper, was well-intentioned and useful. 
 April, a gentle, tender-hearted girl, wept for his loss, yet 
 cheered me with many a smile. June came crowned with 
 roses, and sparkling in sun-beams, and laid up a store of cost- 
 ly ornaments for her luxuriant successors : — but I cannot stop 
 to enumerate the good qualities and graces of all my children. 
 You, my poor December, dark in your complexion, and cold 
 in your temper, greatly resemble my first-born, January, with 
 this difference, that he was most prone to anticipation, and 
 you to reflection. 
 
 If there should be any who, upon hearing my dying lamen- 
 tation, may feel regret that they have not treated me more 
 kindly, I would beg leave to hint, that it is yet in their power 
 to make some compensation for their past conduct, by ren- 
 dering me, during my few remaining days, as much service 
 as is in their power. Let them testify the sincerity of their 
 sorrow by an immediate alteration in their behaviour. It 
 would give me particular pleasure to see my only surviving 
 child treated with respect : let no one slight her offerings : 
 she has a considerable part }f my property still to dispose of, 
 which, if well employed, will turn to good account. Not 
 to mention the rest, there is one precious Sunday yet in her 
 gift ; it would cheer my last moments to know that this had 
 been better prized than the past. 
 
 It is very likelv that, at least after my decease, many may 
 reflect upon themselves for their misconduct towards me : to 
 such I would leave it as my dying injunction, not to waste 
 time in unavailing regret — all their wishes and repentance 
 will not recall me to life. I shall never, never return ! I 
 would rather earnestly recommend to their regard my youth- 
 ful successor, whose appearance is shortly expected. I cannot 
 hope to survive long enough to introduce him ; but I would 
 fain hope that he will meet with a favourable reception ; and 
 that, in addition to the flattering honours which greeted my 
 birth, and the fair promises which deceived my hopes, more 
 diligent exertion and more persevering efforts may be expect- 
 
320 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 ed. Let it be remembered, that one honest endeavour is 
 worth ten iair promises." 
 
 Having thus spoken, the Old Year fell back on his couch, 
 nearly exhausted, and trembling so violently as to shake the 
 last shower of yellow leaves from his canopy. — Let us ail 
 hasten to testify our gratitude for his services, and repentance 
 for the abuse of them, by improving the remaining days of 
 his existence, and by remembering the solemn promises he 
 made in his youth. 
 
 LESSON CLVII. 
 The Handsome and Deformed Leg. — Franklin. 
 
 There are two sorts of people in the world, who, with 
 equal degrees of health and wealth, and the other comforts 
 of life, become, the one happy, and the other miserable. 
 This arises, very much, from the different views in which 
 they consider things, persons, and events ; and the effect of 
 those different views upon their own minds. 
 
 In whatever situation men can be placed, they may find con- 
 veniences and inconveniences : in whatever company, they 
 may find persons and conversation more or less pleasing ; at 
 whatever table, they may meet with meats and drinks of bet- 
 ter and worse taste, dishes better and worse dressed ; in 
 whatever climate, they will find good and bad weather; un- 
 der whatever government, they may find good and bad laws, 
 and good and bad administration of those laws ; in whatever 
 poem, or work of genius, they may see faults and beauties ; 
 in almost every face, and every person, they may discover 
 fine features and defects, good and bad qualities. 
 
 Under these circumstances, the two sorts of people above- 
 mentioned fix their attention ; those who are disposed to be 
 happy, on the conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of 
 conversation, the well-dressed dishes, the goodness of the 
 wines, the fine weather, &c, and enjoy all with cheerfulness. 
 Those who are to be unhappy, think and speak only of the 
 contraries. Hence they are continually discontented them- 
 selves, and, by their remarks, sour the pleasures of society, 
 offend personally many people, and make themselves every 
 where disagreeable. 
 
 If this turn of mind was founded in nature, such unhappy 
 persons would be the more to be pitied. But, as the dispo- 
 sition to criticise, and to be disgusted, is, perhaps, taken up 
 originally by imitation, and is, unawares, grown into a habit, 
 which, though at present strong, may nevertheless be cured, 
 
THE CLASSICAL, READER. 321 
 
 when those who have it are convinced of its bad effects on 
 their felicity, — I hope this little admonition maybe of service 
 to them, and put them on changing a habit, which, though 
 in the exercise it is chiefly an act of imagination, yet has 
 serious consequences in life, as it brings on real griefs and 
 misfortunes. For, as many are offended by, and nobody 
 loves, this sort of people, no one shows them more than the 
 most common civility and respect, and scarcely that ; and 
 this frequently puts them out of humour, and draws them 
 into disputes and contentions. 
 
 If they aim at obtaining some advantage in rank or fortune, 
 nobody wishes them success, or will stir a step, or speak a 
 word, to favour their pretensions. If they incur public cen- 
 sure or disgrace, no one will defend or excuse, and many 
 join to aggravate their misconduct, and render them com- 
 pletely odious. If these people will not change this bad habit, 
 and condescend to be pleased with w T hat is pleasing, with- 
 out fretting themselves and others about the contraries, it is 
 good for others to avoid an acquaintance with them, which 
 is always disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient, 
 especially when one finds one's self entangled in their 
 quarrels. 
 
 An old philosophical friend of mine was grown, from ex- 
 perience, very cautious in this particular, and carefully avoid- 
 ed any intimacy with such people. He had, like other phi- 
 losophers, a thermometer, to show him the heat of the weath- 
 er, and a barometer, to mark when it was likely to prove 
 good or bad ; but, there being no instrument invented to dis- 
 cover, at first sight, this unpleasing disposition in a person, 
 he, for that purpose, made use of his legs ; one of which 
 was remarkably handsome, the other, by some accident, 
 crooked and deformed. If a stranger, at the first interview, 
 regarded his ugly leg more than his handsome one, he doubt- 
 ed him. If he spoke of it, and took no notice of the hand- 
 some leg, that was sufficient to determine my philosopher to 
 have no farther acquaintance with him. 
 
 Every body has not this two-legged instrument ; but every 
 one, with a little attention, may observe signs of that carp- 
 ing, fault-finding disposition, and take the same resolution 
 of avoiding the acquaintance of those infected with it. I 
 therefore advise those critical, querulous, discontented, un- 
 happy people, that, if they wish to be respected and beloved 
 by others, and happy in themselves, they should leave off 
 looking at the ugly leg. 
 
322 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLVIII. 
 
 Speech on the Question of War with England. — Patrick 
 
 Henry. 
 
 From Wirt's Life of Henry. 
 
 This, sir, is no time for ceremony. The question before 
 the house is one of awful moment to this country. For my 
 own part, I consider it as nothing less than a question of free- 
 dom or slavery. And in proportion to the magnitude of the 
 subject ought to be the freedom of the debate. It is only in 
 this way that we can hope to arrive at truth, and fulfil the 
 great responsibility which we hold to God and our country. 
 Should I keep back my opinions at this time, through fear 
 of giving offence, I should consider myself as guilty of trea- 
 son towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward 
 the majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly 
 kings. 
 
 Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illu- 
 sions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful 
 truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms 
 us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men engaged in a 
 great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are w T e disposed to 
 be of the number of those, who, having eyes, see not, and, 
 having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern 
 their temporal salvation ? For my part, whatever anguish 
 of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth ; 
 to know the worst, and to provide for it. 
 
 I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided ; and 
 that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judg- 
 ing of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, 
 I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the 
 British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes 
 with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace them- 
 selves and the house ? Is it that insidious smile with which 
 our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir ; it 
 will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be 
 betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious re- 
 ception of our petition comports with those warlike prepara- 
 tions which cover our waters, and darken our land. Are 
 fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconcilia- 
 tion ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be recon- 
 ciled, that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let 
 us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of 
 war and subjugation — the last arguments to which kings re- 
 sort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 323 
 
 its purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen 
 assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain any 
 enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accu- 
 mulation of navies and armies ? No, sir; she has none. They 
 are meant for us : they can be meant for no other. They 
 are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains, which 
 the British ministry have been so long forging. 
 
 And what have we to oppose to them ? Shall we try argu- 
 ment ? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. 
 Have we any thing new to offer upon the subject ? Nothing. 
 We have held the subject up in every light of which it is ca- 
 pable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to en- 
 treaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall we find, 
 which have not been already exhausted ? Let us not, I be- 
 seech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have 
 done every thing that could be done to avert the storm 
 which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have 
 remonstrated ; we have supplicated ; we have prostrated 
 ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interpo- 
 sition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia- 
 ment. Our petitions have been slighted ; our remonstrances 
 have produced additional violence and insult; our supplica- 
 tions have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned, 
 with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after 
 these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and 
 reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we 
 wish to be free ; if we mean to preserve inviolate those in- 
 estimable privileges for which we have been so long con- 
 tending ; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle 
 in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have 
 pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious object 
 of our contest shall be obtained — we must fight ! — I repeat it, 
 sir, we must fight ! ! An appeal to arms, and to the God of 
 hosts, is all that is left us ! 
 
 They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with 
 so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? 
 Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when 
 we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be 
 stationed in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irres- 
 olution and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effec- 
 tual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging 
 the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have 
 bound us hand and foot ? Sir, we are not weak, if we make 
 a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath 
 placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in 
 the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which 
 
324 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can 
 send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles 
 alone. There is a just God, who presides over the destinies 
 of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles 
 for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone ; it is to 
 the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no 
 election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too 
 late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat, but in 
 submission and slavery ! Our chains are forged. Their clank- 
 ing may be heard on the plains of Boston ! The war is in- 
 evitable — and let it come ! ! I repeat it, sir, let it come ! ! ! 
 It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen 
 may cry, Peace, peace — but there is no peace. The war has 
 actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the north 
 will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our 
 brethren are already in the field ! Why stand we here idle ? 
 What is it that gentlemen wish ? What would they have ? Is 
 life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price 
 of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! — I know 
 not what course others may take ; but, as for me, give me 
 liberty, or give me death ! 
 
 LESSON CLIX. 
 An Ode, in Imitation of Alcceus. — Sir W. Jones, 
 
 What constitutes a state ? 
 Not high-raised battlements or laboured mound, 
 
 Thick wall or moated gate ; 
 Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned , 
 
 Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 
 
 Not starred and spangled courts, 
 Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 
 
 No — men, high-minded men, 
 With powers as far above dull brutes endued, 
 
 In forest, brake, or den, 
 As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude . 
 
 Men who their duties know, 
 But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain ; 
 
 Prevent the long-aimed blow, 
 And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 
 
 These constitute a state ; 
 And Sovereign Law, that state's collected will, 
 
 O'er thrones and globes elate, 
 Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill : 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 325 
 
 Smit by her sacred frown, 
 The fiend Discretion* like a vapour sinks, 
 
 And e'en the ail-dazzling Crown 
 Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 
 
 LESSON CLX. 
 
 A Letter to Lady Spencer on the Scenery amidst whuh Milton 
 is supposed to have written his smaller Poems. — Ibid. 
 
 The necessary trouble of correcting the first printed sheets 
 of my History prevented me to-day from paying a proper re- 
 spect to the memory of Shakspeare, by attending his jubilee. 
 But I was resolved to do all the honour in my power to as 
 great a poet, and set out in the morning, in company with a 
 friend, to visit a place where Milton spent some part of his 
 life, and where, in all probability, he composed several of 
 his earliest productions. It is a small village, situated on a 
 pleasant hill, about three miles from Oxford, and called Forest 
 Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous to a forest, which 
 has since been cut down. The poet chose this place of 
 retirement after his first marriage, and he describes the beau- 
 ties of .his retreat in that fine passage of his L 'Allegro, — 
 
 " Sometime walking, not unseen, 
 Ey hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. 
 
 *<t Jt m, j*, «jt 
 
 "Jp vt- ^r vr vr 
 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 
 And the mower whets his si the ; 
 
 And every shepherd tells his tale, 
 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures : 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 
 The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 
 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
 
 Towers and battlements it sees, 
 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
 
 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
 From betwixt two aged oaks," &c. 
 
 It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of 
 the day, to hear all the rural sounds, and see all the objects, 
 mentioned in this description ; but, by a pleasing concurrence 
 of circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the 
 
 * Discretionary or arbitrary power. 
 
 28 
 
326 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 village, with the music of the mower and his sithe; we 
 saw the ploughman intent upon his labour, and the milk-maid 
 returning from her country employment. 
 
 As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, 
 the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole 
 scene, gave us the highest pleasure. We at length reached 
 the spot whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his im- 
 ages ; it is on the top of the hill, from which there is a most 
 extensive prospect on all sides : the distant mountains that 
 seemed to support the clouds, the villages and turrets, partly 
 shaded with trees of the finest verdure, and partly raised above 
 the groves that surrounded them, the dark plains and mead- 
 ows of a grayish colour, where the sheep were feeding at 
 large ; in short, the view of the streams and rivers convinced 
 us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the 
 above-mentioned description, but that it was a most exact 
 and lively representation of nature. Thus will this fine pas- 
 sage, which has always been admired for its elegance, receive 
 an additional beauty from its exactness. After we had 
 walked, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this en- 
 chanted ground, we returned to the village. 
 
 The poet's house was close to the church ; the greatest 
 part of it has been pulled down, and what remains belongs 
 to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several papers in 
 Milton's own hand were found by the gentleman who was 
 last in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having 
 lived there is current among the villagers : one of them show- 
 ed us a ruinous wall that made part of his chamber ; and I 
 was much pleased with another, who had forgotten the name 
 of Milton, but recollected him by the title of The Poet. 
 
 It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village 
 are famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described 
 in the Penseroso. Most of the cottage windows are over- 
 grown with sweet briars, vines, and honey-suckles ; and that 
 Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament we may 
 conclude from his description of the lark bidding him good- 
 morrow, 
 
 " Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 
 Or the twisted eglantine : ;; 
 
 for it is evident that he meant a sort of honey-suckle by the 
 eglantine, though that word is commonly used for the sweet- 
 briar, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet. 
 If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford in the sum- 
 mer, I shall be inclined to hire and repair this venerable 
 mansion, and to make a festival for a circle of friends in 
 honour of Milton, the most perfect scholar, as well as the 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 327 
 
 sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. Such an 
 honour will be less splendid, but more sincere and respect- 
 ful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the 
 Avon. I have, &c. 
 
 LESSON CLXI. 
 Defence of literary Studies in Men of Business. — Mackenzie. 
 
 Among the cautions which prudence and worldly wisdom 
 inculcate on the young, or at least among those sober truths 
 which experience often pretends to have acquired, is that 
 danger which is said to result from the pursuit of letters and 
 of science, in men destined for the labours of business, for 
 the active exertions of professional life. The abstraction of 
 learning, the speculations of science, and the visionary ex- 
 cursions of fancy, are fatal, it is said, to the steady pursuit of 
 common objects, to the habits of plodding industry, which 
 ordinary business demands. The fineness of mind, which is 
 created or increased by the study of letters, or the admiration 
 of the arts, is supposed to incapacitate a man for the drudgery 
 by which professional eminence is gained ; as a nicely tem- 
 pered edge, applied to a coarse and rugged material, is unable 
 to perform what a more common instrument would have 
 successfully achieved. A young man destined for law or 
 commerce is advised to look only into his folio of precedents, 
 or his method of book-keeping ; and dulness is pointed to 
 his homage, as that benevolent goddess, under whose protec- 
 tion the honours of station and the blessings of opulence are 
 to be attained; while learning and genius are proscribed, as 
 leading their votaries to barren indigence and merited neg- 
 lect. 
 
 In doubting the truth of these assertions, I think I shall 
 not entertain any hurtful degree of scepticism, because the 
 general current of opinion seems of late years to have set too 
 fctrongly in the contrary direction ; and one may endeavour 
 tc prop the falling cause of literature, without being accused 
 of blameable or dangerous partiality. 
 
 In the examples which memory and experience produce 
 of idleness, of dissipation, and of poverty, brought on by in- 
 dulgence of literary or poetical enthusiasm, the evidence must 
 necessarily be on one side of the question only. Of the few 
 whom learning or genius has led astray, the ill success 
 or the ruin is marked by the celebrity of the sufferer. Of 
 the many who have been as dull as they were profligate, and 
 as ignorant as they were poor, the fate is unknown, from the 
 
328 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 insignificance of those by whom it was endured. If we 
 may reason a priori on the matter, the chance, I think, should 
 oe on the side of literature. 
 
 In young minds of any vivacity, there is a natural aversion 
 to the drudgery of business, which is seldom overcome, tiyi 
 the effervescence of youth is allayed by the progress of time 
 and habit, or till that very warmth is enlisted on the side of 
 their profession, by the opening prospects of ambition or 
 emolument. From this tyranny, as youth conceives it, of 
 attention and of labour, relief is commonly sought from some 
 favourite avocation or amusement, for which a young man 
 either finds or steals a portion of his time, either patiently 
 plods through his task, in expectation of its approach, or an- 
 ticipates its arrival by deserting his work before the legal 
 period for amusement is arrived. It may fairly be questioned, 
 whether the most innocent of those amusements is either so 
 honourable or so safe as the avocation of learning or of sci- 
 ence. Of minds uninformed and gross, whom youthful spirits 
 agitate, but fancy and feeling have no power to impel, the 
 amusements will generally be either boisterous or effeminate, 
 will either dissipate their attention or weaken their force. 
 1'he employment of a young man's vacant hours is often too 
 little attended to by those rigid masters who exact the most 
 scrupulous observance of the periods destined for business. 
 The waste of time is undoubtedly a very calculable loss ; 
 but the waste or the depra7ation of mind is a loss of a much 
 higher denomination. The votary of study, or the enthusiast 
 of fancy, may incur the first ; but the latter will be suffered 
 chiefly by him whom ignorance, or want of imagination, has 
 left to the grossness of mere sensual enjoyments. 
 
 In this, as in other respects, the love of letters is friendly to 
 sober manners and virtuous conduct, which in every profes- 
 sion is the road to success and to respect. Without adopting 
 the common-place reflections against some particular depart- 
 ments, it must be allowed, that, in mere men of business, 
 there is a certain professional rule of right, which is not 
 always honourable, and, though meant to be selfish, very sel- 
 dom profits. A superior education generally corrects this, 
 by opening the mind to different motives of action, to the 
 feelings of delicacy, the sense of honour, and a contempt of 
 wealth, when earned by a desertion of those principles. 
 
 To the improvement of our faculties, as well as of our 
 principles, the love of letters appears to be favourable. Let- 
 ters require a certain sort of application, though of a kind, 
 perhaps, very different from that which business would 
 recommend. Granting that they are unprofitable in them- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 329 
 
 'selves, as that word is used in the language of the world, 
 yet, as developing the powers of thought and reflection, they 
 may be an amusement of some use, as those sports of chil- 
 dren in which numbers are used to familiarize them to the 
 elements of arithmetic. They give room for the exercise of 
 that discernment, that comparison of objects, that distinction 
 of causes, wliich is to increase the skill of the physician, to 
 guide the speculations of the merchant, and to prompt the 
 arguments of the lawyer ; and, though some professions em- 
 ploy but very few faculties of the mind, yet there is scarce 
 any branch of business in which a man who can think will 
 not excel him who can only labour. We shall accordingly 
 find, in many departments where learned information seemed 
 of all qualities the least necessary, that those who possessed 
 it in a degree above their fellows have found, from that very 
 circumstance, the road to eminence and wealth. 
 
 But I must often repeat, that wealth does not necessarily 
 create happiness, nor confer dignity ; a truth which it may 
 be thought declamation to insist on, but which the present 
 time seems particularly to require being told. 
 
 The love of letters is connected with an independence 
 and delicacy of mind, which is a great preservative against 
 that servile homage which abject men pay to fortune ; and 
 there is a certain classical pride, which, from the society of 
 Socrates and Plato, Cicero and Atticus, looks down with 
 an honest disdain on the wealth-blown insects of modern 
 times, neither enlightened by knowledge nor ennobled by 
 virtue. 
 
 In the possession, indeed, of what he has attained, in that 
 rest and retirement from his labours, with the hopes of which 
 his fatigues were lightened and his cares were smoothed, the 
 mere man of business frequently undergoes suffering, instead 
 of finding enjoyment. To be busy as one ought is an easy 
 art ; but to know how to be idle is a very superior accom- 
 plishment. This difficulty is much increased with persons 
 to whom the habit of employment has made some active ex- 
 ertion necessary ; who cannot sleep contented in the torpor 
 of indolence, or amuse themselves witli those lighter trifles 
 in which he, who inherited idleness, as he did fortune, from 
 his ancestors, has been accustomed to find amusement. The 
 miseries and misfortunes of the " retired pleasures" of men 
 of business have been frequently matter of speculation to the 
 moralist, and of ridicule to the wit. But he who has mixed 
 general knowledge with professional skill, and literary 
 amusement with professional labour, will have some stock 
 wherewith to support him in idleness, some spring for his 
 28* 
 
330 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 mind when unbent from business, some employment for those 
 hours which retirement or solitude has left vacant and unoccu- 
 pied. Independence in the use of one's time is not the least 
 valuable species of freedom. This liberty the man of let- 
 ters enjoys : while the ignorant and the illiterate often retire 
 from the thraldom of business only to become the slaves ot 
 languor, intemperance, or vice. 
 
 But the situation, in which the advantages of that endow- 
 ment of mind which letters bestow are chiefly conspicuous, 
 is old age, when a man's society is necessarily circumscribed, 
 and his powers of active enjoyment are unavoidably dimin- 
 ished. Unfit for the bustle of affairs, and the amusements 
 of his youth, an old man, if he has no source of mental ex- 
 ertion or employment, often settles into the gloom of melan- 
 choly and peevishness, or petrifies his feelings by habitual 
 intoxication. From an old man, whose gratifications were 
 solely derived from those sensual appetites which time has 
 blunted, or from those trivial amusements of which youth 
 only can share, age has cut Off almost every source of enjoy- 
 ment. But to him who has stored his mind with the infor- 
 mation, and can still employ it in the amusement, of letters, 
 this blank of life is admirably filled up. He acts, he thinks, 
 and he feels with that literary world whose society he can 
 at all times enjoy. There is, perhaps, no state more capable of 
 comfort to ourselves, or more attractive of veneration from 
 others, than that which such an old age affords ; it is then the 
 twilight of the passions, when they are mitigated, but not ex- 
 tinguished, and spread their gentle influence over the evening 
 of our day, in alliance with reason, and in amity with virtue. 
 
 LESSON CLXII. 
 Love of Enemies. — Hawkesworth. 
 
 To love an enemy is the distinguishing characteristic of 
 a religion, which is not of man but of God. It could be de- 
 livered as a precept only by Him, who lived and died to 
 establish it by his example. 
 
 We cannot, indeed, behold the example but at a distance ; 
 nor consider it without being struck with a sense of our own 
 debility : every man who compares his life with this divine 
 rule, instead of exulting in his own excellence, will smite 
 his breast like the publican, and cry out, " God be merciful 
 to me a sinner !" Thus to acquaint us with ourselves may, 
 perhaps, be one use of the precept; but the precept cannot, 
 surely, be considered as having no other. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 331 
 
 I know it will be said, that our passions are not in our 
 power; and that, therefore, a precept to love or to hate is 
 impossible : for if the gratification of all our wishes was of- 
 fered us to love a stranger as we love a child, we could not 
 fulfil the condition, however we might desire the reward. 
 
 But, admitting this to be true, and that we cannot love an 
 enemy as we love a friend, it is yet equally certain, that we 
 may perform those actions which are produced by love from 
 a higher principle : we may, perhaps, derive moral excel- 
 lence from natural defects, and exert our reason instead of 
 indulging a passion. If our enemy hungers we may feed 
 him, and if he thirsts we may give him drink : this, if we 
 could love him, would be our conduct, and this may still be 
 our conduct, though to love him is impossible. The Chris- 
 tian will be prompted to relieve the necessities of his enemy, 
 by his love to God : he will rejoice in an opportunity to ex- 
 press the zeal of his gratitude and the alacrity of his obe- 
 dience, at the same time that he appropriates the promises 
 and anticipates his reward. 
 
 But, though he who is beneficent upon these principles, 
 may, in the scripture sense, be said to love his. enemy ; yet 
 something more may still be effected : the passion itself, in 
 some degree, is in our power ; we may rise to a yet nearer 
 emulation of divine forgiveness, we may think as well as 
 act with kindness, and be sanctified as well in heart as 
 in life. 
 
 Though love and hatred are necessarily produced in the 
 human breast when the proper objects of these passions oc- 
 cur, as the colour of material substances is necessarily per- 
 ceived by an eye before which they are exhibited ; yet it is 
 in our power to change the passion, and to cause either love 
 or hatred to be excited, by placing the same object in differ- 
 ent circumstances ; as a changeable silk of blue and yellow 
 may be held so as to excite the idea either of yellow or blue. 
 
 Among friends, sallies of quick resentment are extremely 
 frequent. Friendship is a constant reciprocation of benefits, 
 to which the sacrifice of private interest is sometimes neces- 
 sary : it is common for each to set too much value upon 
 those which he bestows, and too little upon those which he 
 receives ; this mutual mistake in so important an estimation 
 produces mutual charges of unkindness and ingratitude ; 
 each, perhaps, professes himself ready to forgive, but neither 
 will condescend to be forgiven. Pride, therefore, still in- 
 creases the enmity which it began ; the friend is considered 
 as selfish, assuming, injurious, and revengeful ; he conse- 
 quently becomes an object of hatred ; and, while he is thus 
 
332 THE CLASSICAL, HEADER. 
 
 considered, to love him is impossible. But thus to consider 
 him, is at once a folly and a fault : each ought to reflect, that 
 he is, at least in the opinion of the other, incurring the crimes 
 that he imputes ; that the foundation of their enmity is no 
 more than a mistake ; and that this mistake is the effect of 
 weakness or vanity, which is common to all mankind : the 
 character of both would then assume a very different aspect ; 
 love would again be excited by the return of its object, and 
 each would be impatient to exchange acknowledgments, and 
 recover the felicity which was so near being lost. 
 
 But if, after we have admitted an acquaintance to our 
 bosom as a friend, it should appear that we had mistaken his 
 character ; if he should betray our confidence, and use the 
 knowledge of our affairs, which, perhaps, he obtained by 
 offers of service, to effect our ruin ; if he defames us to the 
 world, and adds perjury to falsehood, we may still consider 
 him in such circumstances as will incline us to fulfil the pre- 
 cept, and to regard him without the rancour of hatred, or the 
 fury of revenge. 
 
 Every character, however it may deserve punishment, ex- 
 cites hatred only in proportion as it appears to be malicious ; 
 and pure malice has never been imputed to human beings. 
 The wretch, who has thus deceived and injured us, should 
 be considered as having ultimately intended not evil to us, 
 but good to himself. It should also be remembered, that he 
 has mistaken the means ; that he has forfeited the friendship 
 of Him whose favour is better than life, by the same conduct 
 which forfeited ours ; and that, to whatever view he sacri- 
 ficed our temporal interest, to that, also, he sacrificed his 
 own hope of immortality ; that he is now seeking felicity 
 which he can never find, and incurring punishment that will 
 last for ever. And how much better than this wretch is he, 
 in whom the contemplation of his condition can excite no 
 pity ! Surely, if such an enemy hungers, we may, without 
 suppressing any passion, give him food ; for who that sees a 
 criminal dragged to execution, for whatever crime, would 
 refuse him a cup of cold water? 
 
 On the contrary, he whom God has forgiven must neces- 
 sarily become amiable to man : to consider his character 
 without prejudice or partiality, after it has been changed by 
 repentance, is to love him ; and impartially to consider it, is 
 not only our duty, but our interest. 
 
 Thus may we love our enemies, and add a dignity to our 
 nature, of which Pagan virtue had no conception. But, if to 
 love our enemies is the glory of a Christian, to treat others 
 with coldness, neglect, and malignity, is rather the reproach 
 
THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 333 
 
 of a fiend than a man. Unprovoked enmity, the frown of 
 unkindness, and the menaces of oppression, should be far 
 from those who profess themselves to be followers of Him, 
 who in his life went about doing good ; who instantly healed 
 a wound that was given in his defence ; and who, when he 
 was fainting in his last agony, and treated with mockery and 
 derision, conceived at once a prayer and an apology for his 
 murderers ; " Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
 they do." 
 
 LESSON CLXIII. 
 
 The torrid and frigid Zones. — Shaftesbury. 
 
 How oblique and faintly looks the sun on yonder climates, 
 far removed from him ! How tedious are the winters there ! 
 How deep the horrors of the night, and how uncomfortable 
 even the light of day ! The freezing winds employ their 
 fiercest breath, yet are not spent with blowing. The sea, 
 which elsewhere is scarce confined within its limits, lies here 
 immured in walls of crystal. The snow covers the bills, and 
 almost fills the lowest valleys. How wide and deep it lies, 
 incumbent over the plains, hiding the sluggish rivers, the 
 shrubs, and trees, the dens of beasts, and mansions of dis- 
 tressed and feeble men ! See ! where they lie confined, 
 hardly secure against the raging cold, or the attacks of the 
 wild beasts, now masters of the wasted field, and forced by 
 hunger out of the naked woods. 
 
 Yet, not disheartened, (such is the force of human breasts,) 
 but thus provided for, by art and prudence, the kind, com- 
 pensating gifts of Heaven, men and their herds may wait for 
 a release. For at length the sun, approaching, melts the 
 snow, sets longing men at liberty, and affords them means 
 and time to make provision against the next return of cold. 
 It breaks the icy fetters of the main ; where vast sea-mon- 
 sters pierce through floating islands, with arms which can 
 withstand the crystal rock : while others, who of themselves 
 seem great as islands, are by their bulk alone armed against 
 all but man ; whose superiority over creatures of such stu- 
 pendous size and force should make him mindful of his priv- 
 ilege of reason, and force him humbly to adore the great 
 Composer of these wondrous frames, and Author of his own 
 superior wisdom. 
 
 But, leaving these dull climates, so little favoured by the 
 sun, for those happier regions, on which he looks more 
 kindly, making perpetual summer, how great an alteration 
 
334 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 do we find ! His purer light confounds weak-sighted mortals, 
 pierced by his scorching beams. Scarce can they tread the 
 glowing ground. The air they breathe cannot enough abate 
 the fire, which burns within their panting breasts. Their 
 bodies melt. Overcome and fainting, they seek the shade, 
 and wait the cool refreshments of the night. Yet oft the 
 bounteous Creator bestows other refreshments. He casts a 
 veil of clouds before them, and raises gentle gales ; favoured 
 by which the men and beasts pursue their labours; and plants, 
 refreshed by dews and showers, can gladly bear the warm- 
 est sunbeams. 
 
 LESSON CLXIV. 
 
 Progress of ^Intemperance. — C. Sprague. 
 
 It is truly astonishing to behold how completely the habit 
 of unnecessary drinking pervades the various classes of our 
 community. In one way or another, it is their morning and 
 evening devotion, their noonday and midnight sacrifice. 
 From the highest grade to the lowest, from the drawing- 
 room to the kitchen, from the gentleman to the labourer, 
 down descends the universal custom. From those who sit 
 long at the wine that has been rocked upon the ocean, and 
 ripened beneath an Indian sky, down to those who solace 
 themselves with the fiery liquor that has cursed no other 
 shores than our own — down, till it reaches the miserable 
 abode, where the father and mother will have rum, though 
 the children cry for bread — down to the bottom, even to the 
 prison-house, the forlorn inmate of which hails him his best 
 friend, who is cunning enough to convey to him, undiscov- 
 ered, the all-consoling, the all-corroding poison. 
 N Young men must express the warmth of their mutual re- 
 gard by daily and nightly libations at some fashionable hotel 
 — it is the custom. The more advanced take turns in fling- 
 ing open their own doors to each other, and the purity of 
 their esteem is testified by the number of bottles they can 
 empty together — it is the custom. The husband deems it 
 but civil to commemorate the accidental visit of his acquaint- 
 ance by a glass of ancient spirit, and the wife holds it a duty 
 to celebrate the flying call of her companion with a taste of 
 the latest liqueur — for this, also, is the custom. The interest- 
 ing gossipry of every little evening coterie must be enlivened 
 with the customary cordial. Custom demands that idle quar- 
 rels, perhaps generated over a friendly cup, another friendly 
 cup must drown. Foolish wagers are laid, to be adjusted in 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 335 
 
 foolish drinking — the rich citizen stakes a dozen, the poor one 
 a dram. u The brisk minor, panting for twenty-one," bap- 
 tizes his new-born manhood in the strong drink to which he 
 intends training it up. Births, marriages, and burials, are all 
 hallowed by strong drink. Anniversaries, civic ^festivities, 
 military displays,Nnunicipal elections^ and even religious\jere- 
 monials, are nothing without strong drinks The political 
 ephemera of a little noisy day, and the colossus whose foot- 
 steps millions wait upon, must alike beNapotheosised in liquor. 
 A rough-hewn statesman is toasted at, and drank at, to his 
 face, in one place, while his boisterous^adversary sits through 
 the same mummery in another. Here, in their brimming 
 glasses, the adherents of some successful candidate mingle 
 their congratulations, and there, in like manner, the parti- 
 sans of his defeated rival forget their chagrin. Even the 
 great day of nationalVmancipation is, with too many, only a 
 great day of drinking, and the proud song of deliverance is 
 trolled from the lips of those, who are bending body and 
 soul to a viler thraldom than that from which their fathers 
 rescued them. *. 
 
 x I need not swell the catalogue — it were a shorter task to 
 tell where liquors do not abound, than where they do. And 
 all these things would only wake a smile, but that their con- 
 sequences make us sad, and ought to make us wise. Is it 
 not here that the mischief we mourn over begins ? — and, if 
 so, ought not the reformation to begin here also ? Look 
 back to the days of childhood. Call up round you the little 
 groups that made your young hours happy. Follow them 
 along, from year to year, as you and they grew older. Re- 
 member how this one and that one, the generous and the 
 gifted, dropped off from your sides into the grave. Did not 
 intemperance drag them down ? — and was it not amid the 
 innocent recreations of society that they were first ensnared ? 
 Cannot many a parent, many a wife, many a husband, here 
 find the source of days and nights of anguish ? May we not 
 select some youthful victim of excess, and trace him back, 
 step by step, to these harmless indulgences — these innocent 
 recreations ? Have we not seen 
 
 u The young disease, that must subdue at length, 
 
 " Grow with their growth, and strengthen with their strength V' 
 
 Could he repeat — alas ! he cannot — his mind is sunk in his 
 body's defilement — but could he for a moment shake off his 
 lethargy, and repeat to us the story of his errors, as faith- 
 fully as he looks their odious consequences, he would tell us 
 that to the innocent enjoyments of hospitality and festivity 
 he owes his ruin — that the warranted indulgences of convivial 
 
33G THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 life led the way to the habitual debauch, which has finally 
 set upon him the seal whereby all men may know the drunk- 
 ard. He would tell us that he was once worthy of a hap- 
 pier destiny — that he stepped on life's pathway, rejoicing in 
 purity and hope — that he was blessed with a frame for vig- 
 orous action, and a heart for the world's endearing charities 
 — that his eye loved the beauties of nature, and his spirit 
 adored the goodness of nature's God. But he would tell us, 
 that, in an evil hour, he found he had fallen, even before he 
 knew he was in danger — that the customs of society had first 
 enticed him, and then unfitted him for its duties — that the 
 wreaths they had insidiously flung round him hardened to 
 fetters, and he could not shake them off. He would tell us 
 that over the first discovery of his fatal lapse, his alarmed 
 parents wept, and he mingled his tears with theirs — that, as 
 he grew more unguarded in his offence, they raised the angry 
 voice of reproof, and he braved it in sullen silence — that, as 
 he became still more vile and brutish, kindred and friend 
 turned their cold eyes away from him, and his expiring shame 
 felt a guilty relief. \ He would tell us, that, at length, just not 
 hated, he has reached the lowest point of living degradation 
 — that in his hours of frenzy he is locked up in the recepta- 
 cle for the infamous, and in his lucid intervals let out, amov- 
 ing beacon to warn the virtuous. — Could he anticipate the 
 end of his unhappy story, he might tell us that yet a little 
 while, and his short and wretched career will be ended — that 
 the father, who hung over his cradle, weaving bright visions 
 of his son's future greatness, will feel a dreadful satisfaction 
 as he gazes upon him in his coffin — that the mother, who 
 lulled him to sleep on her bosom, and joyed to watch his 
 waking, will not dare to murmur that the sleep has come 
 upon him, out of which, on earth, he will never awake — 
 that the grave will be gladly made ready to receive him — 
 that as, "while living," he forfeited "fair renown," so, 
 " doubly dying," he must 
 
 " Go down 
 " To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
 " Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung." i 
 
 LESSON CLXV. 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness. — Willis. 
 
 The morning broke. Light stole upon the cjouds 
 With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
 Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 337 
 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
 And every thing that bendeth to the dew, 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 
 
 All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, 
 And melody, and fragrant air, were sad 
 To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
 Was pouring odours from its spicy pores, 
 And the young birds were carolling as life 
 Were a new thing to them ; but oh ! it came 
 Upon her heart like discord, and she felt 
 How cruelly it tries a broken heart, 
 To see a mirth in any thing it loves. 
 She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed 
 Till the blood left them ; and the wandering veins 
 Of her transparent forehead were swelled out 
 As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
 Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
 Which made its language legible, shot back 
 From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
 Her noble boy stood by her with his hand 
 Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
 Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, 
 Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up 
 Into his mother's face, until he caught 
 The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
 Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form 
 Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
 As if his light proportions would have swelled, 
 Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
 Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
 Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, 
 So written with the converse of his God, 
 Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
 His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
 Of vigour is not there ; and, though the morn 
 Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
 Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
 Oh ! man may bear with suffering ; his heart 
 Is a strong thing, and godlike, in the grasp 
 Of pain that wrings mortality : but tear 
 One cord affection clings to, break one tie 
 That binds him to a woman's delicate love, 
 And his' great spirit yieldeth like a reed. 
 29 
 
333 THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 
 
 He gave to her the water and the bread. 
 But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
 To look upon her face, but laid his hand 
 In silent blessing on the fair-haired boy, 
 And left her to her lot of loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, 
 And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
 Bend lightly to her tendencies again ? 
 Oh no ! by all her loveliness, — by all 
 That makes life poetry and beauty — no ! 
 Make her a slave — steal from her rosy cheek 
 By needless jealousies — let the last star 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain — 
 Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
 That makes her cup a bitterness, — yet give 
 One evidence of love, and earth has not 
 An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
 But oh ! estrange her once — it boots not how — 
 By wrong or silence, any thing that tells 
 A change has come upon your tenderness, 
 And there is not a high thing out of heaven 
 Her pride o'ermastereth not. 
 
 She went her way with a strong step, and slow ; 
 Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, 
 As it had been a diamond, and her form 
 Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed 
 His hand till it was pained ; for he had caught, 
 As I have said, her spirit, and the seed 
 Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 
 
 The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up 
 In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
 The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
 And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
 On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of rest ; but Hagar found 
 No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
 She kept her weary way until the boy 
 Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips 
 For water — but she could not give it him. 
 She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — 
 For it was better than the close, hot breath 
 Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him. 
 But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
 Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know 
 Whv God denied him water in the wild. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 339 
 
 She sat a little longer, and he grew 
 
 Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
 
 It was too much for her. She lifted him, 
 
 And bore him farther on, and laid his head 
 
 Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
 
 And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
 
 And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
 
 Till he should die, — and watching him she mourned :-— 
 
 " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
 I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
 
 Upon thy brow to look, 
 And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
 
 And could I see thee die ? 
 
 " I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, 
 Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers, — 
 
 Or wearing rosy hours, 
 By the rich gush of water-sources playing, — 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 
 
 So beautiful and deep : — 
 
 " Oh no ! and when I watched by thee the while, 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile, — 
 How prayed I that my fathers' land might be 
 
 A. heritage for thee. 
 
 " And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, 
 And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 
 
 And oh ! my last caress 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 
 
 Upon his clustering hair !" 
 
 She stood beside the well her God had given 
 To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
 The forehead of her child until he laughed 
 In his reviving happiness, and lisped 
 His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
 01 the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 
 
340 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXVI. 
 State of Navigation in the most ancient Times. — Rubehtson. 
 
 Among all the nations of antiquity the structure of their 
 vessels was extremely rude, and their method of working 
 them very defective. They were unacquainted with some 
 of the great principles and operations in navigati6n, which 
 are now considered as the first elements on which that sci- 
 ence is founded. Though that property of the magnet, by 
 which it attracts iron, was well known to the ancients, its 
 more important and amazing virtue of pointing to the poles 
 had entirely escaped their observation. Destitute of this 
 faithful guide, which now conducts the pilot with so much 
 certainty in the unbounded ocean, during the darkness of 
 night, and when the heavens are covered with clouds, the 
 ancients had no other method of regulating their course than 
 by observing the sun and stars. Their navigation was, of 
 consequence, uncertain and timid. They durst seldom quit 
 sight of land, but crept along the coast, exposed to all the 
 dangers, and retarded by all the obstructions, unavoidable in 
 holding such an awkward course. An incredible length of 
 time was requisite for performing voyages, which are now 
 finished in a short space. Even in the mildest climates, and 
 in seas the least tempestuous, it was only during the summer 
 months that the ancients ventured out of their harbours. The 
 remainder of the year was lost in inactivity. It would have 
 been deemed most inconsiderate rashness to have braved the 
 fury of the winds and waves during winter. 
 
 While both the science and practice of navigation contin- 
 ued to be so defective, it was an undertaking of no small 
 difficulty and danger to visit any remote region of the earth. 
 Under every disadvantage, however, the active spirit of com- 
 merce exerted itself. The Egyptians, soon after the estab- 
 lishment of their monarchy, are said to have opened a trade 
 between the Arabian Gulf, or Red Sea, and the western coast 
 of the great Indian continent. The commodities, which they 
 imported from the east, were carried by land from the Ara- 
 bian Gulf to the banks of the Nile, and conveyed down that 
 river to the Mediterranean. 
 
 But if the Egyptians in early times applied themselves to 
 commerce, their attention to it was of short duration. The 
 fertile soil and mild climate, of Egypt produced the neces- 
 saries and comforts of life with such profusion as rendered 
 its inhabitants so independent of other countries, that it be- 
 
THE CLASSICAL, READER. 341 
 
 came an established maxim among that people, whose ideas 
 and institutions differed in almost every point from those of 
 other nations, to renounce all intercourse with foreigners. In 
 consequence of this, they never went out of their own coun- 
 try ; they held all seafaring persons in detestation, as impi- 
 ous and profane ; and, fortifying their own harbours, they 
 denied strangers admittance into them ; and it was in the 
 decline of their power, that they again opened their ports, 
 and resumed any communication with foreigners. 
 
 The character and situation of the Phenicians were as 
 favourable to the spirit of commerce and discovery as those 
 of the Egyptians were averse to it. They had no distinguish- 
 ing peculiarity in their manners and institutions ; they were 
 not addicted to any singular and unsocial form of superstition; 
 they could mingle with other nations without scruple or re- 
 luctance. The territory which they possessed was neither 
 large nor fertile. Commerce was the only source from which 
 they could derive opulence or power. Accordingly, the trade 
 carried on by the Phenicians of Sidon and Tyre, was more 
 extensive and enterprising than that of any state in the an- 
 cient world. The genius of the Phenicians, as well as the 
 object of their policy and the spirit of their laws, were en- 
 tirely commercial. They were a people of merchants, who 
 aimed at the empire of the sea, and actually possessed it. 
 Their ships not only frequented all the ports in the Mediter- 
 ranean, but they were the first who ventured beyond the 
 ancient boundaries of navigation, and, passing the Straits of 
 Gades, visited the western coasts of Spain and Africa. 
 
 In many of the places to which they resorted they plant- 
 ed colonies, and communicated to the rude inhabitants some 
 knowledge of their arts and improvements. While they 
 extended their discoveries towards the north and the west, 
 they did not neglect to penetrate into the more opulent and 
 fertile regions of the south and east. Having rendered them- 
 selves masters of several commodious harbours towards the 
 bottom of the Arabian Gulf, they, after the example of the 
 Egyptians, established a regular intercourse with Arabia and 
 the continent of India on the one hand, and with the eastern 
 coast of Africa on the other. From these countries they im- 
 ported many valuable commodities unknown to the rest of 
 the world, and, during a long period, engrossed that lucrative 
 branch of commerce without a rival. 
 29 * 
 
342 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXVII. 
 
 The first Landing of Columbus in America. — Ibid. 
 
 The presages of discovering land were now so numerous 
 and promising, that Columbus deemed them infallible. For 
 some days the sounding line reached the bottom, and the soil 
 which it brought up indicated land to be at no great distance. 
 The flocks of birds increased, and were composed not only 
 of sea fowl, but of such land birds as could not be supposed 
 to fly far from the shore. The crew of the Pinta observed a 
 cane floating, which seemed to have been newly cut, and 
 likewise a piece of timber artificially carved. The sailors 
 aboard the Nigna took up the branch of a tree with red ber- 
 ries, perfectly fresh. The clouds around the setting sun as- 
 sumed a new appearance ; the air was more mild and warm, 
 and, during the night, the wind became unequal and variable. 
 From all these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of be- 
 ing near land, that, on the evening of the eleventh of Octo- 
 ber, after public prayers for success, he ordered the sails to 
 be furled, and the ships to lie to, keeping strict watch, lest 
 they should be driven ashore in the night. During this in- 
 terval of suspense and expectation, no man shut his eyes ; all 
 kept upon deck, gazing intently towards that quarter where 
 they expected to discover land, which had been so long the 
 object of their wishes. 
 
 About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on 
 the forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately 
 pointed it out to Pedro Guttierez, a page of the queen's 
 wardrobe. Guttierez perceived it, and calling to Salcedo, 
 comptroller of the fleet, all three saw it in motion, as if it 
 were carried from place to place. A little after mid-night 
 the joyful sound of Land! land! was heard from the Pinta, 
 which kept always ahead of the other ships. But, having 
 been so often deceived by fallacious appearances, every 
 man was now become slow of belief, and waited, in all the 
 anguish of uncertainty and impatience, for the return of day. 
 As soon as morning dawned,* all doubts and fears were dis- 
 pelled. From every ship an island"!* was seen about two 
 leagues to the north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stor- 
 ed with wood, and watered with many rivulets, presented 
 the aspect of a delightful country. The crew of the Pinta 
 instantly began the Te Deum, as a hymn of thanksgiving to 
 
 * Friday, October 12, 1492. 
 
 t Called afterwards by Columbus San Salvador. It is one of the Bahama Isles 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 343 
 
 God, and were joined by those of the other ships, with tears 
 of joy and transports of congratulation. 
 
 This office of gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act 
 of justice to their commander. They threw themselves at 
 the feet of Columbus, with feelings of self-condemnation 
 mingled with 'reverence. They implored him to pardon their 
 ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had created him 
 so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often obstructed 
 the prosecution of his well-concerted plan ; and passing, in 
 the warmth of their admiration, from one extreme to another, 
 they now pronounced the man, whom they had lately reviled 
 and threatened, to be a person inspired by Heaven with 
 sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to accom- 
 plish a design so far beyond the ideas and conception of all 
 former ages. 
 
 As soon as the sun arose, all their boats were manned and 
 armed. They rowed towards the island with their colours 
 displayed, with warlike music, and other martial pomp. As 
 they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a mul- 
 titude of people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had 
 'drawn together, whose attitudes and gestures expressed 
 wonder and astonishment at the strange objects which pre- 
 sented themselves to their view. Columbus was the first 
 European who set foot in the New World which he had dis- 
 covered. He landed in a rich dress, and with a naked sword 
 in his hand. His men followed, and, kneeling down, they 
 all kissed the ground which they had so long desired to see. 
 They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves 
 before it, returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage 
 to such a happy issue. They then took solemn possession 
 of the country for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all 
 the formalities which the Portuguese were accustomed to 
 observe, in acts of this kind, in their new discoveries. 
 
 LESSON CLXVIII. 
 
 Anecdote of King Alfred. — Hume. 
 
 Alfred had reduced his enemies, the Danes, to the ut- 
 most extremity. He hearkened, however, to new proposals 
 of peace ; and was satisfied to stipulate with them, that they 
 would settle somewhere in England, and would not permit 
 the entrance of more ravagers into the kingdom. But, while 
 he was expecting the execution of this treaty, which it seem- 
 ed the interest of the Danes themselves to fulfil, he heard 
 that another body had landed, and, having collected all the 
 
344 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 scattered troops of their countrymen, had surprised Chippen- 
 ham, then a considerable town, and were exercising their 
 usual ravages all around them. 
 
 This last incident quite broke the spirit of the Saxons, and 
 reduced them to despair. Finding that, after all the miser- 
 able havoc which they had undergone in their persons and 
 in their property ; after all the vigorous actions which they 
 had exerted in their own defence, a new band, equally 
 greedy of spoil and slaughter, had disembarked among them ; 
 they believed themselves abandoned by Heaven to destruc- 
 tion, and delivered over to those swarms of robbers, which 
 the fertile north thus incessantly poured forth against them. 
 Some left their country, and retired into Wales, or fled beyond 
 sea : others submitted to the conquerors, in hopes of appeas- 
 ing their fury by a servile obedience. And, every man's atten- 
 tion being now engrossed in concern for his own preservation, 
 no one would hearken to the exhortations of the king, who 
 summoned them to make, under his conduct, one effort more 
 in defence of their prince, their country, and their liberties. 
 
 Alfred himself was obliged to relinquish the ensigns of 
 his dignity, to dismiss his servants, and to seek shelter, in the 
 meanest disguises, from the pursuit and fury of his enemies. 
 He concealed himself under a peasant's habit, and lived 
 some time in the house of a neat-herd, who had been intrust- 
 ed with the care of some of his cows. There passed here 
 an incident, which has been recorded by all the historians, 
 and was long preserved by popular tradition ; though it con- 
 tains nothing memorable in itself, except so far as every cir- 
 cumstance is interesting, which attends so much virtue and 
 dignity reduced to such distress. The wife of the neat-herd 
 was ignorant of the condition of her royal guest ; and, ob- 
 serving him one day busy, by the fireside, in trimming his 
 bow and arrows, she desired him to take care of some cakes 
 which were toasting, while she was employed elsewhere in 
 other domestic affairs. But Alfred, Avhose thoughts were 
 otherwise engaged, neglected this injunction ; and the good 
 woman, on her return, finding her cakes all burnt, rated the 
 king very severely, and upbraided him, that he always seem- 
 ed very well pleased to eat her warm cakes, though he was 
 thus negligent in toasting them. 
 
 By degrees, Alfred, as he found the search of the enemy 
 become more remiss, collected some of his retainers, and 
 retired into the centre of a bog, formed by the stagnating 
 waters of the Thone and Parret, in Somersetshire. He here 
 found two acres of firm ground ; and, building a habita- 
 tion on them, rendered himself secure by its fortifications, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 345 
 
 and still more by the unknown and inaccessible roads which 
 led to it, and by the forests and morasses with which it was 
 every way environed. This place he called Ethelingay, or 
 the Isle of Nobles ; and it now bears the name of Athelney. 
 
 Alfred lay here concealed, but not inactive, during a 
 twelvemonth-; when the news of a prosperous event reached 
 his ears, and called him to the field. He left his retreat ; 
 but, before he would assemble his subjects in arms, or urge 
 them to any attempt, which, if unfortunate, might, in their 
 present despondency, prove fatal, he resolved to inspect 
 himself the situation of the enemy, and to judge of the' prob- 
 ability of success. For this purpose he entered their camp 
 under the disguise of a harper, and passed, unsuspected, 
 through every quarter. He so entertained them with his 
 music and facetious humours, that he met with a welcome 
 reception ; and was even introduced to the tent of Guthrum, 
 their prince, where he remained some days. He remarked 
 the supine security of the Danes, their contempt of the Eng- 
 lish, their negligence in foraging and plundering, and their 
 dissolute wasting of w T hat they gained by rapine and violence. 
 Encouraged by these favourable appearances, he secretly 
 sent emissaries to the most considerable of his subjects, and 
 summoned them to a rendezvous, attended by their warlike 
 followers, at Brixton, on the borders of Selwood forest. 
 
 At the appointed day, the English joyfully resorted to 
 their prince. On his appearance, they received him with 
 shouts of applause ; and could not satiate their eyes with the 
 sight of this beloved monarch, whom they had long regarded 
 as dead, and who now, with voice and looks expressing his 
 confidence of success, called them to liberty and to ven- 
 geance. He instantly conducted them to Eddington, where 
 the Danes were encamped ; and, taking advantage of his 
 previous knowledge of the place, he directed his attack 
 against the most unguarded quarter of the enemy. The Danes, 
 surprised to see an army of English, whom they considered 
 as totally subdued, and still more astonished to hear that 
 Alfred was at their head, made but a faint resistance, not- 
 withstanding their superiority of number, and were soon put 
 to flight with great slaughter. The remainder of the routed 
 army, with their prince, was besieged by Alfred in a fortified 
 camp to which they fled ; but, being reduced to extremity 
 by want and hunger, they had recourse to the clemency of 
 the victor, and offered to submit on any conditions. The 
 king, no less generous than brave, gave them their lives ; 
 and even formed a scheme for converting them, from mortal 
 enemies, into faithful subjects and confederates. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXIX. 
 
 Friendship. — Kobert Blair. 
 
 Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul, 
 Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society, 
 I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me 
 Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
 Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, 
 And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, 
 Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend and I 
 In some thick wood have wandered heedless on, 
 Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
 Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank, 
 Where the pure, limpid stream has slid along 
 In grateful errors through the underwood, 
 Sweet murmuring ; methought the shrill-ton gued thrush 
 Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
 Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note : 
 The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose 
 Assumed a die more deep ; whilst ev'ry flower 
 Vied with its fellow plant in luxury 
 
 Of dress. Oh ! then, the longest summer's day 
 
 Seemed too, too much in haste : still the full heart 
 Had not imparted half : 'twas happiness 
 Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, 
 Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! 
 
 LESSON CLXX. 
 The Garden of Hope. — Johnson. 
 
 I was musing on the strange inclination which every man 
 feels to deceive himself, and considering the advantages and 
 dangers proceeding from this gay prospect of futurity, when, 
 falling asleep, on a sudden I found myself placed in a garden, 
 of which my sight could descry no limits. Every scene about 
 me was gay and gladsome, light with sunshine, and fragrant 
 with perfumes ; the ground was painted with all the variety 
 of spring, and all the choir of nature was singing in the 
 groves. 
 
 When I had recovered from the first raptures, with which 
 the confusion of pleasure had for a time entranced me, I be- 
 gan to take a particular and deliberate view of this delight- 
 ful region. I then perceived that I had yet higher gratilica- 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 347 
 
 tions to expect, and that, at a small distance from me, there 
 were brighter flowers, clearer fountains, and more lofty- 
 groves, where the birds, which I yet heard but faintly, were 
 exerting all their power of melody. The trees about me were 
 beautiful with verdure, and fragrant with blossoms ; but I 
 was tempted to leave them by the sight of ripe fruits, which 
 seemed to hang only to be plucked. I therefore walked 
 hastily forwards, but found, as I proceeded, that the colours 
 of the field faded at my approach, the fruit fell before I reach- 
 ed it, the birds flew still singing before me, and, though I 
 pressed onward with great ce?erity, I was still in sight of 
 pleasures of which I could not yet gain the possession, and 
 which seemed to mock my diligence, and to retire as I ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 Though I was confounded with so many alternations of 
 joy and grief, I yet persisted to go forward, in hopes that 
 these fugitive delights would, in time, be overtaken. At 
 length I saw an innumerable multitude of every age and sex, 
 who seemed all to partake of some general felicity; for every 
 cheek was flushed with confidence, and every eye sparkled 
 with eagerness ; yet each appeared to have some particular 
 and secret pleasure, and very few were willing to communi- 
 cate their intentions, or extend their concern beyond them- 
 selves. Most of them seemed, by the rapidity of their mo- 
 tion, too busy T to gratify the curiosity of a stranger, and, there- 
 fore, I was content for a while to gaze upon them, without 
 interrupting them with troublesome inquiries. 
 
 But seeing a young man, gay and thoughtless, I resolved 
 to accost him, and was informed that I was in the garden of 
 Hope, the daughter of Desire, and that all those, whom I 
 saw thus tumultuously bustling round me, were incited hj 
 the promises of Hope, and hastening to seize the gifts which 
 she held in her hand. 
 
 I turned my sight upward, and saw a goddess in the bloom 
 of youth sitting on a throne : around her lay all the gifts of 
 fortune, and all the blessings of life were spread abroad to 
 view ; she had a perpetual gayety of aspect, and every one 
 imagined that her smile, which was impartial and general, 
 was directed to himself, and triumphed in his own superior- 
 ity to others, who had conceived the same confidence from 
 the same mistake. 
 
 I then mounted an eminence, from which I had a mofe 
 extensive view of the whole place, and could with less per- 
 plexity consider the different conduct of the crowds that 
 filled it. From this station I observed that the entrance 
 into the garden of Hope was hj two gates, one of whicb 
 
n 
 
 4S THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 was kept by Reason, and the other by Fancy. Reason was 
 surly and scrupulous, and seldom turned the key without 
 many interrogatories and long hesitation : but Fancy was a 
 kind and gentle portress ; she held her gate wide open, and 
 welcomed all equally to the district under her superintenden- 
 cy ; so that the passage was crowded by all those who either 
 feared the examination of Reason, or had been rejected by 
 her. 
 
 From the gate of Reason there was a way to the throne 
 of Hope, by a craggy, slippery, and winding path, called the 
 Strait of Difficulty, which those wbo entered with permis- 
 sion of the guard endeavoured to climb. But, though they 
 surveyed the way very carefully before they began to rise, 
 and marked out the several stages of their progress, they 
 commonly found unexpected obstacles, and were obliged 
 frequently to stop on the sudden, where they imagined the 
 way plain and even. A thousand intricacies embarrassed 
 them, a thousand slips threw them back, and a thousand 
 pitfalls impeded their advance. So formidable were the 
 dangers, and so frequent the miscarriages, that many returned 
 from the first attempt, and many fainted in the midst of the 
 way, and only a very small number were led up to the sum- 
 mit of Hope ; by the hand of Fortitude. Of these few, the 
 greater part, when they had obtained the gift which Hope 
 had promised them, regretted the labour which it cost, and 
 felt in their success the regret of disappointment; the rest 
 retired with their prize, and were led by Wisdom to the bow- 
 ers of Content. v 
 
 Turning then towards the gate of Fancy, I could find no 
 way to the seat of Hope ; but though she sat full in view, 
 and held out her gifts with an air of invitation, which filled 
 every heart with rapture, the mountain was, on that side, 
 inaccessibly steep, but so channelled and shaded, that none 
 perceived the impossibility of ascending it, but each imagined 
 himself to have discovered a way to which the rest were 
 strangers. Many expedients were indeed tried by this in- 
 dustrious tribe, of whom some were making themselves wings, 
 which others were contriving to actuate by the perpetual 
 motion. But with all their labour, and all their artifices, they 
 never rose above the ground, or quickly fell back, nor ever 
 approached the throne of Hope, but continued still to gaze 
 at a distance, and laughed at the slow progress of those whom 
 they saw toiling in the Strait of Difficulty. 
 
 Part of the favourites of Fancy, when they had entered 
 the garden, without making, like the rest, an attempt to climb 
 the mountain, turned immediately to the Vale of Idleness, a 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 349 
 
 calm and undisturbed retirement, from whence they could 
 always have Hope in prospect, and to which they pleased 
 themselves with believing that she intended speedily to de- 
 scend. These were indeed scorned by all the rest ; but they 
 seemed very little affected by contempt, advice, or reproof, 
 but were resolved to expect at ease the favour of the goddess. 
 Among this gay race I was wandering, and found them 
 ready to answer all my questions, and willing to communicate 
 their mirth : but, turning round, I saw two dreadful monsters 
 entering the vale : one of them I knew to be Age, and the 
 other Want. Sport and revelling were now at an end, and 
 a universal shriek of affright and distress burst out and 
 awaked me. 
 
 LESSON CLXXI. 
 The Character of Pope as a Poet. — Ibid. 
 
 Of the intellectual character of Pope, the constituent and 
 fundamental principle was good sense, a prompt and intuitive 
 perception of consonance and propriety. He saw immediate- 
 ly, of his own conceptions, what was to be chosen, and what 
 to be rejected ; and, in the works of others, what was to be 
 shunned, and what was to be copied. 
 
 But good sense alone is a sedate and quiescent quality, 
 which manages its possessions well, but does not increase 
 them ; it collects few materials for its own operations, and 
 preserves safety, but never gains supremacy. Pope had like- 
 wise genius; a mind active, ambitious, and adventurous, 
 always investigating, always aspiring ; in its widest searches 
 still longing to go forward, in its highest flights still wishing 
 to be higher ; always imagining something greater than it 
 knows, always endeavouring more than it can do. 
 
 To assist these powers, he is said to have had great strength 
 and exactness of memory. That which he had heard or read 
 was not easily lost ; and he had before him not only what 
 his own meditations suggested, but what he had found in 
 other writers that might be accommodated to his present pur- 
 pose. 
 
 These benefits of nature he improved by incessant and 
 unwearied diligence ; he had recourse to everv source of 
 intelligence, and lost no opportunity of information ; he con- 
 sulted the living as well as the dead ; he read his compositions 
 to his friends ; and was never content with mediocrity, when 
 excellence could be attained. He considered poetry as the 
 business of his life ; and, however he might seem to lament 
 30 
 
350 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 his occupation, he followed it with constancy ; to make verses 
 was his first labour, and to mend them was his last. 
 
 From his attention to poetry he was never diverted. If con 
 versation offered any thing that could be improved, he com- 
 mitted it to paper ; if a thought, or perhaps an expression, 
 more happy than was common, rose to his mind, he was 
 careful to write it ; an independent distich was preserved for 
 an opportunity of insertion ; and some little fragments have 
 been found containing lines, or parts of lines, to be wrought 
 upon at some other time. 
 
 He was one of those few whose labour is their pleasure : 
 he was never elevated to negligence, nor wearied to impa- 
 tience ; he never passed a fault unamended by indifference, 
 nor quitted it by despair. He laboured his works first to 
 gain reputation, and afterwards to keep it. 
 
 Of composition there are different methods. Some employ 
 at once memory and invention, and, with little intermediate 
 use of the pen, form and polish large masses by continued 
 meditation, and write their productions only when, in their 
 own opinion, they have completed them. It is related of 
 Virgil, that his custom was to pour out a great number of 
 verses in the morning, and pass the day in retrenching exu- 
 berances, and correcting inaccuracies. The method of Pope, 
 as may be collected from his translations, was to write his 
 first thoughts in his first words, and gradually to amplify, 
 decorate, rectify, and refine them. 
 
 With such faculties, and such dispositions, he excelled 
 every other writer in poetical prudence : he wrote in such 
 a manner as might expose him to few hazards. He used al- 
 most always the same fabric of verse ; and, indeed, by those 
 few essays which he made of any other, he did not enlarge 
 his reputation. Of this uniformity the certain consequence 
 was readiness and dexterity. By perpetual practice, language 
 had, in his mind, a systematical arrangement ; having always 
 the same use for words, he had words so selected and com- 
 bined as to be ready at his call. 
 
 LESSON CLXXII. 
 
 The Dependence of GodPs Creatures on each other. — Pope 
 
 Here then we rest ; " the Universal Cause 
 Acts to one end, but acts by various laws." 
 In all the madness of superfluous health, 
 The train of pride, the impudence of wealth, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 351 
 
 Let this great truth be present night and day ; 
 But most be present, if we preach or pray. 
 
 Look round our world ; behold the chain of love 
 Combining all below and all above. 
 See plastic nature working to this end, 
 The single atoms each to other tend, 
 Attract, attracted to, the next in place 
 Formed and impelled its neighbour to embrace. 
 See matter next, with various life endued, 
 Press to one centre still, the general good. 
 See dying vegetables life sustain ; 
 See life, dissolving, vegetate again : 
 All forms that perish other forms supply, 
 (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die,) 
 Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, 
 They rise, they break, and to that sea return. 
 Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; 
 One all-extending, all-preserving soul 
 Connects each being, greatest with the least; 
 Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast ; 
 All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; 
 The chain holds on, and where it ends unknown. 
 
 Has God, thou fool ! worked solely for thy good, 
 Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ? 
 Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
 For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn : 
 Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 
 Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
 Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? 
 Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. 
 The bounding steed you pompously bestride 
 Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
 Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? 
 The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. 
 Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? 
 Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer : 
 The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, 
 Lives on the labours of this Lord of all. 
 
 Know, Nature's children all divide her care ; 
 The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear. 
 While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !" 
 " See man for mine !" replies a pampered goose : 
 And just as short of reason he must fall, 
 Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 
 
352 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXXHI. 
 
 Villa of a tasteless rich Man. — Ibid. 
 
 At Timon's villa let us pass a day, 
 Where all cry out, u What sums are thrown away !'* 
 So proud, so grand ; of that stupendous air, 
 Soft and agreeable come never there. 
 Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught 
 As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. 
 To compass this, his building is a town, 
 His pond an ocean, his parterre a down : 
 Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, 
 A puny insect, shivering at a breeze ! 
 Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around ! 
 The whole a laboured quarry above ground. 
 Two Cupids squirt before ; a lake behind 
 Improves the keenness of the northern wind. 
 His gardens next your admiration call ; 
 On every side you look, behold the wall ! 
 No pleasing intricacies intervene, 
 No artful wildness to perplex the scene ; 
 Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, 
 And half the platform just reflects the other. 
 The suffering eye inverted nature sees, 
 Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ; 
 With here a fountain, never to be played, 
 And there a summer-house that knows no shade ; 
 Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers : 
 There gladiators light, or die in flowers : 
 Unwatered see the drooping sea-horse mourn, 
 And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. 
 
 LESSON CLXXIV. 
 
 Virtue alone is the Foundation of Happiness. — Ibid. 
 
 See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow ! 
 Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know : 
 Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, 
 The bad must miss ; the good, untaught, will find ; 
 Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, 
 But looks through nature up to nature's God ; 
 Pursues that chain which links th' immense design, 
 Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine ; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 353 
 
 Sees, that no being any bliss can know, 
 
 But touches some above and some below ; 
 
 Learns from this union of the rising whole 
 
 The first, last purpose of the human soul ; 
 
 And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, 
 
 All end in love of God, and love of man. 
 
 For him alone, Hope leads from goal to goal, 
 
 And opens still, and opens on his soul : 
 
 Till, lengthened on to Faith, and unconfined, 
 
 It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 
 
 He sees why nature plants in man alone 
 
 Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown : 
 
 (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind 
 
 Are given in vain, but what they seek they find :) 
 
 Wise is her present ; she connects in this 
 
 His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss ; 
 
 At once his own bright prospect to be blest ; 
 
 And strongest motive to assist the rest. 
 
 Self-love, thus pushed to social, to divine, 
 Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine. 
 Is this too little for the boundless heart ? 
 Extend it ; let thy enemies have part. 
 Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense, 
 In one close system of benevolence : 
 Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, 
 And height of bliss but height of charity. 
 
 LESSON CLXXV. 
 
 The Weakness of indulging a Belief in Apparitions. — Addison. 
 
 At a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the 
 ruins of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms, 
 which are shot up so very high, that, when one passes under 
 them, the rooks and crows that rest upon the tops of them 
 seem to be cawing in another region. I am very much de- 
 lighted with this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind 
 of natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants of his 
 whole creation, and who, in the beautiful language of the 
 Psalms,* feedeth the young ravens that call upon him. I 
 like this retirement the better, because of an ill report it lies 
 under of being haunted ; for which reason (as I have been 
 told in the family ) no living creature ever walks in itbesides the 
 chaplain. My good friend the butler desired me, with a very 
 grave face, not to venture myself in it after sunset, for that 
 
 * Psal. cxlvii. 9. 
 
 30* 
 
354 THE CLASSICAL READER 
 
 one of the footmen had been almost frighted out of his wits 
 by a spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black 
 horse without a head ; to which he added, that, about a 
 month ago, one of the maids, coming home late that way with 
 a pail of milk upon her head, heard such a rustling among 
 the bushes that she let it fall. 
 
 I was taking a walk in this place last night between the 
 hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the 
 most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to appear in. 
 The ruins of the abbey are scattered up and down on every 
 side, and half covered with ivy and elder-bushes, the har- 
 bours of several solitary birds, which seldom make their ap- 
 pearance till the dusk of the evening. The place was for- 
 merly a church-yard, and has still several marks in it of graves 
 and burying places. There is such an echo among the old 
 ruins and vaults, that, if you stamp but a little louder than or- 
 dinary, you hear the sound repeated. At the same time the 
 w r alk of elms, with the croaking of the ravens which from 
 time to time are heard from the tops of them, looks exceed- 
 ing solemn and venerable. These objects naturally raise 
 seriousness and attention ; and when night heightens the 
 awfulness of the place, and pours out her supernumerary 
 horrors upon every thing in it, I do not at all wonder that 
 weak minds fill it with spectres and apparitions. 
 
 Mr. Locke, in his chapter of the Association of Ideas, has 
 very curious remarks to show how, by the prejudice of edu- 
 cation, one idea often introduces into the mind a whole set 
 that bear no resemblance to one another in the nature of 
 things. Among several examples of this kind, he produces 
 the following instance. " The ideas of goblins and sprights 
 have really no more to do with darkness than light : yet let 
 but a foolish maid inculcate these often on the mind of a 
 child, and raise them there together, possibly he shall never 
 be able to separate them again so long as he lives ; but dark- 
 ness shall ever afterwards bring with it those frightful ideas, 
 and they shall be so joined, that he can no more bear the 
 one than the other." 
 
 As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of the 
 evening conspired with so many other occasions of terror, I 
 observed a cow grazing not far from me, which an imagina- 
 tion that was apt to startle might easily have construed into 
 a black horse without a head : and I dare say the poor 
 footman lost his wits upon some such trivial occasion. 
 
 My friend, Sir Roger, has often told me, with a great deal 
 of mirth, that, at his first coming to his estate, he found three 
 parts of his house altogether useless ; that the best room in 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 355 
 
 it had the reputation of being haunted, and by that means 
 was locked up ; that noises had been heard in his long gal- 
 lery, so that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight 
 o'clock at night ; that the door of one of his chambers was 
 nailed up, because there went a story in the family that a 
 butler had formerly hanged himself in it ; and that his moth- 
 er, who lived to a great age, had shut up half the rooms in 
 the house, in which either her husband, a son, or daughter 
 had died. The knight, seeing his habitation reduced to so 
 small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own 
 house, upon the death of his mother, ordered all the apart- 
 ments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain, who 
 lay in every room, one after another, and by that means 
 dissipated the fears which had so long reigned in the family. 
 
 LESSON CLXXVI. 
 On the Immortality of the Soul. — Ibid. 
 
 The course of my last speculation led me insensibly into 
 a subject upon which I always meditate with great delight — 
 I mean the immortality of the soul. I was yesterday walk- 
 ing alone in one of my friend's woods, and lost myself in it 
 very agreeably, as I was running over in my mind the sev- 
 eral arguments that establish this great point, which is the 
 basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes 
 and secret joys that can arise in the heart of a reasonable 
 creature. I considered those several proofs drawn, 
 
 First, from the nature of the soul itself, and particularly 
 its immateriality, which, though not absolutely necessary to 
 the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been evinced to 
 almost a demonstration. 
 
 Secondly, from its passions and sentiments, as particularly 
 from its love of existence, its horror of annihilation, and its 
 hopes of immortality, with that secret satisfaction which it 
 finds in the practice of virtue, and that uneasiness which fol- 
 lows in it upon the commission of vice. 
 
 Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose 
 justice, goodness, wisdom and veracity are all concerned in 
 this great point. 
 
 But, among these and other excellent arguments for the 
 immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the per- 
 petual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a possi- 
 bility of ever arriving at it ; which is a hint that I do not re- 
 member to have seen opened and improved by others who 
 have written on this subject, though it seems to me to carry 
 
356 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 a great weight with it. How can it enter into the thoughts 
 of man, that the soul, which is capable of such immense per- 
 fections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, 
 shall fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is created ? 
 Are such abilities made for no purpose ? A brute arrives at 
 a point of perfection that he can never pass : in a few years 
 he has all the endowments he is capable of; and, were he 
 to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at 
 present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her ac- 
 complishments, were her faculties to be full blown, and in- 
 capable of farther enlargements, I could imagine it might fall 
 away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. 
 But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual 
 progress of improvements, and travelling on from perfection 
 to perfection, after having just looked abroad into the works 
 of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite good- 
 ness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, 
 and in the beginning of her inquiries ? 
 
 A man, considered in his present state, seems only sent 
 into the world to propagate his kind. He provides himself 
 with a successor, and immediately quits his post to make 
 room for him. 
 
 -Heir crowds on heir, as in a rolling flood 
 
 Wave urges wave. Creech. 
 
 He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down 
 to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, 
 which are formed for our use, and can finish their business 
 in a short life. The silk-worm, after having spun her task, 
 lays her eggs, and dies. But a man can never have taken in 
 his full measure of knowledge, has not time to subdue his 
 passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the 
 perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. 
 Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures 
 for so mean a purpose ? Can he delight in the production 
 of such abortive intelligences, such short-lived reasonable 
 beings ? Would he give us talents that are not to be exert- 
 ed ? capacities that are never to be gratified ? How can we 
 find that wisdom, which shines through all his works in the 
 formation of man, without looking on this world as only a 
 nursery for the next, and believing that the several genera- 
 tions of rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in 
 such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudi- 
 ments of existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted 
 into a more friendly climate, where they may spread and 
 flourish to all eternity ? 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 357 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumph- 
 ant consideration in religion than this of the perpetual pro- 
 gress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its 
 nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look upon 
 the soul as going on from strength to strength ; to consider 
 that she is to shine for ever with new accessions of glory, 
 and brighten to all eternity ; that she will be still adding 
 virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries in it 
 something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition which is 
 natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect 
 pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beauti- 
 fying in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater de- 
 grees of resemblance. 
 
 Methinks this single consideration of the progress of a 
 finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all 
 envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That 
 cherubim, which now appears as a God to a human soul 
 knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, 
 when the human soul shall be as perfect as he himself now 
 is ; nay, when she shall look down upon that degree of per- 
 fection, as much as she now falls short of it. It is true the 
 higher nature still advances, and by that means preserves his 
 distance and superiority in the scale of being ; but he knows 
 that, how high soever the station is of which he stands pos- 
 sessed at present, the inferior nature will at length mount up 
 to it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 
 
 With what astonishment and veneration may we look into 
 our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue 
 and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection ! 
 We know not yet what we shall be, nor will it ever enter 
 into the heart of man to conceive the glory that will be al- 
 ways in reserve for him. The soul, considered with its 
 Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines, that may 
 draw nearer to' another, for all eternity, without a possibility 
 of touching it :* and can there be a thought so transporting, 
 as to consider ourselves in these perpetual approaches to 
 him, who is not only the standard of perfection but of hap 
 piness ! 
 
 * Those lines are what the geometricians call the asymptotes of the hyperbola, 
 and the allusion to them here is, perhaps, one of the most beautiful that has ever 
 been made. 
 
358 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXXVII. 
 
 London, after the great Fire of 1666. — Dryden. 
 
 Methinks already from this chymic flame, 
 
 I see a city of more precious mould ; 
 Rich as the town which gives the Indias name, 
 
 With silver paved, and all divine with gold. 
 
 Already, labouring with a mighty fate, 
 
 She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, 
 
 And seems to have renewed her charter's date, 
 Which Heaven will to the death of Time allow. 
 
 More great than human now, and more august, 
 Now deified she from her fires does rise : 
 
 Her widening streets on new foundations trust, 
 And opening into larger parts she flies. 
 
 Before, she like some shepherdess did show, 
 Who sat to bathe her by a river's side ; 
 
 Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, 
 Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. 
 
 Now, like a maiden queen, she will behold, 
 From her high turrets, hourly suitors come ; 
 
 The East with incense, and the West with gold, 
 Will stand like suppliants to receive her doom. 
 
 The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, 
 Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train ; 
 
 And often wind, as of his mistress proud, 
 With longing eyes to meet her face again. 
 
 The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine, 
 The glory of their towns no more shall boast, 
 
 And Seyne, that would with Belgian rivers join, 
 Shall find her lustre stained, and traffic lost. 
 
 The venturous merchant, who designed more far, 
 
 And touches on our hospitable shore, 
 Charmed with the splendour of this northern star, 
 
 Shall here unlade him, and depart no more. 
 
 LESSON CLXXVIII. 
 
 Need of the Christian Revelation. — Locke. 
 
 Next to the knowledge of one God, Maker of all things, 
 " a clear knowledge of their duty was wanting to mankind." 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 359 
 
 This part of knowledge, though cultivated with some care 
 by some of the heathen philosophers, yet got little footing 
 among the people. All men, indeed, under pain of displeas- 
 ing the gods, were to frequent the temples : every one went 
 to their sacrifices and services : but the priests made it not 
 their business to teach them virtue. If they were diligent 
 in their observations and ceremonies ; punctual in their feasts 
 and solemnities, and the tricks of religion ; the holy tribe 
 assured them the gods were pleased, and they looked no 
 farther. Few went to the schools of the philosophers to be 
 instructed in their duties, and to know what was good and 
 evil in their actions. Lustrations and processions were 
 much easier than a clean conscience, and a steady course 
 of virtue ; and an expiatory sacrifice, that atoned for the 
 want of it, was much more convenient than a strict and 
 holy life. 
 
 No wonder, then, that religion was every where distin- 
 guished from, and preferred to virtue ; and that it was dan- 
 gerous heresy and profaneness to think the contrary. So 
 much virtue as was necessary to hold societies together, and 
 to contribute to the quiet of governments, the civil laws of 
 commonwealths taught, and forced upon men that lived un- 
 der magistrates. But these laws being, for the most part, 
 made by such, who had no other aims but their own power, 
 reached no farther than those things that would serve to 
 tie men together in subjection ; or, at most, were directly to 
 conduce to the prosperity and temporal happiness of any 
 "people. 
 
 But natural religion, in its full extent, was no where, that 
 I know, taken care of by the force of natural reason. It 
 should seem, by the little that has hitherto been done in it, 
 that it is too hard a task for unassisted reason to establish 
 morality in all its parts, upon its true foundation, with a clear 
 and convincing light. And it is at least a surer and shorter 
 way, to the apprehensions of the vulgar, and mass of man- 
 kind, that one manifestly sent from God, and coming with 
 visible authority from him, should, as a king and law-maker, 
 tell them their duties, and require their obedience, than 
 leave it to the long, and sometimes intricate deductions of 
 reason, to be made out to them. 
 
 Such trains of reasoning the greatest part of mankind have 
 neither leisure to weigh, nor, for want of education and 
 use, skill to judge of. We see how unsuccessful in this the 
 attempts of philosophers were before our Saviour's time. 
 How short their several systems came of the perfection of a 
 true and complete morality, is very visible. And if, since 
 
360 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 that, the Christian philosophers have much outdone them, 
 yet we may observe, that the first knowledge of the truths 
 they have added is owing to revelation ; though, as soon as 
 they are heard and considered, they are found to be agreeable 
 to reason, and such as can by no means be contradicted. Every 
 one may observe a great many truths, which he receives at 
 first from others, and readily assents to, as consonant to rea- 
 son, which he would have found it hard, and perhaps be- 
 yond his strength, to have discovered himself. 
 
 Native and original truth is not so easily wrought out of 
 the mine, as we, who have it delivered already dug and 
 fashioned into our hands, are apt to imagine. And how often 
 at fifty or threescore years old are thinking men told what 
 they wonder how they could miss thinking of; which yet 
 their own contemplations did not, and possibly never would 
 have helped them to. 
 
 Experience shows, that the knowledge of morality, by 
 mere natural light, (how agreeable soever it be to it,) makes 
 but a slow progress, and little advance in the world. And 
 the reason of it is not hard to be found in men's necessities, 
 passions, vices, and mistaken interests, which turn their 
 thoughts another way : and the designing leaders, as well 
 as following herd, find it not to their purpose to employ 
 much of their meditations this way. Or, whatever else was 
 the cause, it is plain, in fact, that human reason, unassisted, 
 failed men in its great and proper business of morality. It 
 never, from unquestionable principles, by clear deductions, 
 made out an entire body of the "law of nature." And he 
 that shall collect all the moral rules of the philosophers, and- 
 compare them with those contained in the New Testament, 
 will find them to come short of the morality delivered by 
 our Saviour, and taught by his apostles ; a college made up, 
 for the most part, of ignorant, but inspired fishermen. 
 
 LESSON CLXXTX. 
 
 Truth better than Dissimulation. — Tillotson. 
 
 Truth and reality have all the advantages of appearance, 
 and many more. If the show of any thing be good for any 
 thing, I am sure sincerity is better ; for why does any man 
 dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because 
 he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to ? 
 for to counterfeit and dissemble is to put on the appearance 
 of some real excellency. Now, the best way in the world 
 for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what he 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 361 
 
 would seem to be. Besides that it is many times as trouble- 
 some to make good the pretence of a good quality, as to 
 have it ; and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is 
 discovered to want it, and then all his pains and labour to 
 seem to have it are lost. There is something unnatural in 
 painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from native 
 beauty and complexion. 
 
 It is hard to personate and act a part long ; for, where truth 
 is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to 
 return, and will peep out, and betray herself one time or 
 other. Therefore, if any man think it convenient to seem 
 good, let him be so indeed, and then his goodness will ap- 
 pear to every body's satisfaction ; so that upon all accounts 
 sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly as to the affairs of 
 this world, integrity hath many advantages over all the fine 
 and artificial ways of dissimulation and deceit ; it is much 
 the plainer and easier, much the safer and more secure way 
 of dealing in the world ; it has less of trouble and difficulty, 
 of entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it ; 
 it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us thither 
 in a straight line, and will hold out and last longest. The 
 arts of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker and 
 less effectual and serviceable to them that use them ; where- 
 as integrity gains strength by use, and the more and longer 
 any man practiseth it, the greater service it does him, by 
 confirming his reputation, and encouraging those with whom 
 he hath to do to repose the greatest trust and confidence in 
 him, which is an unspeakable advantage in the business and 
 affairs of life. 
 
 Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing 
 to help it out ; it is always near at hand, and sits upon our 
 lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware ; whereas 
 a lie is troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the 
 rack, and one trick needs a great many more to make it good. 
 It is like building upon a false foundation, which continually 
 stands in need of props to shore it up, and proves at last more 
 chargeable than to have raised a substantial building at first 
 upon a true and solid foundation ; for sincerity is firm and 
 substantial, and there is nothing hollow and unsound in it; 
 and, because it is plain and open, fears no discovery ; of 
 which the crafty man is always in danger ; and when he 
 thinks he walks in the dark, all his pretences are so trans- 
 parent, that he that runs may read them ; he is the last man 
 that finds himself to be found out, and, whilst he takes it 
 for granted that he makes fools of others, he renders himself 
 ridiculous. 
 31 
 
362 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious 
 wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy despatch 
 of business ; it creates confidence in those we have to deal 
 with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things 
 to an issue in a few words. It is like travelling in a plain, 
 beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner to his 
 journey's end than by-ways, in which men often lose them- 
 selves. In a word, whatsoever convenience may be thought 
 to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over ; but the 
 inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings a man un- 
 der an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not 
 believed when he speaks truth, nor trusted, perhaps, when 
 he means honestly. When a man has once forfeited the 
 reputation of his integrity, he is set fast ; and nothing will 
 then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. 
 
 And I have often thought that God hath, in his great wis- 
 dom, hid from men of false and dishonest minds, the won- 
 derful advantages of truth and integrity to the prosperity 
 even of our worldly affairs : these men are so blinded by 
 their covetousness and ambition, that they cannot look be- 
 yond a present advantage, nor forbear to seize upon it, though 
 by ways never so indirect : they cannot see so far as to the 
 remotest consequence of a steady integrity, and the vast ben- 
 efit and advantages which it will bring a man at last. Were 
 but this sort of men wise and clear-sighted enough to discern 
 this, they would be honest out of very knavery, not out of 
 any love to honesty and virtue, but with a crafty design to 
 promote and advance, more effectually, their own interests ; 
 and, therefore, the justice of the Divine Providence hath 
 hid this truest point of wisdom from their eyes, that bad 
 men might not be upon equal terms with the just and up- 
 right, and serve their own wicked designs by honest and 
 lawful means. 
 
 Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, 
 and should never have occasion to converse more with man- 
 kind, never more need their good opinion or good word, it 
 were then no great matter (speaking as to the concernments 
 of this world) if a man spent his reputation all at once, and 
 ventured it at one throw : but if he be to continue in the 
 world, and would have the advantage of conversation whilst 
 he is in it, let him make use of truth and sincerity in all his 
 words and actions ; for nothing but this will last and hold 
 out to the end : all other arts will fail, but truth and integ- 
 rity will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last. 
 
THE CLASSICAL. READER. 3f>3 
 
 LESSON CLXXX. 
 
 The Lady^s Looking- Glass. — Prior. 
 
 Celia and I the other day 
 Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea ; 
 The setting sun adorned the coast, 
 His beams entire, his fierceness lost : 
 And, on the surface of the deep, 
 The winds lay only not asleep : 
 The nymph did, like the scene, appear 
 Serenely pleasant, calmly fair : 
 Soft fell her words, as flew the air. 
 With secret joy I heard her say, 
 That she would never miss one day 
 A walk so fine, a sight so gay. 
 
 But, oh the change ! the winds grow high , 
 Impending tempests charge the sky ; 
 The lightning flies, the thunder roars, 
 And big waves lash the frightened shores. 
 Struck with the horror of the sight, 
 She turns her head, and wings her flight ; 
 And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again 
 Approach the shore, or view the main. 
 
 Once more, at least, look back, said I, 
 Thyself in that large glass descry : 
 When thou art in good humour dressed ; 
 When gentle reason rules thy breast ; 
 The sun upon the calmest sea 
 Appears not half so bright as thee : 
 'Tis then that with delight I rove 
 Upon the boundless depth of love : 
 I bless my chain, I hand my oar, 
 Nor think on all I left on shore. 
 
 But when vain doubt and groundless fear 
 Do that dear, foolish bosom tear ; 
 When the big lip and watery eye 
 Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 
 'Tis then thou art yon angry main, 
 Deformed by winds, and dashed by rain , 
 And the poor sailor, that must try 
 Its fury, labours less than I. 
 
364 THE CLASSICAL HEADER. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXI. 
 
 The Learning of Sir Hudibras. — Samuel Butler. 
 
 He was in logic a great critic. 
 Profoundly skilled in analytic : 
 He could distinguish, and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
 On either which he would dispute, 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute : 
 He'd undertake to prove, by force 
 Of argument, a man's no horse ; 
 He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 
 And that a lord may be an owl, 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
 And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
 He'd run in debt by disputation, 
 And pay with ratiocination : 
 All this by syllogism true, 
 In mood and figure he would do. 
 
 For rhetoric, he could not ope 
 His mouth, but out there flew a trope : 
 And when he happened to break off 
 I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 
 H' had hard words ready to show why, 
 And tell what rules he did it by ; 
 Else when with greatest art he spoke, 
 You'd think he talked like other folk ; 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 
 Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
 
 But, when he pleased to show't, his speech, 
 In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
 A Babylonish dialect, 
 Which learned pedants much affect ; 
 It was a party-coloured dress 
 Of patched and piebald languages ; 
 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
 Like fustian, heretofore, on satin ; 
 It had an odd, promiscuous tone, 
 As if h' had talked three parts in one ; 
 Which made some think, when he did gabble, 
 Th' had heard three labourers of Babel, 
 Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
 A leash of languages at once. 
 
 This he as volubly would vent, 
 As if his stock would ne'er be spent : 
 
THE CLASSICAL, READER. 
 
 And, truly, to support that charge, 
 He had supplies as vast and large ; 
 For he could coin or counterfeit 
 New words, with little or no wit ; 
 Words so debased and hard, no stone 
 Was hard enough to touch them on ; 
 And when with hasty noise he spoke 'era, 
 The ignorant for current took 'em ; 
 That, had the orator, who once 
 Did fill his mouth with pebble stones 
 When he harangued, but known his phrase, 
 He would have used no other ways. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXII. 
 
 On Peace. — Clarendon. 
 
 It was a very proper answer to him who asked, why any 
 man should be delighted with beauty, that it was a question 
 that none but a blind man could ask ; since any beautiful 
 object doth so much attract the sight of all men, that it is in 
 no man's power not to be pleased with it. Nor can any 
 aversion or malignity towards the object irreconcile the eyes 
 from looking upon it : as a man who hath an envenomed 
 and mortal hatred against another, who hath a most grace- 
 ful and beautiful person, cannot hinder his eye from being 
 delighted to behold that person ; though that delight is far 
 from going to the heart ; as no man's malice towards an ex- 
 cellent musician can keep his ear from being pleased with 
 his music. 
 
 Peace is that harmony in the state, that health is in the 
 body. No honour, no profit, no plenty can make him hap- 
 py, who is sick with a fever in his blood, and with defluc- 
 tions and aeries in his joints and bones ; but health restored 
 gives a relish to the other blessings, and is very merry with- 
 out them : no kingdom can flourish or be at ease, in which 
 there is no peace ; which only makes men dwell at home, 
 and enjoy the labour of their own hands, and improve all the 
 advantages which the air, and the climate, and the soil, ad- 
 minister to them ; and all which yield no comfort, where 
 there is no peace. 
 
 God himself reckons health the greatest blessing he can 
 bestow upon mankind, and peace the greatest comfort and 
 ornament he can confer upon states ; which are a multitude 
 of men gathered together. It was the highest aggravation 
 that the prophet could find out in the description of the great- 
 31 * 
 
'366 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 est wickedness, that " the way of peace they knew not ;" 
 and the greatest punishment of all their crookedness and 
 perverseness was, that "they should not know peace." A 
 greater curse cannot befall the most wicked nation, than to 
 be deprived of peace. There is nothing of real and substan- 
 tial comfort in this world, but what is the product of peace ; 
 and whatsoever we may lawfully and innocently take delight 
 in, is the fruit and effect of peace. The solemn service of 
 God, and performing our duty to him in the exercise of reg- 
 ular devotion, which is the greatest business of our life, 
 and in which we ought to take most delight, is the issue 
 of peace. 
 
 War breaks all that order, interrupts all that devotion, and 
 even extinguisheth all that zeal, which peace had kindled in 
 us ; lays waste the dwelling-place of God as well as of man; 
 and introduces and propagates opinions and practice, as much 
 against heaven as against earth, and erects a deity that de- 
 lights in nothing but cruelty and blood. 
 
 Are we pleased with the enlarged commerce and society 
 of large and opulent cities, or with the retired pleasures of 
 the country ? do we love stately palaces, and noble houses, 
 or take delight in pleasant groves and woods, or fruitful gar- 
 dens, which teach and instruct Nature to produce and bring 
 forth more fruits, and flowers, and plants, than her own store 
 can supply her with ? All this we owe to peace ; and the 
 dissolution of this peace disfigures all this beauty, and in a 
 short time covers and buries all this order and delight in ruin 
 and rubbish. 
 
 Finally, have we any content, satisfaction, and joy, in the 
 conversation of each other, in the knowledge and under- 
 standing of those arts and sciences, which more adorn man- 
 kind than all those buildings and plantations do the fields 
 and grounds on which they stand ? Even this is the bless- 
 ed effect and legacy of peace ; and war lays our natures and 
 manners as waste as our gardens and our habitations ; and 
 we can as easily preserve the beauty of the one, as the in- 
 tegrity of the other, under the jurisdiction of drums and 
 trumpets. 
 
 " If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably 
 with all men," was one of the primitive injunctions of Chris- 
 tianity, and comprehends not only particular and private men, 
 (though no doubt all gentle and peaceable natures are most 
 capable of Christian precepts, and most affected with them,) 
 but kings and princes themselves. St. Paul knew well, that 
 the peaceable inclinations and dispositions of subjects could 
 do little good, if the sovereign princes were disposed to war; 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 367 
 
 but if they desire to live peaceably with their neighbours, 
 their subjects cannot but be happy. 
 
 And the pleasure that God himself takes in that temper, 
 needs no other manifestation than the promise our Saviour 
 makes to those who contribute towards it, in his sermon upon 
 the mount : *' Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be 
 called the children of God." Peace must needs be very ac- 
 ceptable to him, when the instruments towards it are crown- 
 ed with such a full measure of blessing ; and it is no hard 
 matter to guess whose children they are, who take all the 
 pains they can to deprive the world of peace, and to subject 
 it to the rage, and fury, and desolation of war. 
 
 If we had not the woful experience of so many hundred 
 years, we should hardly think it possible, that men, who pre 
 tend to embrace the gospel of peace, should be so uncon- 
 cerned in the obligation and effects of it; and, when God 
 looks upon it as the greatest blessing he can pour down upon 
 the heads of those who please him best, and observe his com- 
 mands, " I will give peace in the land, and ye shall lie down, 
 and none shall make you afraid," that men study nothing 
 more than how to throw off and deprive themselves and 
 others of this his precious bounty ; as if we were void of 
 natural reason, as well as without the elements of religion : 
 for nature itself disposes us to a love of society, which can- 
 not be preserved without peace. 
 
 A whole city on fire is a spectacle full of horror, but a 
 whole kingdom on fire must be a prospect much more terri- 
 ble ; and such is every kingdom in war, where nothing flour- 
 ishes but rapine, blood, and murder, and the faces of all men 
 are pale and ghastly, out of the sense of what they have 
 done, or of what they have suffered, or are to endure. The 
 reverse of all this is peace, which in a moment extinguishes 
 all that fire, binds up all the wounds, and restores to all faces 
 their natural vivacity and beauty. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXIII. 
 
 The Reformation. — Milton. 
 
 To dwell no longer in characterizing the depravities of 
 the church, and how they sprung, and how they took in- 
 crease ; when I recall to mind at last, after so many dark 
 ages, wherein the huge overshadowing train of error had 
 almost swept all the stars out of the firmament of the church ; 
 how the bright and blissful reformation (by divine power) 
 
368 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 struck through the black and settled night of ignorance aiid 
 antichristian tyranny, — methinks a sovereign and reviving joy 
 must needs rush into the bosom of him that reads or hears ; 
 and the sweet odour of the returning gospel imbathe his soul 
 with the fragrancy of heaven. Then was the sacred Bible 
 sought out of the dusty corners where profane falsehood and 
 neglect had thrown it, the schools opened, divine and human 
 learning raked out of the embers of forgotten tongues, the 
 princes and cities trooping apace to the new-erected banner 
 of salvation ; the martyrs, with the unresistible might of 
 weakness, shaking the powers of darkness, and scorning the 
 fiery rage of the old red dragon. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXIV. 
 
 Interesting Notice of our Forefathers. — Ibid. 
 
 Amongst many secondary and accessary causes that sup- 
 port monarchy, these are not of least reckoning, though com- 
 mon to all other states ; the love of the subjects, the multi- 
 tude and valour of the people, and store of treasure. In all 
 these things hath the kingdom been of late sore weakened, 
 and chiefly by the prelates. First, let any man consider, 
 that if any prince shall suffer under him a commission of au- 
 thority to be exercised till all the land groan and cry out, as 
 against a whip of scorpions, whether this be not likely to 
 lessen and keel the affections of the subject. Next, what 
 numbers of faithful and freeborn Englishmen, and good 
 Christians, have been constrained to forsake their dearest 
 home, their friends and kindred, whom nothing but the wide 
 ocean, and the savage deserts of America, could hide and 
 shelter from the fury of the bishops ! 
 
 O, sir, if we could but see the shape of our dear mother 
 England, as poets are wont to give a personal form to what 
 they please, how would she appear, think ye, but in a 
 mourning weed, with ashes upon her head, and tears abun- 
 dantly flowing from her eyes, to behold so many of her chil- 
 dren exposed at once, and thrust from things of dearest ne- 
 cessity, because their conscience could not assent to things 
 which the bishops thought indifferent ! What more binding 
 than conscience ? What more free than indifferency ? Cruel, 
 then, must that indifferency needs be, that shall violate 
 the strict necessity of conscience ; merciless and inhuman 
 that free choice and liberty that shall break asunder the 
 bonds of religion ! 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 369 
 
 Let the astrologer be dismayed at the portentous blaze 
 of comets, and impressions in the air, as foretelling troubles 
 and changes to states : I shall believe there cannot be a 
 more ill-boding sign to a nation (God turn the omen from 
 us !) than when the inhabitants, to avoid insufferable griev- 
 ances at home, are enforced by heaps to forsake their native 
 country. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXV. 
 
 Truth and Falsehood disguised by the Passions. — Ibid. 
 
 Truth, I know not how, hath this unhappiness fatal to 
 her, ere she can come to the trial and inspection of the Un- 
 derstanding : being to pass through many little wards and 
 limits of the several Affections and Desires, she cannot shift 
 it, but must put on such colours and attire as those pathetic 
 handmaids of the Soul please to lead her in to their queen : 
 and, if she find so much favour with them, they let her pass 
 in her own likeness ; if not, they bring her into the presence 
 habited and coloured like a notorious Falsehood. 
 
 And, contrary, when any Falsehood comes that way, if 
 they like the errand she brings, they are so artful to counter- 
 feit the very shape and visage of Truth, that the Understand- 
 ing, not being able to discern the colouring which these en- 
 chantresses with such cunning have laid upon the feature, 
 sometimes of Truth, sometimes of Falsehood, interchangea- 
 bly, sentences, for the most part, one for the other at the first 
 blush, according to the subtle imposture of these sensual mis- 
 tresses, that keep the ports and passages between her and 
 the object. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXVI. 
 
 Milton's Account of his Blindness, in a Letter to Leonard Phi" 
 lara, the Athenian ; dated, Westminster, September 28, 
 1654.*-— Ibid. 
 
 I have always been devotedly attached to the literature 
 of Greece, and particularly to that of your Athens ; and have 
 never ceased to cherish the persuasion that that city would 
 one day make me ample recompense for the warmth of my 
 regard. The ancient genius of your renowned country has 
 
 * This letter is translated from the Latin, in Symmons' edition of Milton's Prose 
 Works. 
 
370 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 favoured the completion of my prophecy in presenting me 
 with your friendship and esteem. Though I was known to 
 you only by my writings, and we were removed to such a 
 distance from each other, you most courteously addressed 
 me by letter ; and when you unexpectedly came to London, 
 and saw me, who could no longer see, my affliction, which 
 causes none to regard me with greater admiration, and 
 perhaps many even with feelings of contempt, excited your 
 tenderest sympathy and concern. You would not suffer me 
 to abandon the hope of recovering my sight, and informed 
 me that you had an intimate friend at Paris, Doctor Theve- 
 not, who was particularly celebrated in disorders of the eyes, 
 whom you would consult about mine, if I would enable you 
 to lay before him the causes and the symptoms of the com- 
 plaint. I will do what you desire, lest I should seem to re- 
 ject that aid which, perhaps, may be offered me by Heaven. 
 It is now, I think, about ten years since I perceived my 
 vision to grow weak and dull. In the morning, if I began 
 to read, as was my custom, my eyes instantly ached intensely, 
 but were refreshed after a little corporeal exercise. The 
 candle which I looked at seemed as it were encircled with 
 a rainbow. Not long after, the sight in the left part of the 
 left eye (which I lost some years before the other) became 
 quite obscured, and prevented me from discerning any object 
 on that side. The sight in my other eye has now been grad- 
 ually and sensibly vanishing away for about three years ; 
 some months before it had entirely perished, though I stood 
 motionless, every thing which I looked at seemed in motion 
 to and fro. A stiff, cloudy vapour seemed to have settled 
 on my forehead and temples, which usually occasions a sort 
 of somnolent pressure upon my eyes, and particularly from 
 dinner till the evening ; so that I often recollect what is 
 said of the poet Phineas in the Argonautics : — 
 
 A stupor deep his cloudy temples bound, 
 
 And when he walked he seemed as whirling round, 
 
 Or in a feeble trance he speechless lay. 
 
 I ought not to omit that, while I had any sight left, as soon 
 as I lay down on my bed, and turned on either side, a flood 
 of light used to gush from my closed eyelids. Then, as my 
 sight became daily more impaired, the colours became more 
 faint, and were emitted with a certain inward, crackling 
 sound ; but at present every species of illumination being, as 
 it were, extinguished, there is diffused around me nothing 
 but darkness, or darkness mingled and streaked with an 
 ashy brown. Yet the darkness, in which I am perpetually 
 immersed, seems always, both by night and day, to approach 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 371 
 
 nearer to white than black, and, when the eye is rolling in 
 its socket, it admits a little particle of light as through a 
 chink. 
 
 And, though your physician may kindle a small ray of 
 hope, yet I make up my mind to the malady as quite incura- 
 ble : and I often reflect, that, as the wise man admonishes, 
 days of darkness are destined to each of us; the darkness 
 whiih I experience, less oppressive than that of the tomb, 
 is, owing to the singular goodness of the Deity, passed amid 
 the pursuits of literature and the cheering salutations of 
 friendship. But if, as is written, man shall not live by bread 
 alone, but by every word that proceedeth from the mouth 
 of God, why may not any one acquiesce in the privation of 
 his sight, when God has so amply furnished his mind and 
 his conscience with eyes. While he so tenderly provides 
 for me, while he so graciously leads me by the hand, and 
 conducts me on the way, I will, since it is his pleasure, 
 rather rejoice than repine at being blind. And, my dear 
 Philara, whatever may be the event, I wish you adieu, with 
 no less courage and composure than if I had the eyes of 
 a lynx. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXVII. 
 
 Sonnet on his Blindness. — Ibid. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent, 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide ; 
 
 And that one talent, which is death to hide, 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest he, returning, chide ; 
 "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?" 
 I fondly ask : But Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
 
 Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve, who only stand and wait." 
 
372 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXVI. 
 
 Adam and Eve commanded by the Archangel Michael to leave 
 
 Paradise. — Ibid. 
 
 He ended ; and the archangel soon drew nigh, 
 Not in his shape celestial, but as man 
 Clad to meet man ; over his lucid arms 
 A military vest of purple flowed, 
 Livelier than Melibcean, or the grain 
 Of Sarra, worn by kings and heroes old 
 In time of truce; Iris had dipt the woof; 
 His starry helm, unbuckled, showed him prime 
 In manhood where youth ended ; by his side, 
 As in a glistering zodiac, hung the sword, 
 Satan's dire dread ; and in his hand the spear. 
 Adam bowed low ; he, kingly, from his state 
 Inclined not, but his coming thus declared : 
 
 " Adam, Heaven's high behest no preface needs : 
 Sufficient that thy prayers are heard ; and Death, 
 Then due by sentence when thou didst transgress, 
 Defeated of his seizure many days 
 Given thee of grace ; wherein thou may'st repent, 
 And one bad act with many deeds well done 
 May'st cover : well may then thy Lord, appeased, 
 Redeem thee quite from Death's rapacious claim ; 
 But longer in this Paradise to dwell 
 Permits not : to remove thee I am come, 
 And send thee from the garden forth to till 
 The ground whence thou wast taken, fitter soil." 
 
 He added not ; for Adam, at the news 
 Heart-struck, with chilling gripe of sorrow stood, 
 That all his senses bound ; Eve, who unseen 
 Yet all had heard, with audible lament 
 Discovered soon the place of her retire : 
 
 " O unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 
 Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave 
 Thee, native soil? these happy walks and shades, 
 Fit haunt of gods ? where I had hope to spend, 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
 That must be mortal to us both. O flowers, 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 
 Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 373 
 
 STour tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ? 
 Thee, lastly, nuptial bower ! by me adorned 
 With what to sight or smell was sweet ! from thee 
 How shall I part, and whither wander down 
 Into a lower world ; to this obscure 
 And wild ? How shall we breathe in other air 
 Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ?" 
 
 Whom thus the angel interrupted mild : 
 " Lament not, Eve, but patiently resign 
 What justly thou hast lost, nor set thy heart, 
 Thus over-fond, on that which is not thine : 
 Thy going is not lonely ; with thee goes 
 Thy husband ; him to follow thou art bound ; 
 Where he abides, think there thy native soil." 
 
 Adam, by this from the cold, sudden damp 
 Recovering, and his scattered spirits returned, 
 To Michael thus his humble words addressed : 
 
 " Celestial, whether among the thrones, or named 
 Of them the highest; for such of shape may seem 
 Prince above princes ! gently hast thou told 
 Thy message, which might else in telling wound, 
 And in performing end us ; what besides 
 Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair, 
 Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring, 
 Departure from this happy place, our sweet 
 Recess, and only consolation left 
 Familiar to our eyes ! all places else 
 Inhospitable appear, and desolate ; 
 Nor knowing us, nor known : and if, by prayer 
 Incessant, I could hope to change the will 
 Of Him who all things can, I would not cease 
 To weary him with my assiduous cries : 
 But prayer against his absolute decree 
 No more avails than breath against the wind, 
 Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth : 
 Therefore to his great bidding I submit. 
 This most afflicts me, that, departing hence, 
 As from his face I shall be hid, deprived 
 His blessed countenance : here I could frequent 
 With worship place by place where he vouchsafed 
 Presence Divine ; and to my sons relate, 
 ' On this mount he appeared ; under this tree 
 Stood visible ; among these pines his voice 
 I heard ; here with him at this fountain talked :' 
 So many grateful altars I would rear 
 Of grassy turf, and pile u t every stone 
 32 
 
374 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Of lustre from the brook, in memory 
 
 Or monument to ages ; and thereon 
 
 Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers : 
 
 In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
 
 His bright appearances, or foot-step trace ? 
 
 For though I fled him angry, yet, recalled 
 
 To life prolonged and promised race, I now 
 
 Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts 
 
 Of glory ; and far off his steps adore." 
 
 To whom thus Michael with regard benign : 
 " Adam, thou know'st heaven his, and all the earth ; 
 Not this rock only ; his Omnipresence fills 
 Land, sea, and air, and every kind that lives, 
 Fomented by his virtual power and warmed : 
 All the earth he gave thee to possess and rule — 
 No despicable gift ; surmise not then 
 His presence to these narrow bounds confined 
 Of Paradise, or Eden : this had been 
 Perhaps thy capital seat, from whence had spread 
 All generations ; and had hither come 
 From all the ends of the earth, to celebrate 
 And reverence thee, their great progenitor. 
 But this pre-eminence thou hast lost, brought down 
 To dwell on even ground now with thy sons : 
 Yet doubt not but in valley, and in plain, 
 God is, as here ; and will be found alike 
 Present ; and of his presence many a sign 
 Still following thee, still compassing thee round 
 With goodness and paternal love, his face 
 Express, and of his steps the track divine. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXIX. 
 Death of Samson. From " Samson Agonistes." — Ibid. 
 
 in Gaza. Manoah, the father of Samson, and Chorus are conversing 
 To them enter a Messenger. 
 
 'ess. whither shall I run, or which way fly 
 The sight of this so horrid spectacle, 
 Which erst my eyes beheld, and yet behold, 
 For dire imagination still pursues me ! 
 But providence or instinct of nature seems, 
 Or reason, though disturbed, and scarce consulted, 
 To have guided me aright, I know not how, 
 To thee first, reverend Manoah, and to these 
 My countrymen, whom here I knew remaining, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 375 
 
 As at some distance from the place of horror, 
 So in the sad event too much concerned. 
 
 Man. The accident was loud, and here before thee 
 With rueful cry, yet what it was we hear not ; 
 No preface needs, thou seest we long to know. 
 
 Mess. It would burst forth, but I recover breath 
 And sense distract, to know well what I utter. 
 
 Man. Tell us the sum, the circumstance defer. 
 
 Mess. Gaza yet stands, but all her sons are fallen, 
 All in a moment overwhelmed and fallen. 
 
 Man. Sad, but thou know'st to Israelites not saddest 
 The desolation of a hostile city. 
 
 Mess. Feed on that first : there may in grief be surfeit. 
 
 Man. Relate bv whom. 
 
 Mess. By Samson. 
 
 Man. That still lessens 
 
 The sorrow, and converts it nigh to joy. 
 
 Mess. Ah ! Manoah, I refrain too suddenly 
 To utter what will come at last too soon ; 
 Lett evil tidings, with too rude irruption 
 Hitting thy aged ear, should pierce too deep. 
 
 Man. Suspense in news is torture ; speak them out. 
 
 Mess. Take then the worst in brief — Samson is dead. 
 
 Man. The worst indeed ! 0, all my hopes defeated 
 To free him hence ! but death, who sets all free, 
 Hath paid his ransom now and full discharge. 
 What windy joy this day had 1 conceived 
 Hopeful of his delivery, which now proves 
 Abortive as the first-born bloom of spring 
 ^Nipt with the lagging rear of winter's frost ! 
 Yet, ere I give the reins to grief, say first, 
 How died he : death to life is crown or shame. 
 All by him fell, thou say'st : by whom fell he ? 
 What glorious hand gave Samson his death's wound ? 
 
 Mess. Un wounded of his enemies he fell. 
 
 Man. Wearied with slaughter then, or how ? explain. 
 
 Mess. By his own hands. 
 
 Man. Self-violence ? what cause 
 
 Brought him so soon at variance with himself 
 Among his foes ? 
 
 Mess. Inevitable cause, 
 
 At once both to destroy, and be destroyed ; 
 The edifice, where all were met to see him, 
 Upon their heads and on his own he pulled. 
 
 Man. O lastly over-strong against thyself ! 
 A dreadful way thou took'st to thy revenge. 
 
376 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 More than enough we know : but while things yet 
 Are in confusion, give us, if thou canst, 
 Eye-witness of what first or last was done, 
 Relation more particular and distinct. 
 
 Mess. Occasions drew me early to this city ; 
 And, as the gates I entered with sunrise, 
 The morning trumpets festival proclaimed 
 Through each high street : little I had despatched, 
 When all abroad was rumoured that this day 
 Samson should be brought forth, to show the people 
 Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games ; 
 I sorrowed at his captive state, but minded 
 Not to be absent at that spectacle. 
 
 The building was a spacious theatre 
 Half-round, on two main pillars vaulted high, 
 With seats, where all the lords, and each degree 
 Of sort, might sit in order to behold ; 
 The other side was open, where the throng 
 On banks and scaffolds under sky might stand ; 
 I among these, aloof, obscurely stood. 
 
 The feast and noon grew high, and sacrifice 
 Had filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine, 
 When to their sports they turned. Immediately 
 Was Samson as a public servant brought, 
 In their state livery clad ; before him pipes 
 And timbrels, on each side went armed guards, 
 Both horse and foot, before him and behind 
 Archers and slingers, cataphracts* and spears. 
 At sight of him the people with a shout 
 Rifted the air, clamouring their God with praise, 
 Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall. 
 He, patient, but undaunted, where they led him, 
 Came to the place ; and what was set before him, 
 Which without help of eye might be assayed, 
 To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed 
 All with incredible, stupendous force ; 
 None daring to appear antagonist. 
 
 At length, for intermission's sake, they led him 
 Between the pillars ; he his guide requested, 
 (For so from such as nearer stood we heard,) 
 As over-tired, to let him lean awhile 
 With both his arms on those two massy pillars, 
 That to the arched roof gave main support. 
 He, unsuspicious, led him ; which when Samson 
 
 * Men and horses both in armour. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 377 
 
 Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined, 
 And eyes fast fixed he stood, as one who prayed, 
 Or some great matter in his mind revolved : 
 At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud ; 
 "Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed 
 I have performed, as reason was, obeying, 
 Not without wonder or delight beheld : 
 Now, of my own accord, such other trial 
 I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater, 
 As with amaze shall strike all who behold." 
 
 This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed ; 
 As with the force of winds and waters pent, 
 When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars 
 With horrible convulsion to and fro 
 He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew 
 The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder, 
 Upon the heads of all who sat beneath, 
 Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests, 
 Their choice nobility and flower, not only 
 Of this but each Philistian city round, 
 Met from all parts to solemnize this feast. 
 Samson, with these immixed, inevitably 
 Pulled down the same destruction on himself; 
 The vulgar only 'scaped who stood without. 
 
 Chor. dearly-bought revenge, yet glorious ! 
 Living or dying thou hast fulfilled 
 The work for which thou wast foretold 
 To Israel, and now li'st victorious 
 Among thy slain, self-killed, 
 Not willingly, but tangled in the fold 
 Of dire necessity, whose law in death conjoined 
 Thee with thy slaughtered foes, in number more 
 Than all thy life hath slain before. 
 
 LESSON CXC. 
 
 Death active at all Seasons. — Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 Nature hath given us one harvest every year, but death 
 hath two : and the spring and the autumn send throngs of 
 men and women to charnel-houses; and all the summer 
 long men are recovering from their evils of the spring, till 
 the dog-days come, and then the Syrian star makes the sum- 
 mer deadly ; and the fruits of autumn are laid up for all the 
 year's provision, and the man that gathers them eats and 
 surfeits, and dies and needs them not, and himself is laid up 
 32* 
 
378 THE CLASSICAL READEB. 
 
 for eternity ; and he that escapes till winter only stays foi 
 another opportunity, which the distempers of that quarter 
 minister to him with great variety. 
 
 Thus death reigns in all the portions of our time. The 
 autumn with its fruits provides disorders for us, and the 
 winter's cold turns them into sharp diseases, and the spring 
 brings flowers to strew our hearse, and the summer gives 
 green turf and brambles to bind upon our graves. Calen- 
 tures and surfeit, cold and agues, are the four quarters of the 
 year, and all minister to death ; and you can go no whither 
 but you tread upon a dead man's bones. 
 
 LESSON CXCI. 
 
 Life long enough for the Attainment of Virtue. — Ibid. 
 
 If we would have our life lengthened, let us begin betimes 
 to live in the accounts of reason and sober counsels, of re- 
 ligion and the spirit, and then we shall have no reason to 
 complain that our abode on earth is so short : many men find 
 it long enough, and indeed it is so to all senses. But when 
 we spend in waste what God hath given us in plenty ; when 
 we sacrifice our youth to folly, our manhood to base de- 
 sire, and rage, our old age to covetousness and irreligion, 
 not beginning to live till we are to die, designing that time 
 to virtue which, indeed, is infirm to every thing and prof- 
 itable to nothing ; then we make our lives short, and appe- 
 tite runs away with all the vigorous and healthful part of it, 
 and pride and animosity steal the manly portion, and crafti- 
 ness and interest possess old age. We spend as if we had 
 too much time, and knew not what to do with it; we fear 
 every thing, like weak and silly mortals ; and desire strange- 
 ly, and greedily, as if we were immortal : we complain our 
 life is short, and yet we throw away much of it, and are 
 weary of many of its parts : we complain the day is long, 
 and the night is long, and we want company, and seek out 
 arts to drive the time away ; and then weep because it is 
 gone too soon. 
 
 But so the treasure of the capitol is but a small estate 
 when Csesar comes to finger it, and to pay with it all his le- 
 gions ; and the revenue of all Egypt and the eastern prov- 
 inces was but a little sum, when they were to support the 
 luxury of Mark Antony, and feed the riot of Cleopatra. 
 But a thousand crowns is a vast proportion to be spent in the 
 cottage of a frugal person, or to feed a hermit. Just so is 
 our life : it is too short to serve the ambition of a haughty 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 379 
 
 prince, or an usurping rebel; too little time to purchase 
 great wealth, to satisfy the pride of a vain-glorious fool, to 
 trample upon all the enemies of our just or unjust interest : 
 but for the obtaining virtue, for the purchase of sobriety and 
 modesty, for the actions of religion, God gave us time suffi- 
 cient. 
 
 LESSON CXCII. 
 On Prayer. — Ibid. 
 
 Prayer is the peace of the spirit, the stillness of our 
 thoughts, the evenness of recollection, the seat of meditation, 
 the rest of our cares, and the calm of our tempest. Prayer 
 is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts ; it is 
 the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness ; and he 
 that prays to God with an angry, that is, with a troubled and 
 discomposed spirit, is like him that retires into a battle to 
 meditate, and sets up his closet in the outer quarters of an 
 army, and chooses a frontier garrison to be wise in. Anger 
 is a perfect alienation of the mind from prayer, and, there- 
 fore, is contrary to that attention, which presents our prayers 
 in a right line to God. For so have I seen a lark rising from 
 his bed of grass, and soaring upwards, singing as he rises, 
 and hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds ; 
 but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of 
 an eastern wind, and his motion made irregular and incon- 
 stant, descending more, at every breath of the tempest, than 
 it could recover by the libration and frequent weighings of 
 his wings ; till the little creature was forced to sit down and 
 pant, and stay till the storm was over ; and then it made a 
 prosperous flight, and did rise and sing, as if it had learned 
 music and motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes 
 through the air about his ministeries here below. 
 
 So is the prayer of a good man ; w r hen his affairs have 
 required business, and his business was matter of discipline ; 
 and his discipline was to pass upon a sinning person, or had 
 a design of charity, his duty met with infirmities of a man, 
 and anger was its instrument, and the instrument became 
 stronger than the prime agent, and raised a tempest, and 
 overruled the man; and then his prayer was broken, and 
 his thoughts were troubled, and his words went up towards 
 a cloud, and his thoughts pulled them back again, and made 
 them without intention ; and the good man sighs for his 
 infirmity, but must be content to lose the prayer ; and he 
 must recover it when his anger is removed, and his spirit 
 
380 
 
 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 is becalmed ; and then it ascends to heaven upon the wings 
 of the holy dove, and dwells with God, till it returns, like 
 the useful bee, loaden with a blessing and the dew of heaven. 
 
 -*»! 
 
 LESSON CXCIII. 
 Scene from " As you like it." — Shakspeare. 
 
 The Forest of Arden. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and other Lorcis in the 
 
 dress of Foresters. 
 
 Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile, 
 Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
 Than that of painted pomp ? are not these woods 
 More free from peril than the envious court ? 
 Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, 
 The seasons' difference ; as the icy fang, 
 And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; 
 Which when it bites, and blows upon my body, 
 Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — 
 This is no flattery : these are counsellors 
 That feelingly persuade me what I am. 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 
 And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 
 
 Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your grace 
 That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 
 
 Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
 And yet it urks me, the poor, dappled fools — 
 Being native burghers of this desert city — 
 Should, in their own confines, with forked heads 
 Have their round haunches gored. 
 
 1 Lord. Indeed, my lord, 
 
 The melancholy Jaques grieves at that ; 
 And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
 Than doth your brother that hath banished you. 
 To-day, my lord ot Amiens and nryself 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood : 
 To the which place a poor sequestered stag, 
 That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 381 
 
 The wretched animal heaved forth such groans, 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting ; and the big, round tears 
 Coursed one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool, 
 Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears. 
 
 Duke S. But what said Jaques ? 
 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 
 
 1 Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. 
 First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; 
 
 " Poor deer,'* quoth he, " thou mak'st a testament 
 
 As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
 
 To that which had too much." Then, being alone, 
 
 Left and abandoned of his velvet friends ; 
 
 " 'Tis right," quoth he ; " this misery doth part 
 
 The flux of company." Anon, a careless herd, 
 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 
 
 And never stays to greet him. " Ay," quoth Jaques, 
 
 " Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; 
 
 'Tis just the fashion : wherefore do you look 
 
 Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?" 
 
 Thus most invectively he pierced through 
 
 The body of the country, city, court, 
 
 Yea, and of this our life : swearing that we 
 
 Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, 
 
 To fright the animals, and to kill them up, 
 
 In their assigned and native dwelling place. 
 
 Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation ? 
 
 2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting 
 Upon the sobbing deer. 
 
 Duke S. Show me the place ; 
 
 I love to cope* him in these sullen fits, 
 For then he's full of matter. 
 
 2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. 
 
 LESSON CXCIV. 
 Orlando and Jaques ; from the same Play. — Ibid. 
 
 Jaq. I thank you for your company ; but, good faith, I 
 had as lief have been myself alone. 
 
 Orla. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank 
 you, too, for your society. 
 
 * Encounter. 
 
382 
 
 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 ■i 
 
 Jaq. God be with you ; let's meet as little as we can. 
 
 Orla. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
 
 Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love- 
 songs in their barks. 
 
 Orla. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading 
 them ill-favouredly. 
 
 Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name ? 
 
 Orla. Yes, just. 
 
 Jaq. I do not like her name. 
 
 Orla. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she 
 was christened. 
 
 Jaq. What stature is she of ? 
 
 Orla. Just as high as my heart. 
 
 Jaq. You are full of pretty answers : have you not been 
 acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of 
 rings ? 
 
 Orla. Not so ; but I answer you right painted cloth, from 
 whence you have studied your questions. 
 
 Jaq. You have a nimble wit; I think it was made of 
 Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me-? and we two 
 will rail against our mistress, the world, and all our misery. 
 
 Orla. I will chide no breather in the world but myself; 
 against whom I know most faults. 
 
 Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in love. 
 
 Orla. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. 
 I am weary of you. 
 
 Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when I found 
 you. 
 
 Orla. He is drowned in the brook ; look but in, and you 
 shall see him. 
 
 Jaq. There shall I see mine own figure. 
 
 Orla. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. 
 
 Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you ; farewell, good Sign- 
 ior* Love. [Exit Jaq. 
 
 Orla. I am glatk of your departure; adieu, good Mon- 
 sieur^ Melancholy. 
 
 LESSON CXCV. 
 
 Meditation of Henry VI. at the Battle of Towton. — Ibid. 
 
 K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war, 
 When dying clouds contend with growing light ; 
 
 * Pron. Senior. 
 
 t Pron. Mo-cieu, as near as it can be expressed by English letters. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 388 
 
 What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, 
 Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. 
 Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, 
 Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; 
 Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea 
 Forced to retire, by fury of the wind : 
 Sometime, the flood prevails ; and then, the wind ; 
 Now, one the better ; then, another best ; 
 Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, 
 Yet neither conqueror nor conquered : 
 So is the equal poise of this fell war. 
 
 Here on this mole-hill will I sit me down. 
 To whom God will, there be the victory ! 
 For Margaret, my queen, and Clifford too, 
 Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both, 
 They prosper best of all when I am thence. 
 Would I were dead ! if God's good will were so : 
 For what is in this world but grief and wo ? 
 
 God ! methinks it were a happy life, 
 To be no better than a homely swain ; 
 To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 
 To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, 
 Thereby to see the minutes how they run; 
 How many make the hour full complete ; 
 How many hours bring about the day ; 
 How many days will finish up the year ; 
 How many years a mortal man may live. 
 When this is known, then to divide the times : 
 So many hours must I tend my flock ; 
 So many hours must I take my rest; 
 So many hours must I contemplate ; 
 So many hours must I sport myself ; 
 So many days my ewes have been with young , 
 So many w^eeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 
 So many years ere I shall shear the fleece : 
 So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, 
 Passed over to the end they were created, 
 Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 
 
 Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! 
 Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade 
 To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, 
 Than doth a rich, embroidered canopy 
 To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery ? 
 O, yes, it doth ; a thousand fold it doth. 
 And, to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds, 
 His cold, thin drink, out of his leather bottle, 
 
384 THE CLASSICAL ftEADEH. 
 
 His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, 
 
 All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 
 
 Is far beyond a prince's delicates, 
 
 His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 
 
 His body couched in a curious bed, 
 
 When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. 
 
 LESSON CXCVI. 
 
 Reflections of Cardinal Wolsey, after his Fall from the Favour 
 
 of Henry VIII. — Ibid. 
 
 Wol. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
 This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
 And — when he thinks, good, easy man, full surelv. 
 His greatness is a ripening — nips his root, 
 And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
 Like little, wanton boys, that swim on bladders, 
 These many summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
 At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
 Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ! 
 I feel my heart new opened : 0, how wretched 
 Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours ! 
 There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
 More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again. — 
 
 Enter Cromwell amazedly. 
 
 Why, how now, Cromwell ? 
 
 Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 
 
 Wol. What, amazed 
 
 At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder, 
 A great man should decline ? Nay, an* you weep, 
 I am fallen indeed. 
 
 Crom. How does your grace ? 
 
 Wol. Why, well ; 
 
 Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
 I know myself now, and I feel within me 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 385 
 
 A peace above all. earthly dignities, — 
 
 A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 
 
 I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, 
 
 These ruined pillars, out of pity taken 
 
 A load would sink a navy, too much honour; 
 
 0, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden, 
 
 Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven 
 
 Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. 
 
 Wol. I hope I have ; I am able now, methinks r 
 (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) 
 T' endure more miseries, and greater far, 
 Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
 What news abroad ? 
 
 Crom. The heaviest, and the worst, 
 
 Is your displeasure* with the king. 
 
 Wol. God bless him ! 
 
 Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
 lord chancellor in your place. 
 
 Wol. That's somewhat sudden : 
 
 But he's a learned man. May he continue 
 Long in his highness' favour, and do justice 
 For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 
 When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 
 May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! 
 What more ? 
 
 Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome, 
 Installed lord archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 Wol. That's news indeed ! 
 
 Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, 
 Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
 This day was viewed in open,| as his queen, 
 Going to chapel ; and the voice is now 
 Only about her coronation. 
 
 Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down. 
 Cromwell, 
 The king has gone beyond me : all my glories 
 In that one woman I have lost for ever : 
 No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, 
 Or guild again the noble troops that waited 
 Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ; 
 I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
 To be thy lord and master. Seek the king ; 
 That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him 
 What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee ; 
 
 * Used here in the signification of disgrace. + In public. 
 
 33 
 
386 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Some, little memory of me will stir him 
 
 (I know his noble nature) not to let 
 
 Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, 
 
 Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide 
 
 For thine own future safety. 
 
 Crom. 0, my lord, 
 
 Must I then leave you ? must I needs forego 
 So good, so noble, and so true a master ? 
 Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
 With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. — 
 The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
 For ever, and for ever, shall be yours. 
 
 Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
 Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
 And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee ; 
 Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 
 By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ? 
 Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee , 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not ; 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
 Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, Cromwell. 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; — 
 And, — pr'ythee, lead me in : 
 There, take an inventory of all I have, 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
 And my integrity to Heaven, is all 
 I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 I served my king, he would not, in mine age, 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 Crom. Good sir, have patience. 
 
 Wol. So I have. Farewell ' 
 
 The hopes of court ? my hopes in heaven do dwell. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 387 
 
 LESSON CXCVII. 
 
 Death and Character of Cardinal Wblsey. — Ibid. 
 Queen Katharine and Griffith. 
 
 Kath. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me, 
 That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, 
 Was dead ? 
 
 Grif. Yes, madam ; but, I think, your grace, 
 Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to't. 
 
 Kath. Pr'ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died • 
 If well, he stepped before me, happily, 
 For my example. 
 
 Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam : 
 
 For after the stout Earl Northumberland 
 Arrested him at York, and brought him forward 
 (As a man sorely tainted) to his answer, 
 He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill, 
 He could not sit his mule. 
 
 Kath. Alas ! poor man ! 
 
 Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, 
 Lodged in the abbey ; where the reverend abbot, 
 With all his convent, honourably received him ; 
 To whom he gave these words, — " O, father abbot, 
 An old man, broken with the storms of state, 
 Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ; 
 Give him a little earth for charity !" 
 So went to bed ; where eagerly his sickness 
 Pursued him still ; and, three nights after this, 
 About the hour of eight, (which he himself 
 Foretold should be his last,) full of repentance, 
 Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, 
 He gave his honours to the world again, 
 His blessed part to Heaven, and slept in peace. 
 
 Kath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him ' 
 Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, 
 And yet with charity. — He was a man 
 Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking 
 Himself with princes ; one, that by suggestion 
 Tied all the kingdom : simony was fair play ; 
 His own opinion was his law : I' the presence 
 He would say untruths ; and be ever double, 
 Both in his words and meaning. He was never, 
 But where he meant to ruin, pitiful : 
 His promises were, as he then was, mighty ; 
 
388 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 But his performance, as he is now, nothing. 
 Of his own body he was ill, and gave 
 The clergy ill example. 
 
 Grif, Noble madam, 
 
 Men's evil manners live in brass ; their virtues 
 We write in water. May it please your highness 
 To hear me speak his good now ? 
 
 Kath. Yes, good Griffith ; 
 
 I were malicious else. 
 
 Grif. This cardinal, 
 
 Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
 Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle 
 He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; 
 Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading : 
 Lofty, and sour, to them that loved him not ; 
 But. to those men that sought him, sweet as summer ; 
 And, though he were unsatisfied in getting, 
 (Which was a sin,) yet, in bestowing, madam, 
 He was most princely. Ever witness for him 
 Those twins of learning, that he raised in ycu, 
 Ipswich and Oxford ! one of which fell with him, 
 Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ; 
 The other, though unfinished, yet so famous, 
 So excellent in art, and still so rising, 
 That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 
 His overthrow heaped happiness upon him ; 
 For then, and not till then, he felt himself, 
 And found the blessedness of being little ; 
 And, to add greater honours to his age 
 Than man could give him, he died fearing God. 
 
 Kath. After my death I wish no other herald, 
 No other speaker of my living actions, 
 To keep mine honour from corruption, 
 But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. 
 Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, 
 With thy religious truth and modesty, 
 Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him ! 
 
 LESSON CXCVII1. 
 
 Of Discourse. — Lord Bacon. 
 
 Some, in their discourse, desire rather commendation of 
 wit, in being able to hold all arguments, than of judgment, 
 in discerning what is true ; as if it were a praise to know 
 what might be said, and not what should be thought. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER 389 
 
 Some have certain common-places and themes, wherein 
 they are good, and want variety ; which kind of poverty is 
 for the most part tedious, and, when it is once perceived, 
 ridiculous. The honourablest part of talk is to give the oc- 
 casion ; and again to moderate and pass to somewhat else, 
 for then a man leads the dance. 
 
 It is good in discourse, and speech of conversation, to vary 
 and intermingle speech of the present occasion with argu- 
 ments, tales with reasons, asking of questions with telling of 
 opinions, and jest with earnest : for it is a dull thing to tire, 
 and, as we say now, to jade any thing too far. 
 
 As for jest, there be certain things which ought to be priv- 
 ileged from it ; namely, religion, matters of state, great per- 
 sons, any man's present business of importance, and any case 
 that deserveth pity ; yet there be some that think their wits 
 have been asleep, except they dart out somewhat that is 
 piquant, and to the quick : that is a vein which would be 
 bridled. And, generally, men ought to find the difference 
 between saltness and bitterness. Certainly he that hath a 
 satirical vein, as he maketh others afraid of his wit, so he 
 had need be afraid of others' memory. 
 
 He that questioneth much shall learn much, and content 
 much ; but especially if he apply his questions to the skill 
 of the persons whom he asketh ; for he shall give them oc- 
 casion to please themselves in speaking, and himself shall 
 continually gather knowledge ; but let his questions not be 
 troublesome, for that is fit for a poser ; and let him be sure 
 to leave other men their turns to speak ; nay, if there be 
 any that would reign, and take up all the time, let him find 
 means to take them off, and bring others on ; as musicians 
 use to do with those that dance too long galliards. 
 
 If you dissemble, sometimes, your knowledge of that you 
 are thought to know, you shall be thought, another time, to 
 know that you know not. 
 
 Speech of a man's self ought to be seldom, and well cho- 
 sen. I knew one was wont to say in scorn, " He must 
 needs be a wise man, he speaks so much of himself:" and 
 there is but one case wherein a man may commend himself 
 with good grace, and that is in commending virtue in anoth- 
 er, especially if it be such a virtue whereunto himself pre- 
 tendeth. 
 
 Speech of touch towards others should be sparingly used ; 
 for discourse ought to be as a field, without coming home 
 to any man. I knew two noblemen, of the west part of 
 England, whereof the one was given to scoff, but kept ever 
 royal cheer in his house ; the other would ask of those that 
 33* 
 
390 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 had been at the other's table, " Tell truly, was there never 
 a flout or dry blow given ?" to which the guest would 
 answer, " Such and such a thing passed." The lord would 
 say, " I thought he would mar a good dinner." Discretion 
 of speech is more than eloquence ; and to speak agreeably 
 to him with whom we deal, is more than to speak in good 
 words, or in good order. 
 
 A good continued speech, without a good speech of in- 
 terlocution, shows slowness ; and a good reply, or second 
 speech, without a good settled speech, sheweth shallowness 
 and weakness. As we see in beasts, that those that are 
 weakest in the course, are yet the nimblest in the turn ; as 
 it is betwixt the greyhound and the hare. 
 
 To use too many circumstances, ere one come to the 
 matter, is wearisome ; to use none at all is blunt. 
 
 LESSON CXCIX. 
 Of Studies. — Ibid. 
 
 Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. 
 Their chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring ; 
 for ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judg- 
 ment and disposition of business ; for expert men can exe- 
 cute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one: but the 
 general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, 
 come best from those that are learned. 
 
 To spend too much time in studies, is sloth ; to use them 
 too much, for ornament, is affectation ; to make judgment 
 wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar : they per- 
 fect nature, and are perfected by experience ; for natural 
 abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; 
 and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at 
 large, except they be bounded in by experience. 
 
 Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, 
 and wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; 
 but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by 
 observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to be- 
 lieve and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, 
 but to weigh and consider. 
 
 Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and 
 some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books 
 are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not cu- 
 riously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence 
 and attention. Some books also maybe read by deputy, and 
 extracts made of them by others ; but that would be only in 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 391 
 
 the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books ; 
 else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy 
 things. 
 
 Reading maketh a full man ; conference a ready man ; 
 and writing ah exact man ; and, therefore, if a man write 
 little, he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, 
 he had need have a present wit ; and if he read little, he 
 had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he 
 doth not. 
 
 LESSON CC. 
 The Happy Man. — Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 How happy is he born or taught, 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 
 Whose armour is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his highest skill : 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are ; 
 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
 Not tied unto the world with care 
 
 Of princes' ear, or vulgar breath : 
 
 Who hath his life from rumours freed ; 
 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great : 
 
 Who envies none, whom chance doth raise, 
 Or vice : who never understood 
 
 How deepest wounds are given with praise ; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray, 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a well-chosen book or friend. 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands 
 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands J 
 
 And, having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
392 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CCI. 
 
 Description of the Bower of Bliss. — Spenser. 
 
 Thus being entered, they behold around, 
 A large and spacious plain, on every side 
 Strewed with pleasances ;* whose fair, grassy ground, 
 Mantled with green, and goodly beautified 
 With all the ornaments of Flora's pride, 
 Wherewith her mother Art, as half in scorn 
 Of niggard Nature, like a pompous bride, 
 Did deck her, and too lavishly adorn, 
 When forth from virgin bower she comes in th' early morn. 
 
 There to the heavens, always jovial, 
 
 Looked on them lovely still, in steadfast state, 
 
 Nor suffered storm nor frost on them to fall, 
 
 Their tender buds or leaves to violate : 
 
 Nor scorching heat, nor cold intemperate, 
 
 T' afflict the creatures which therein did dwell ; 
 
 But the mild air, with season moderate, 
 
 Gently attempered, and disposed so well, 
 
 That still it breathed forth sweet spirit and wholesome smell. 
 
 Much wondered Guyon at the fair aspect 
 
 Of that sweet place, yet suffered no delight 
 
 To sink into his sense, nor mind affect; 
 
 But passed forth, and looked still forward right, 
 
 Bridling his will, and mastering his might, 
 
 Till that he came unto another gate ; 
 
 No gate, but like one, being goodly dightf 
 
 With boughs and branches, which did broad dilate 
 
 Their clasping arms, in wanton wreathings intricate. 
 
 So fashioned a porch with rare device, 
 Arched overhead with an embracing vine, 
 Whose bunches hanging down seemed to entice 
 All passers by to taste their luscious wine, 
 And did themselves into their hands incline, 
 As freely offering to be gathered ; 
 Some deep empurpled as the hyacine, 
 Some as the rubies, laughing sweetly red, 
 Some like fair emeralds not yet well ripened. 
 
 There the most dainty paradise on ground 
 Itself doth offer to his sober eye, 
 In which all pleasures plenteously abound, 
 And none does others' happiness envy ; 
 
 * Delights. | Decked. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 393 
 
 The painted flowers, the trees upshooting high ; 
 The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space ; 
 The trembling groves, the crystal running by ; 
 And that which all fair works doth most aggrace, 
 The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place. 
 
 One would have thought, (so cunningly the rude 
 And scorned parts were mingled with the fine,) 
 That Nature had for wantonness ensued 
 Art, and that Art at Nature did repine ; 
 So, striving each th' other to undermine, 
 Each did the other's work more beautify, 
 So differing both in wills agreed in fine : 
 So all agreed, through sweet diversity, 
 This garden to adorn with all variety. 
 
 And in the midst of all a fountain stood, 
 
 Of richest substance that on earth might be, 
 
 So pure and shiny, that the silver flood 
 
 Through every channel running one might see : 
 
 Most goodly it with curious imagery 
 
 Was over-wrought, and shapes of laughing boys, 
 
 Of which some seemed, with lively jollity, 
 
 To fly about, playing their wanton toys, 
 
 Whilst others did themselves embay in liquid joys. 
 
 Infinite streams continually did well 
 
 Out of this fountain, sweet and fair to see, 
 
 The which into an ample laver fell, 
 
 And shortly grew to so great quantity, 
 
 That like a little lake it seemed to be, 
 
 Whose depth exceeded not three cubits height, 
 
 That through the waves one might the bottom see, 
 
 All paved beneath with jasper, shining bright, 
 
 That seemed the fountain in that sea did sail upright. 
 
 Eftsoons* they heard a most melodious sound, 
 Of all that might delight a dainty ear, 
 Such as at once might not on living ground, 
 Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere : 
 Right hard it was for wight which did it hear 
 To read what manner music* that might be ; 
 For all that pleasing is to living ear, 
 Was there consorted in one harmony ; 
 Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree. 
 
 * Soon. f To tell what kind of music. 
 

 394 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, 
 Their notes unto the voice attempered sweet ; 
 Th' angelical, soft, trembling voices made 
 To th' instruments divine respondence meet ; 
 The silver-sounding instruments did meet 
 With the base murmur of the water's fall ; 
 The water's fall, with difference discreet, 
 Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; 
 The gently-warbling wind low answered to all. 
 
 LESSON ecu. 
 
 On Duelling. — Watts. 
 
 The wicked pride of duelling, when men stab and shoot 
 each other by contract and consent, has much of the guilt of 
 self-murder belonging to it. 
 
 Is it not a strange madness for men to challenge one an- 
 other to give or receive present death for a little common 
 affront, and to resolve to kill or be killed for a trifling pique 
 of honour ? If professed gamesters will quarrel about the 
 cast of a die, and resolve to decide their quarrel by the 
 sword or pistol, let them go on to die like atheists as they 
 live ; let them be convinced of their madness at the great 
 tribunal of God, who would hearken to no conviction from 
 men ; they deserve to feel the terrors of that awful Being 
 in the other world, whom they renounced in this. 
 
 How is it possible these combatants can excuse them- 
 selves from the guilt of wilful murder in the sight of God ? 
 Do they not go into the field to meet a wilful death, or to 
 give it ? Do they not freely expose their breasts to each 
 other's murdering weapons, and mutually yield up their lives 
 either to the more happy or the more skilful push of the 
 sword ? Doth not one of them frequently fall ? And some- 
 times both of them are wounded mortally. And, whichso- 
 ever of them is slain, it is evident that each of them, in the 
 sight of God, is guilty, at least intentionally, of a double 
 murder. Each duellist offers up his own life to the other's 
 weapon of destruction, and invites his neighbour to slay him, 
 while each endeavours to slay his neighbour. Here is in- 
 tended murder on both sides ; and the Lord will bring upon 
 them both the day of vengeance, and, destroy them with a double 
 destruction. " Their own and their brother's blood should be 
 dreadfully required at the hand of both of them, by that God 
 who is the avenger of murder." 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 395 
 
 " It is a great pity," saith Mr. Collier, " that men who 
 have such opportunities for sense, should be entangled in so 
 monstrous an absurdity ! that those who might be the 
 ornament of their age, and defence of their country, should 
 make themselves a misfortune to both. Perhaps the danger 
 of the adventure may make them think it honourable ; but 
 to risk the main, that is, the concerns of life and eternity, 
 without reason or warrant, is mere rashness ; it is to be more 
 stupid than brave. If a man should leap from a garret, 01 
 vault down a monument, do you imagine he would leave the 
 memory of a hero behind him ? Religion will not endure the 
 duelling principle, any more than all the heresies since Simon 
 Magus. It is a principle so full of pride, and passion, and 
 revenge ; so tempestuous and absurd ; so absolutely un allied 
 to reason and good nature, that polished heathenism would 
 be ashamed of it. In a word, it is as contrary to the ten- 
 dency and temper of Christianity, as Hobbes' creed is to the 
 apostles', as light is to darkness." 
 
 LESSON CCIII. 
 
 Diogenes at the Isthmian Games. — Wakefield's Dio Chrys- 
 
 ostom.* 
 
 The cynic philosopher, Diogenes, observing a person 
 stalking from the Stadium, in the midst of so immense a 
 multitude, as sometimes not even to touch the ground, but 
 to be borne aloft by the concourse round him; some follow- 
 ing close upon him with loud exclamations ; others leaping 
 with exultation, and raising their hands to heaven ; others 
 again throwing garlands and fillets at the man — as soon as 
 he was able to approach, inquired, what this tumultuous 
 assemblage of people was doing, and what had happened. 
 The man replied, I have gained the victory, Diogenes^ over 
 the runners in the Stadium ! 
 
 What is the nature of this victory? said he. Your under- 
 standing, I presume, has acquired not even the slenderest 
 improvements from your superiority of speed over your com- 
 petitors ; nor are you become more temperate and continent 
 than before, nor less timorous, nor less a prey to melancholy; 
 nor, peradventure, will you live henceforward with more 
 moderate desires, or under greater freedom from uneasiness 
 and vexation of spirit. 
 
 * Chrys'-os-tom. This is not the Christian preacher, but a heathen writer, who 
 flourished in the first century of the Christian era. 
 
396 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 Be that as it may, the man rejoins, I excel all the other 
 Greeks in the swiftness of my feet. — But, said Diogenes, you 
 are not swifter than the hares, nor the stags , and yet these 
 creatures, though the swiftest of all others, are, at the same 
 time, the most timorous, afraid both of men, and birds of prey, 
 and of dogs ; so as to lead a life of uninterrupted misery. 
 Indeed, you must be aware, are you not ? that speed is, in 
 reality, a symptom of timidity ; for the most timid animals 
 are also invariably the swiftest. In conformity with this 
 dispensation of nature, Hercules was slower of foot than 
 most men ; and, from his consequent inability of laying hold 
 on his antagonist by speed, was accustomed to carry a bow 
 and arrows, and thus arrest a flying adversary with his 
 weapons. 
 
 Yes, said the man ; but the poet tells us how Achilles, the 
 swift-footed, was a warrior likewise of incomparable fortitude. 
 And whence, replied Diogenes, can we infer the celerity ot 
 Achilles ? for we find him incapable of overtaking Hector, 
 after a pursuit of an entire day. However, are you not 
 ashamed of priding yourself on that property, in which you 
 must acknowledge your inferiority to the meanest animals ? 
 Nay, I suppose that you would not be able to outstrip even 
 a fox in speed. But, after all, at what a distance did you leave 
 your competitors behind ? 
 
 A very small distance, Diogenes ; and this very circum- 
 stance makes my victory so admirably glorious. It seems, 
 then, said Diogenes, that your triumph and felicity depend- 
 ed on a single step. — No wonder : we were all the fleetest 
 runners imaginable. — By how great an interval do you think 
 a lark would have gone over the Stadium before you all ? — 
 But they have wings, and fly. Well, replies Diogenes, 
 if swiftness then be a proof of excellence, it were better to 
 be a lark than a man ; so that our commiseration for larks 
 and lapwings, because they were metamorphosed from men 
 into birds, as mythologists inform us, is unseasonable and un 
 necessary. 
 
 But I, said the victorious racer, who am a man myself, 
 am the swiftest of mankind. Yes, replied Diogenes ; and 
 is it not probable, that, among ants also, one is swifter than 
 another ? Yet, are the ants objects of admiration to their 
 fellows on that account ? or would you not think it a laugh- 
 able absurdity in any man to admire an ant for his speed ? 
 Suppose, again, that all your competitors had been lame, 
 would you have prided yourself, as on some masterly achieve- 
 ment, for outstripping the lame, when you were not lame 
 like the rest? 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 397 
 
 By such conversation as this, he produced in many of his 
 hearers a supreme contempt for the boasted accomplishment 
 in question : and the man, too, departed, under no little 
 mortification and humiliation, from this interview with Dio- 
 genes. Nor was the philosopher of little service to society 
 in this respect, by reducing to a smaller compass, and as- 
 suaging the tumours of a senseless infatuation, as swellings 
 on the body subside from scarification and puncture, when- 
 ever he saw any man inflated with a frivolous conceit of 
 unsubstantial excellence, and carried beyond the limits of so- 
 ber sentiment by qualities utterly destitute of intrinsic worth. 
 
 LESSON CCIY. 
 Hypocrisy and true Religion. — Boyle. 
 
 As we continued our walk, we began to traverse certain 
 ploughed lands, that lay in the way betwixt us and the river. 
 But we had scarce entered those fields, when our ears were 
 saluted with the melodious music of a good number of larks, 
 whereof some mounted by degrees out of sight, and others, 
 hovering and singing awhile over our heads, soon after light- 
 ed on the ground not far from our feet. 
 
 After we had enjoyed awhile this costless, yet excellent 
 music, both Eusebius and I, chancing to cast our eyes to- 
 wards Eugenius, observed that his did very attentively wait 
 upon the motions of a lark, that, singing all the way up- 
 wards, and mounting by degrees out of sight, not long after 
 descended, and lighted among some clods of earth, which, 
 being of the colour of her body, made us quickly lose sight 
 of her. Whereupon Eusebius, who was full as willing to 
 hear as to speak, and, in the occasional reflections that he 
 made, was wont at least as much to aim at the exciting 
 others' thoughts as the venting of his own, begged Euge- 
 nius to tell us what it might be, which his attentiveness to the 
 motions of the lark made us presume he was thinking on. 
 
 Eugenius, after a little backwardness, which he thought 
 modesty exacted of him, soon answered us in these terms : 
 " Among all birds that we know, there is not any that seems of 
 so elevated, and, I had almost said, heavenly a nature, as the 
 lark; scarce any give so early and so sweet a welcome 
 to the springing day ; and that which I was just now gazing 
 on, seemed so pleased with the unclouded light, that she sang 
 as if she came from the place she seemed going to ; and, 
 during this charming song, she mounted so high, as if she 
 meant not to stop till she had reached that sun, whose beams 
 34 
 
398 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 so cherished and transported her : and in this aspiring flight 
 she raised herself so high, that, though I will not say she 
 left the earth beneath her very sight, yet I may say, that she 
 soared quite out of ours. Yet, when, from this towering 
 height, she stooped to repose or solace herself upon the 
 ground, or else, when, to seize upon some worthless worm, 
 or other wretched prey, she lighted on the ground, she 
 seemed so like the earth that was about her, that I believe 
 you could scarce discern her from its clods ; whereas other 
 birds, that fly not half so high, nor seem any thing near so 
 fond of the sun, do yet build their nests upon trees; the 
 lark does as well build hers on the ground, as look like a 
 part of it. 
 
 Thus I have known, in these last and worst times, many 
 a hypocrite, that, when he was conversant about sublimer 
 objects, appeared, as well as he called himself, a saint; noth- 
 ing seemed so welcome to him as new light ; one might 
 think his lips had been touched with a coal from the „altar, 
 his mouth did so sweetly show forth God's praise and sacred 
 dispensations. In sum, take this hypocrite in his fit of de- 
 votion, and to hear him talk, you would think that, if he had 
 not already been in heaven, at least he would never leave 
 mounting till he should get thither. 
 
 But, when the opportunities of advantaging his lower 
 interests called him down to deal about his secular affairs 
 here below, none appeared more of a piece with the earth 
 than he ; and he seemed, in providing for his family, to be 
 of a meaner and a lower spirit than those very men whom 
 in discourse he was wont to undervalue, as being far more 
 earthly than himself." 
 
 " Since we know," rejoined Eusebius, " that the best things 
 corrupted prove the worst, it can be no disparagement to pi- 
 ety, to acknowledge that hypocrisy is a vice which you can- 
 not too much condemn ; and, when the pretending to religion 
 grows to be a thing in request, many betake themselves 
 to a form of religion, who deny the power of it ; and some, 
 perchance, have been preferred less for their Jacob's voice 
 than for their Esau's hands. 
 
 But, Eugenius, let us not, to shun one extreme, fondly 
 run into the other, and be afraid or ashamed to profess religion, 
 because some hypocrites did but profess it ! His course is 
 ignoble and preposterous, that treads in the paths of piety, 
 rather because they lead to preferment than to heaven ;^ but 
 yet it is more excusable to live free from scandal, for an infe- 
 rior end, than not to live so at all ; and hypocrites can as 
 little justify the profane as themselves. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 399 
 
 It may be, that all who own religion are not pious : but 
 it is certain that he who scorns to own it must be still less so. 
 If scoffers at piety should succeed the pretenders to it, they 
 cannot be said, as sometimes they would be thought, to be 
 an innocent sort of hypocrites, that are better than they seem; 
 for scandal is a thing so criminal and contagious, that who- 
 ever desires and endeavours to appear evil, is so. 
 
 To refuse to be religious because some have but professed 
 themselves to be so, is to injure God because he has already 
 been injured. A skilful jeweller will not forbear giving 
 great rates for necklaces of true pearl, though there may be 
 many counterfeits for one that is not so. Nor are the right 
 pearls a whit the less cordial to those that take them, because 
 the artificial pearls, made at Venice, consisting of mercury 
 and glass, for all their fair show, are rather noxious than 
 medicinal. 
 
 Indeed, our knowledge that there are hypocrites, ought 
 rather to commend piety to us, than discredit it ; since as 
 none would take the pains to counterfeit pearls, if true ones 
 were not of value, so men would not put themselves to the 
 constraint of personating piety, if that itself were not a noble 
 quality. Let us then, Eugenius, fly as far as you please from 
 what we detest in hypocrites ; but then let us consider what 
 it is that we detest ; which being a base, and, therefore, false 
 pretence to religion, let us only shun such a pretence, which 
 will be best done by becoming real possessors of the thing 
 pretended to." 
 
 LESSON CCV, 
 
 The inestimable Value of the Sacred Scriptures. — Wayland. 
 
 As to the powerful, I had almost said miraculous effect of 
 the sacred Scriptures, there can no longer be a doubt in the 
 mind of any one on whom fact can make an impression. 
 That the truths of the Bible have the power of awakening 
 an intense moral feeling in man under every variety of char- 
 acter, learned or ignorant, civilized or savage ; that they 
 make bad men good, and send a pulse of healthful feeling 
 through ail the domestic, civil, and social relations ; that they 
 teach men to love right, to hate wrong, and to seek each 
 other's welfare, as the children of one common parent ; that 
 they control the baleful passions of the human heart, and 
 thus make men proficients in the science of self-government ; 
 and, finally, that they teach him to aspire after conformity to 
 
400 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 a Being of infinite holiness, and fill him with hopes infinitely 
 more purifying, more exalting, more suited to his nature, than 
 any other, which this world has ever known,- — are facts in- 
 controvertible as the laws of philosophy, Or the demonstra- 
 tions of mathematics. Evidence in support of all this can 
 be brought from every age in the history of man, since there 
 has been a revelation from God on earth. We see the proof 
 of it every where around us. There is scarcely a neighbour- 
 hood in our country, where the Bible is circulated, in which 
 we cannot point you to a very consideiable portion of its 
 population, whom its truths have reclaimed from the prac- 
 tice of vice, and taught the practice of whatsoever things are 
 pure, and honest, and just, and of good report. 
 
 That this distinctive and peculiar effect is produced upon 
 every man to whom the gospel is announced, we pretend not 
 to affirm. But we do affirm, that, besides producing this 
 special renovation, to which we have alluded, upon a part, 
 it in a most remarkable degree elevates the tone of moral 
 feeling throughout the whole of a community. Wherever 
 the Bible is freely circulated, and its doctrines carried home 
 to the understandings of men, the aspect of society is altered ; 
 the frequency of crime is diminished; men begin to love 
 justice, and to administer it by law ; and a virtuous public 
 opinion, that strongest safeguard of right, spreads over a na- 
 tion the shield of its invisible protection. Wherever it has 
 faithfully been brought to bear upon the human heart, even 
 under most unpromising circumstances, it has, within a sin- 
 gle generation, revolutionized the whole structure of society ; 
 and thus, within a few years, done more for man, than all 
 other means have for ages accomplished without it. 
 
 But, before we leave this subject, it may be well to pause 
 for a moment, and inquire whether, in addition to its moral 
 efficacy, the Bible may not exert a powerful influence on 
 the intellectual character of man. 
 
 And here it is scarcely necessary to remark, that of all the 
 books with which, since the invention of writing, this world 
 has been deluged, the number of those is very small which 
 have produced any perceptible effect on the mass of human 
 character. By far the greater part have been, even by their 
 cotemporaries, unnoticed and unknown. Not many a one 
 has made its little mark upon the generation that produced 
 it, though it sunk with that generation to utter forgetfulness. 
 But, after the ceaseless toil of six thousand years, how few 
 have been the works, the adamantine basis of whose reputation 
 has stood unhurt amid the fluctuations of time, and whose 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 401 
 
 impression can be traced through successive centuries on the 
 history of our species. 
 
 When, however, such a work appears, its effects are abso- 
 lutely incalculable ; and such a work, you are aware, is the 
 Iliad of Homer. Who can estimate the results produced 
 by this incomparable effort of a single mind ! Who can tell 
 what Greece owes to this first-born of song ! Her breathing 
 marbles, her solemn temples, her unrivalled eloquence, and 
 her matchless verse, all point us to that transcendent genius, 
 who, by the very splendour of his own effulgence, woke the 
 human intellect from the slumber of, ages. It was Homer 
 who gave laws to the artist ; it was Homer who inspired the 
 poet; it was Homer who thundered in the senate ; and, more 
 than all, it was Homer who was sung by the people ; and 
 hence a nation was cast into the mould of one mighty mind, 
 and the land of the Iliad became the region of taste, the 
 birth-place of the arts. 
 
 Nor was this influence confined within the limits of 
 Greece. Long after the sceptre of empire had passed west- 
 ward, Genius still held her court on the banks of the Ilyssus, 
 and from the country of Homer gave laws to the world. The 
 light, which the blind old man of Scio had kindled in Greece, 
 shed its radiance over Italy ; and thus did he awaken a sec- 
 ond nation to intellectual existence. And we may form some 
 idea of the power which this one work has to the present 
 day exerted over the mind of man, by remarking, that " na- 
 tion after nation, and century after century, has been able to 
 do little more than transpose his incidents, new-name his 
 characters, and paraphrase his sentiments." 
 
 But, considered simply as an intellectual production, who 
 will compare the poems of Homer with the Holy Scriptures 
 of the Old and New Testament ? Where in the Iliad shall 
 we find simplicity and pathos which shall vie with the narra- 
 tive of Moses, or maxims of conduct to equal in wisdom the 
 Proverbs of Solomon, or sublimity which does not fade away 
 before the conceptions of Job or David, of Isaiah or St. John ? 
 But I cannot pursue this comparison. I feel that it is doing- 
 wrong to the mind which dictated the Iliad, and to those 
 other mighty intellects on whom the light of the holy oracles 
 never shined. 
 
 If, notwithstanding, so great results have flowed from this one 
 effort of a single mind, what may we not expect from the com- 
 bined effort of several, at least his equals in power over the 
 human heart ? If that one genius, though groping in the thick 
 darkness of absurd idolatry, wrought so glorious a transfor- 
 mation in the character of his countrymen, what may we 
 34* 
 
402 THE CLASSICAL READER 
 
 not look for from the universal dissemination of those writ- 
 ings, on whose authors was poured the full splendour of eter- 
 nal truth ? If unassisted human nature, spell-bound by a 
 childish mythology, have done so much, what may we not 
 hope for from the supernatural efforts of pre-eminent genius, 
 which spake as it was moved by the Holy Ghost ? 
 
 LESSON CCVI. 
 The Righteous and the Wicked. — First Psalm of David. 
 
 Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of 
 the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth 
 in the seat of the scornful : but his delight is in the law 
 of the Lord ; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. 
 
 And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, 
 that bringeth forth his fruit in his season : his leaf also shall 
 not wither ; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper. 
 
 The ungodly are not so : but are like the chaff which the 
 wind driveth away. 
 
 Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, 
 nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous. 
 
 For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous : but the 
 way of the ungodly shall perish. 
 
 LESSON CCVIT. 
 The Man who is accepted of God. — Fifteenth Psalm. 
 
 Lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle ? who shall dwell 
 in thy holy hill ? 
 
 He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, 
 and speaketh the truth of his heart. He that backbiteth not 
 with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh 
 up a reproach against his neighbour. In whose eyes a vile 
 person is contemned ; but he honoureth them that fear the 
 Lord. He that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not. 
 He that putteth not out his money to usury, nor taketh re- 
 ward against the innocent. 
 
 He that doeth these things shall never be moved. 
 
THE CLASSICAL READER. 403 
 
 LESSON CCVIII. 
 Instructions to the Young. — Proverbs of Solomon. 
 
 Hear, ye children, the instruction of a father, and attend 
 to know understanding. For I give you good doctrine, for- 
 sake you not my law. For I was my father's son, tender 
 and only beloved in the sight of my mother. He taught me 
 also, and said unto me, Let thine heart retain my words: 
 keep my commandments, and live. 
 
 Get wisdom, get understanding ; forget it not : neither de- 
 cline from the words of my mouth. Forsake her not, and 
 she shall preserve thee : love her, and she shall keep thee. 
 
 Wisdom is the principal thing : therefore get wisdom : 
 and with all thy getting get understanding. Exalt her, and 
 she shall promote thee : she shall bring thee to honour, 
 when thou dost embrace her. She shall give to thine head 
 an ornament of grace ; a crown of glory shall she deliver to 
 thee. 
 
 Hear, my son, and receive my sayings ; and the years 
 of thy life shall be many. 
 
 I have taught thee in the way of wisdom ; I have led thee 
 in right paths. 
 
 When thou goest, thy steps shall not be straitened ; and 
 when thou runnest, thou shalt not stumble. 
 
 Take fast hold of instruction ; let her not go : keep her ; 
 for she is thy life. 
 
 Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the 
 way of evil men. Avoid it ; pass not by it ; turn from it, and 
 pass away. For they sleep not, except they have done mis- 
 chief; and their sleep is taken away, unless they cause some 
 to fall. For they eat the bread of wickedness, and drink 
 the wine of violence. 
 
 But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shin- 
 eth more and more unto the perfect day. 
 
 The way of the wicked is as darkness ; they know not at 
 what they stumble. 
 
 My son, attend to my words ; incline thine ear unto my 
 sayings : let them not depart from thine eyes ; keep them 
 in the midst of thine heart : for they are life unto those that 
 find them, and health to all their flesji. 
 
 Keep thy heart with all diligence ; for out of it are the 
 issues of life. 
 
 Put away from thee a froward mouth, and perverse lips 
 put far from thee. 
 
404 THE CLASSICAL READER. 
 
 - 
 
 Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look 
 straight before thee. 
 
 Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be es- 
 tablished. 
 
 Turn not to the right hand nor to the left : remove thy 
 foot from evil. 
 
 LESSON CCIX. 
 
 The Beatitudes. — Gospel of Matthew. 
 
 Blessed are the poor in spirit : for theirs is the kingdom 
 of heaven. 
 
 Blessed are they that mourn : for they shall be comforted. 
 
 Blessed are the meek : for they shall inherit the earth. 
 
 Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after right- 
 eousness : for they shall be filled. 
 
 Blessed are the merciful : for they shall obtain mercy. 
 
 Blessed are the pure in heart : for they shall see God. 
 
 Blessed are the peacemakers : for they shall be called the 
 children of God. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS, 
 
 WITH THE TIME IN WHICH THEY FLOURISHED, AND THE TITLE 
 OF SOME ONE OF THEIR MOST DISTINGUISHED WORKS. 
 
 In regard to living authors, the title of 
 which the extracts are made. 
 are printed in 
 
 those icorlts only is usually given, from 
 The names of American authors 
 small capitals. 
 
 Names of Authors. 
 Adams, John 
 
 Adams, J. Q. 
 
 Addison, Joseph 
 
 Aikin, Lucy 
 Akenside, Mark 
 
 Alison, Archibald 
 Anonymous 
 
 Armstrong, John 
 
 Bacon, Francis 
 
 Baillie, Joanna 
 Bancroft, George 
 
 Barbauld, Mrs. A. L. 
 
 Barton, Bernard 
 Beattie, James 
 Blair, Robert 
 Blair, Hugh 
 Bowriag, John 
 Boyle, Robert 
 Brainard, J. G. C. 
 
 Bruce, James 
 Bryant, W. C. 
 
 BUCKMINSTER, J. S. 
 
 Burke, Edmund 
 
 Butler, Samuel 
 
 Byron, (George Gordon) 
 
 Campbell, Thomas 
 
 Cappe, Newcombe 
 Chalmers, Thomas 
 
 Channing, W. E. 
 
 Born. 
 
 Died. 
 
 1735. 
 
 1826. 
 
 1672. 
 
 1729. 
 
 1711. 
 
 1770. 
 
 1709. 
 
 1779. 
 
 1561. 
 
 1626. 
 
 1743. 
 
 1825. 
 
 1735. 
 1700. 
 1718. 
 
 1803. 
 1746. 
 1800. 
 
 1627. 
 
 1691. 
 
 1730. 
 
 1794. 
 
 1784. 
 
 1812. 
 
 1730. 
 
 1797. 
 
 1612. 
 
 1680. 
 
 1788. 
 
 1824. 
 
 1733. 
 
 1800. 
 
 Worlis. 
 Defence of the American 
 
 Constitutions. 
 Address to Lafayette on his 
 
 Departure from the U. S. 
 
 Spectator; Cato. 
 
 Court of Queen Elizabeth. 
 Pleasures of the Imagination. 
 
 Sermons ; Essay on Taste. 
 
 Art of Preserving Health. 
 
 Essays ; Novum Organum. 
 
 Plays; Poems. 
 Oration at Northampton. 
 
 Essays ; Poems, &c. 
 
 Poems. 
 Minstrel, &c. 
 The Grave. 
 Lectures on Rhetoric. 
 Poems. 
 
 Philosophical Works. 
 Poems. 
 
 Travels in Abyssinia. 
 Poems. 
 
 Sermons. 
 
 Speeches; Works. 
 Hudibras. 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 Specimens of the British 
 
 Poets; Poems. 
 Discourses and Sermons. 
 Sermons. 
 ' Sermon on Religion a So- 
 | cial Principle; Review ol 
 Milton's Christian Doctrine. 
 
406 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 119. 
 
 120. 
 
 Names of Authors. 
 
 Chapone, Mrs. Hester 
 Clarendon ; (Edwd. Hvxle) 
 Coleridge, S. T. 
 Collins, William 
 
 Cowper, William 
 
 Crabbe, George 
 Croly, George 
 
 Dewey, Orville 
 Dryden, John 
 Dwight, Timothy 
 
 Edgeworth, Miss Maria 
 Everett, Edward 
 
 Fawcett, Joseph 
 
 Flint, Timothy 
 
 Foster, John 
 Franklin, Benjamin 
 
 Freeman, James 
 
 Friend of Peace 
 
 Frisbie, Levi 
 
 Frothingham, N. L. 
 
 Gay, John 
 Gibbon, Edward 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver 
 
 Grattan, Henry 
 Gray, Thomas 
 
 Halleck, 
 
 Hawkeswrrth, John 
 
 Hemans, Mrs. Felicia 
 
 Henderson, 
 Henry, Patrick 
 Hillhouse, J. A. 
 Hess, J. G. 
 
 Hume, David 
 
 Irving, Washington 
 
 Jefferson, Thomas 
 
 Johnson, Samuel 
 ! Jones, Sir William 
 
 Born. 
 
 1121. 
 1608. 
 
 1720. 
 
 1731. 
 
 Vied. 
 
 1801. 
 1673. 
 
 1756. 
 
 1800. 
 
 1631. 
 1752. 
 
 1706. 
 
 1784. 
 
 1688. 
 1737. 
 
 1731. 
 
 1750. 
 1716. 
 
 1715. 
 
 1736. 
 1711. 
 
 1743. 
 
 1709. 
 1748. 
 
 1701. 
 1817. 
 
 1790. 
 
 1822. 
 
 1732. 
 1794. 
 
 1774. 
 
 1820. 
 1771. 
 
 1773. 
 
 1799. 
 1776. 
 
 1826. 
 
 1784. 
 1794. 
 
 Works. 
 
 Letters. 
 
 History of the Rebellion. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Odes, &c. 
 
 The Task, &c. 
 
 The Borough 5 Tales of the 
 
 Hall, &c. 
 Catiline 5 Poems. 
 
 Sermons. 
 
 Poems, Plays, &c. 
 
 Sermons, 1 ravels, &c. 
 
 Practical Education and other 
 
 Works. 
 Orations at Plymouth, at 
 Charlestown, and at Cam- 
 _ bridge. 
 
 Sermons. 
 
 Travels and Residence in 
 the Vale of the Mississippi 
 
 Essays. 
 Essays, &c. 
 
 Sermons. 
 
 Miscellaneous Writings. 
 Sermons. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Decline and Fall of the Ro- 
 man Empire. 
 
 Poems; Vicar of Wakefield, 
 &c. 
 
 Speeches. 
 
 Poems and Letters. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Essays; Adventurer. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Speeches. 
 
 Hadad, a dramatic Poem. 
 Life of Zwingle. 
 History of England, &c. 
 
 Sketch Book, &c. 
 
 C Notes on Virginia ; State Pa- 
 < pers; Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 Rambler, &c. 
 
 Works on Hindoo Antiqui- 
 ties, «fec. 
 
 > 
 
INDEX OF 
 
 Born. 
 
 Names of Authors 
 
 Keate, 
 
 Kirkland, John T. 
 Knowles, Herbert 
 Knox, Vicesimus 
 
 Lafayette, 
 Lamb, Charles 
 
 Locke, John 
 Longfellow, H. W. 
 Lyttleton, George, Lord 
 
 Mackenzie, Henry 
 Marshall, John 
 Matthew, Saint 
 
 Milton, John 
 
 Montgomery, James 
 
 Moore, Thomas 
 More, Hannah 
 
 Norton, Andrews 
 
 Ogden, Samuel 
 
 Paley, William 
 
 Peabody, W. B. O. 
 
 Percival, J. G. 
 
 Phillips, Charles 
 Pierpont, John 
 Polehampton, Edward 
 
 Pope, Alexander 
 
 Priestley, Joseph 
 Prior, Matthew 
 Psalms. 
 
 QUINCY, JOSIAH 
 
 Review, Edinburgh 
 
 Robertson, William 
 Rogers, Samuel 
 Roscoe, William 
 
 Roscoe, Miss 
 Russell, J. 
 
 1632. 
 
 1709. 
 1745. 
 
 1608. 
 
 1743. 
 
 1688. 
 
 1733. 
 
 1664. 
 
 1721. 
 
 AUTHORS. 
 
 Died. 
 
 407 
 
 1704. 
 
 1773. 
 
 1674. 
 
 1805. 
 
 1744. 
 
 1804. 
 1721. 
 
 1793. 
 
 Works. 
 
 Sermons 5 Life of Ames. 
 Essays, &c. 
 
 Elia; Poems. 
 
 Reasonableness of Christian- 
 ity; Essay. 
 
 Poems from the U. S. Lite- 
 rary Gazette. 
 
 Dialogues of the Dead, and 
 other Works. 
 
 Man of Feeling. 
 Life of Washington. 
 Gospel. 
 
 Paradise Lost, &c. j Prose 
 Works. 
 
 Prose by a Poet ; Poems, &c 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Practical Piety, &c. 
 
 Address on Frisbie, &c. 
 
 Natural Theology, &c. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Oration; Speeches. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Gallery of Nature and Art. 
 
 Essay on Man ; Epistles, &c. 
 
 ( Sermons ; Histories ; Philoso- 
 ( phical Works. 
 Poems. 
 
 Oration at Boston; Life of 
 Josiah Quincy, Jr. 
 
 Histories of America, and of 
 Charles V. 
 
 Pleasures of Memory. 
 
 Life of Leo X., and of Lo- 
 renzo de Medici. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Travels in Germany. 
 
408 
 
 INDEX OF 
 
 190.-) 
 191 A 
 
 203. 
 
 93.? 
 104. J 
 
 135. 
 
 202. 
 
 43.) 
 205. C 
 
 200. 
 
 136.; 
 
 137. \ 
 
 Names of Authors. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter 
 
 Shaftesbury, (Anthony ( 
 Ashley Cooper) ] 
 
 Shakspeare, William 
 
 Sigourney, Mrs. 
 Solomon, 
 
 Southey. Robert 
 
 Sparks, Jared 
 Spenser, Edmund 
 Sprague, C. 
 
 Talbot, Miss 
 Taylor, Jane 
 
 Taylor, Jeremy 
 
 Thacher, S. C. 
 
 Thomson, James 
 
 Ticknor, George 
 Tillotson, John 
 Tudor, William 
 
 Wakefield, Gilbert 
 
 Ware, Henry, Jr. 
 
 Warton, Joseph 
 Watts, Isaac 
 
 Wayland, Francis, Jr. 
 
 Webster, Daniel 
 
 White, H. K. 
 Wilson, John 
 Willis, N. P. 
 Wordsworth, William 
 
 Wotton, Sir Henry 
 Young, Edward 
 
 Born. 
 
 AUTHORS. 
 
 Died. 
 
 1671. 
 
 1564. 
 
 1713. 
 
 1616. 
 
 1553. 
 
 1613. 
 
 1785. 
 1700. 
 
 1630. 
 
 1598. 
 
 1667. 
 
 1818. 
 1748. 
 
 1694. 
 
 1756. 1801. 
 
 1722. 
 1674. 
 
 1785. 
 
 1800. 
 1748. 
 
 1568. 
 1681. 
 
 1806. 
 
 1639. 
 
 1765. 
 
 Works. 
 
 Romances 5 Lives of the Nov- 
 | elists; Poems j Life of Na- 
 poleon. 
 
 Characteristics. 
 
 Plays. 
 
 Poems. 
 Proverbs. 
 
 5 Thalaba ; Poems ; Life of 
 ( Nelson 5 Life of Wesley 
 
 N. A. Review. 
 Fairy Queen, &c. 
 Address on Intemperance. 
 
 Reflections and Essays. 
 Display 3 Poems, &c. 
 
 Sermons, &c. 
 
 Sermons. 
 
 Seasons, &c. 
 
 Life of Lafayette. 
 Sermons, &c. 
 Life of James Otis. 
 
 Dio Chrysostom ; Inquiry into 
 the Opinions of earty Wri- 
 ters concerning the Person 
 of Jesus Christ. 
 ^ Extemporaneous Speaking; 
 ( Sermons. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Sermons 3 Psalms and Hymns. 
 
 Sermon on the Duties of an 
 American Citizen ; on the 
 Dignity of the Missionary 
 Enterprise. 
 
 Discourse at Plymouth 5 in 
 Commemoi ation of Adams 
 and Jefferson 3 Address on 
 Bunker Hill. 
 
 Remains. 
 $ Poems ; Lights and Shadows 
 ^ of Scottish Life. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 Excursion, and other Poems. 
 Poems. 
 
 Night Thoughts, &c. 
 
CATALOGUE OF 
 
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 PUBLISHED AND SOLD BY 
 
 ROBERT S. DAVIS, 
 
 NO. 77, Washington Street, BOSTON. 
 
 Q3 3 SOLD ALSO BY THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 GREENLEAF'S INTRODUCTION to the National Arithmetic. 
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 ALGER'S PRONOUNCING INTRODUCTION to Murray's Reader. 
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 PARKER'S EXERCISES IN ENGLISH COMPOSITION, 39th edition. 
 AIDS TO ENGLISH COMPOSITION, designed as a Sequel to Par- 
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 ' 
 

 RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENLEAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Haverhill, (Mass.) May 22, 1843. 
 B. Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : We have examined your Arithmetics, the 
 National and Introductory, and take pleasure in expressing to you our high 
 satisfaction in them, as superior to any books in this branch of education with 
 which we are acquainted. We are especially pleased with the accuracy and 
 precision of the definitions, and with the clearness and fullness of illustration by 
 the examples. The two together seem to be just what are needed, and we are 
 inclined to say all that are needed on this subject in our Public Schools. In 
 accordance with this view of your books, as members of the General School 
 Committee, we have encouraged their use in the Schools in this town. 
 
 E 
 
 A. S. Train, 5 School Committee. 
 
 (Signed,) Edward A. Lawrence, } Superintending 
 
 Bradford, May 5, 1843. 
 Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : The School Committee of this town, 
 having given the Introduction to your National Arithmetic a pretty thorough 
 examination, very soon after its publication, voted unanimously to introduce it 
 into our schools, and are now, after a year's experiment, happy to say, that our 
 best anticipations have been met, in the manifest advantages which have re- 
 sulted from its use, and we feel great confidence in recommending it to the 
 attention of an enlightened public, as a work well calculated to aid youth in 
 acquiring a theoretical and practical knowledge of that important part of edu- 
 cation. With much respect, I am, dear Sir, yours, 
 
 G. B. Perry, 
 In behalf of the Committee. 
 
 Having used Greenleaf 's Arithmetic in the schools with which I have been 
 connected for three years past, I am prepared to give it the preference over any 
 other work of the kind with which I am acquainted. 
 
 Very respectfully yours, 
 
 A. Farwell, 
 Andover, June 6, 1843. Principal of Abbott Female Academy. 
 
 From Rev. Mr. Shatter, formerly Principal of the Connecticut Literary Institution, 
 
 Suffield, Ct. 
 
 I have somewhat carefully examined the National Arithmetic, by Benjamin 
 Greenleaf, Esq., and though having had considerable acquaintance with other 
 works upon this science, in several years' experience as a teacher, I hesitate not 
 to pronounce this treatise superior to any I have ever seen. It is in my opinion, 
 impossible for a scholar to go through with this work, and understand its rules, 
 without being qualified, so far as Arithmetic is concerned, to engage in any or- 
 dinary business, and having a foundation laid for acquiring with rapidity the 
 higher branches of mathematics needed in professional life. 
 
 It is sufficient to say, the School Committee of this town have adopted it in 
 all our Public Schools, which is the highest praise that we can give to any 
 school book. 
 
 William H. Shailer, 
 
 Brookline, June 6, 1843. Secretary of the School Committee. 
 
 Portland, (Me.) May 22, 1843. 
 I have thoroughly examined, and used in my School, Greenleaf 's National 
 Arithmetic ; and gladly do I embrace a favoring opportunity of rendering this 
 too tardy justice to its merits, and of paying a willing tribute to its superior ex- 
 cellence as a system, and as a text-book. 
 
 (Signed,) B. Cushman, 
 
 Late Principal of Portland Academy. 
 2 
 
• 
 RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENT.EAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Brookline, (Mass.) June 1, 1843. 
 Mr. R. S. Davis. Dear Sir : I am glad to have an opportunity to express 
 to you the high opinion, which I entertain of the merits of the National Arith- 
 metic by Mr. Benj. Greenleaf. I have used it nearly two years, part of the 
 time, however, only to obtain examples for practice by my classes, as an Arith- 
 metic by another author was required by the Committee, but lately my classes 
 have used no other, the School Committee, much to my satisfaction, having re- 
 quired this in preference to all others. 
 
 The clearness of the Rules, the simplicity of the arrangement, the interesting 
 character of the examples, the addition of the problems in Natural Philosophy 
 and in Geometry, and the beauty of the typography, make this treatise the most 
 complete in all its parts of any which I have ever examined. 
 
 Benjamin H. Rhoades, 
 Principal of Brookline Public High School. 
 
 Boston, May 26, 1843. 
 I have examined Greenleaf 's Introductory Arithmetic, and consider it well 
 adapted to the purpose for which it is designed. I have also used it in my 
 School for a short time, and like it much ; it has but recently been introduced, 
 but thus far it has verified all that it promised. The larger work I have also 
 introduced to my School, and find the operation to be good. I can cheerfully 
 recommend it as an excellent work for higher classes. 
 
 Charles E. Abbott, 
 Principal of Temple School. 
 
 Medford, (Mass.) May 15, 1843. 
 I have used Mr. Greenleaf 's Arithmetic in my School for the last year, and 
 consider it preferable to any other work treating upon the same science, with 
 which I am acquainted. 
 
 Stacy Baxter, 
 Teacher of East Grammar School, Medford. 
 
 I fully subscribe to Mr. Baxter's opinion. 
 
 Thomas S. King, 
 Teacher of West Grammar School. 
 
 Portland, May 23, 1843. 
 I have long considered Greenleaf 's Arithmetic to be a superior work, and, 
 for the last two years, I have recommended it to my pupils in preference to 
 every other; 
 
 The Introduction to the same book, I have just examined with the most fa- 
 vorable impression of its merits. 
 
 D. Greene Haskins, 
 Preceptor of Portland Academy. 
 
 From W. R. Ellis, Esq., Principal of Sandwich Academy. 
 
 Mr. R. S. Davis. Dear Sir : Before introducing Greenleaf 's Introduction 
 to the National Arithmetic into my school, I gave it a careful and thorough ex- 
 amination, and was at that time much pleased with it. And since its intro- 
 duction, I have become convinced, from comparing the improvement of my 
 pupils in this branch, with that of previous terms, that, as an introduction to the 
 study of arithmetic, teachers cannot place in the hands of their pupils a better 
 book. Very respectfully, yours, 
 
 (Signed,) W. R. Ellis. 
 
 Sandwich, (Mass.) March 8, 1S43. 
 
 3 
 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENLEAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Portland, (Me.) July 14, 1843, 
 Greenleaf's Arithmetic has been so long known, and its superior merits so 
 fully attested by all who have used it in their schools, that were I to say that 
 for clearness and conciseness, and for a general adaptedness to the wants of 
 pupils of both sexes, it stands unrivalled, I should only reiterate the opinions 
 expressed by every teacher I have met with, who has had an opportunity of 
 making trial of it. I shall introduce it to my school another term. 
 
 Eben S. Stearns, 
 Principal of Free Street Seminary. 
 
 Extract from a Letter from A. Mackie, Esq., of Grove School, New Bedford. 
 
 " Teachers will find in this book precisely that which they would desire 
 placed in the hands of a scholar, who attends school but for three or four months 
 in the year ; they will find that it goes into the subject as far as is necessary to 
 prepare the young for the common avocations of life. They will find it no less 
 practical than the author's larger work, — while the several questions and rules 
 succeed each other in such a manner, as will not perplex and embarrass the 
 student, but, on the contrary, in that inductive and progressive manner, which 
 cannot fail to encourage and stimulate him onward ; and, above all, they will 
 find it is calculated to unfold to the scholar the powers of his own mind, which 
 he only needs to know and feel, in order to bring into action. The work is 
 printed with a beautiful type, on good paper, and is indeed got up in a style 
 which reflects great credit on the publisher." (Signed,) 
 
 " New Bedford, Dec. 6, 1842." " Adam Mackie." 
 
 Ffom James K. Bullough, Esq., Teacher, Savannah, Ga. 
 I have with care and much satisfaction, examined Greenleaf 's Arithmetic, 
 and deem it a work of peculiar merit. It is in every respect well calculated to 
 facilitate the improvement of pupils in that highly useful and important science, 
 the science of numbers. It is a book much needed in our elementary schools. 
 I shall most cordially recommend it to others of my profession, and shall also 
 use my utmost endeavours to introduce it into my own School. 
 
 (Signed,) James K. Bullough. 
 
 Savannah, Feb. 1, 1843. 
 
 From 0. M. Randall, Esq., Teacher, Lynn, Mass. 
 
 I have examined the Introduction to the National Arithmetic, and think it 
 admirably adapted to the use of common schools. I have long felt the need of 
 something different from what we have had in our town schools, to give the 
 scholar a practical knowledge of arithmetic, without retarding his proficiency 
 by a multiplicity of questions so arranged as to confuse the mind, rather than 
 unfold to it the principles of the science. I think the Introduction meets the 
 exigency of the case, and cannot fail to secure that patronage which it so 
 richly merits. (Signed,) O. M. Randall. 
 
 Lynn, (Mass.) Jan. 9, 1843. 
 
 Plymouth, (Mass.) March 19, 1843. 
 Dear Sir : I received, some weeks since, a copy of the introductory, and 
 second part of Greenleaf 's Arithmetic. 
 
 With the merits of the latter, I long since became acquainted, and have no 
 hesitation in saying, that it is the best work of the kind I have ever seen. 
 
 I think, from what little attention I have given to the introductory, that it 
 compares very well with the second part, and shall take great pleasure in see- 
 ing them introduced into all our schools. Very respectfully, 
 
 Philip C. Knapp, 
 Principal of the High School, Plymouth. 
 R. S. Davis, Esq., Boston. 
 
 4 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENLEAF's ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : I regard your National Arithmetic as 
 one of the best I have ever seen. Perhaps the best proof of the estimation in 
 which I hold its merits, is the fact, that I use it in the school under my care. 
 
 I am, Sir, very respectfully, yours, 
 
 Roger S. Howard, 
 Principal of the Latin High School. 
 Newburypori, May 5, 1843. 
 
 I have used Mr. Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic in my School for nearly 
 two years ; and, having thus tested its good qualities, I can cheerfully recom- 
 mend it, as a system of arithmetic well adapted for giving an individual a 
 thorough knowledge of the science. A. H. Merriam, 
 
 Preceptor of Westminster Academy. 
 
 Westminster, (Mass.) June 6, 1843. 
 
 I have made use of Mr. Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic in my school, and 
 am of the opinion, that it possesses superior excellences as an Arithmetic, and 
 well adapted to our common and higher Schools. 
 
 F. G. Pratt, 
 
 Bridgewater, (Mass.) June 14, 1843. Preceptor of Bridgewater Academy. 
 
 The undersigned, having examined the National Arithmetic on the Inductive 
 System, by Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq., do not hesitate to pronounce it a work 
 of high merit. The various subjects treated of in it are arranged in a manner 
 at once philosophical and practical ; and, in the opinion of the undersigned, it 
 contains a greater amount of useful and valuable matter, some of which must 
 otherwise be sought for in rare books, than any other similar work with which 
 they are acquainted. And they cheerfully recommend it to teachers and learn- 
 ers, as a work of high and undoubted worth, 
 
 Thomas C. Baker, 
 
 John P. Pendleton, 
 
 John P. Adam, 
 
 A. T. C. Dodge, 
 Prospect, (Me.) March 1, 1843, 
 
 Superintending 
 School Committee. 
 
 Extract from a Letter from Hiram Orcutt, Esq. , Teacher. 
 
 Hebron, N. H., Feb. 27, 1843. 
 " Your Arithmetic I have had opportunity thoroughly to examine, having 
 introduced it into my School, and conducted two large classes of teachers entirely 
 through it. And I can freely say, Sir, that in my opinion, no book of the kind 
 now extant, is so well calculated to lead the student to a thorough practical 
 knowledge of figures as this." 
 
 New Bedford, Mass., Dec. 26, 1842. 
 Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : We have examined your Introductory 
 Arithmetic, and are much pleased with the plan and execution. The examples 
 are practical ; the rules clear and concise ; the principles of the science are un- 
 folded, and its practical uses explained with great perspicuity and simplicity. 
 We deem it eminently calculated to answer the object for which it is de- 
 signed. 
 
 Benjamin Evans, Principal of the Charles-St. School. 
 
 Ebenezer Hervey, 
 
 do. 
 
 Siocth-St. 
 
 do. 
 
 A. L. Gleason, 
 
 do. 
 
 Bush-St. 
 
 do. 
 
 William F. Dow, 
 
 do. 
 
 William-St. 
 
 do. 
 
 Albert Conant, 
 
 do. 
 
 Maxfield-St. 
 
 do. 
 
 Fred. F. Dewey, 
 
 do. 
 
 Hill 
 
 do. 
 
 Adam Mackie, 
 5 
 
 do. 
 
 Grove 
 
 do. 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OP GREENLEAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 I have carefully examined the National Arithmetic you were so good as to 
 send me, and am happy in being able to say, that, in my opinion, it is preferable 
 to any other that I am acquainted with. I recollect that so highly was it es- 
 teemed, both by the Committee and myself, that it was immediately after exam- 
 ination introduced into my School as the text-book in that science. 
 Yours, very respectfully, 
 
 D. Worcester, 
 Principal of the High School for boys, Bangor. 
 
 Bradford, (Mass.) January 1, 1842. 
 Gentlemen : The National Arithmetic, by Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq., after 
 having been pretty thoroughly examined by those entrusted with the superin- 
 tendence of the Public Schools, was introduced into them very soon after its 
 first publication, and has been constantly used from that time ; and, after so long 
 and extended experiment, I have no hesitancy in saying, the best expectations 
 of the committee have been fully met. A new and increased interest was there- 
 by given to that part of education, which has been constantly increasing in most 
 or all our Schools, — a spirit of perseverance excited, which has carried a con- 
 siderable number of our youth through the whole book, and there are now a 
 still greater number, who are going on with a determination to perform every 
 question. Having formerly recommended the work, as, in my opinion, possess- 
 ing great merit, from the lucid and scientific manner in which its parts are ar- 
 ranged, and the rules of operation expressed, I have thought the above statement 
 would afford the best testimony that I could now give of its practical worth, 
 and of the benefits likely to result from its introduction into other places. 
 
 Very respectfully, 
 (Signed,) Gardner B. Perry. 
 
 From H. Morrison, Esq., Professor of Mathematics and President of the University 
 
 of Maryland ; Baltimore. 
 This js one of the most complete books of its kind, both in the extent and 
 arrangement of its matter, that has yet appeared. Combining, as it does, the 
 Analytic and Synthetic methods, and abounding in familiar examples, it is ad- 
 mirably calculated to interest the pupil, and lead him, by easy and progressive 
 steps, through the difficulties of the science, to its complete mastery, and full 
 comprehension. To make the work more perfect than a treatise on arithmetic 
 merely could be, the author has added many geometrical, mechanical, philo- 
 sophical, and astronomical problems, and a concise system of book-keeping, so 
 that without the aid of any other book, it is calculated to make the perfect 
 business man, in all his various departments. H.Morrison. 
 
 I cheerfully join with Prof. Morrison in recommending the National Arith- 
 metic to the favorable notice of teachers. H. Coleurn. 
 
 Extract from a Letter from Mr. D. H. Armstrong, Teacher, St. Louis. 
 I am gratified to be able to give it my unqualified approbation, as a work 
 justly meriting high commendation for its simplicity of arrangement, its clear- 
 ness of illustration, its fullness of important matter to the mercantile student, 
 recently deemed wholly useless, or at best irrelevant to the subject of arithmetic, 
 and for the variety and copiousness of its examples. 
 
 D. H. Armstrong. 
 
 From D. F. Merrill, Esq., Teacher of a Classical School in Mobile. 
 I have carefully examined Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic, and am much 
 pleased with it. The arrangement is good, the rules and explanations are clear 
 and concise, and the numerous questions are well selected. It is, in my opin- 
 ion, superior to any arithmetic with which I am acquainted, and I shall use it 
 to the exclusion of all others. D. F. Merrill. 
 
 6 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENLEAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Norfolk, ( Va.) January 12, 1842. 
 A careful examination of Greenleaf's National Arithmetic, will show, that 
 its author has compiled it, as all books ought to be, from the results of actual 
 experiment, and observation in the school-room. It is entirely a practical work, 
 and appears to me the most complete system of mercantile arithmetic, with 
 which I am acquainted. The brief system of book-keeping attached to it, will 
 be a valuable aid to more complete instruction in Common Schools, to which 
 the work is, in other respects, so peculiarly adapted. Being so much pleased 
 with it, I will introduce it into my Academy. 
 
 John P. Scott, 
 Principal of Norfolk Academy. 
 
 I fully concur in the opinion above expressed. 
 
 Robert Wells, 
 Professor of Mathematics in Norfolk Academy. 
 
 Dear Sir : I thank you kindly for the copy of Greenleaf's Arithmetic which 
 you presented to me a few days since. I have examined it with great care, 
 and am convinced that it is decidedly the best work within my knowledge. 
 As the highest proof I can give of my approbation of the work, I have adopted 
 it, and have given orders for a supply sufficient for the use of this school. 
 
 Yours, &C. J. WoRTHINGTON SMITH. 
 
 Kalorama Seminary, Staunton, (Va.) April 28, 1842. 
 
 Having been adopted recently in many select schools in New York city and 
 vicinity, the following testimonials from teachers, will show the estimation 
 formed of the work, by those who are best qualified to judge of its value. 
 
 After a careful and critical examination of Greenleaf's Arithmetic, being 
 highly impressed with its merits, I determined to introduce it into my School, 
 and, accordingly, since last fall, have used it, with entire satisfaction, as a text- 
 book, considering it the best treatise on figures with which I am acquainted. 
 (Signed,) James Lawson, 
 
 101, Grand Street. 
 
 I have examined Greenleaf's National Arithmetic with much minuteness, 
 and without hesitation, give it the preference to any work of the kind with 
 which I am acquainted. I should be pleased to see it generally used in our 
 schools. I have already placed it in the hands of my pupils. 
 
 (Signed,) E. H. Jenny, A. M., 
 
 Principal of Seventh Ward Grammar School. 
 
 Communications fully agreeing with the foregoing, have been received from 
 the following Teachers, who now use this Arithmetic in their respective 
 schools. 
 
 G. A. Rogers, ) gt Luke>g gch , 
 
 J. Yeamans, Jr. } 
 
 Henry Swords, 38 Avenue Sixth. 
 
 M. Beardsley, Corner of Houston and Thompson Streets. 
 
 John Mulligan, Principal of St. Mathew's Academy. 
 
 Dr. Edward Kupperbery, Teacher of Mathematics in do. 
 
 John Walsh, Professor of Languages, &c. 
 
 Nath. H. Arey, Grand Street. 
 
 A. Bassett, Principal of the Classical and Mathematical Ins., 472£ Broad. 
 
 Charles Wm. Nichols, Allen Street. 
 
 Robinson and Finch, Grand Street. 
 
 S. R. Martin, D. Lyme, R. Lockwood. 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENLEAF's ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Petersburg, (Va.) Jan. 25, 1S42. 
 
 In the cursory examination tbat I have been enabled to give to the National 
 Arithmetic, I have discovered excellences possessed by no other arithmetic with 
 which I am acquainted. 
 
 The logic of the system is as commendable for what it omits as for what it 
 retains, being such as to furnish healthy exercise to the mind, without embar- 
 rassing it with subtleties, or enervating it by secure indolence. 
 
 It is the very book that I have long felt the want of, and I shall not fail to 
 recommend its introduction into the Seminary over which I have the honor to 
 preside. J. D. Keily, A. M., 
 
 Principal of the Anderson Seminary, 
 
 The subscriber has examined with attention the National Arithmetic, com- 
 piled by Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq., and has introduced it into his School, 
 being confident in the opinion, that the judicious arrangement of the rules, and 
 the manner of its execution, justly entitle it to general patronage. 
 
 (Signed,) Joshua Healy, 
 
 Teacher, Brooklyn. 
 
 I fully concur with Mr. J. Healy respecting Greenleaf's Arithmetic. 
 
 Wm. M. Martin, 
 66 Cr anbury Street, do. 
 
 Also adopted and recommended by Alfred Greenleaf, Esq., Principal of the 
 Young Ladies' School, Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 
 I most cheerfully concur in the preceding opinions expressed of this Arithme- 
 tic, and cordially recommend it to teachers and others, as a work of great 
 utility. (Signed,) Albert T. Smith, 
 
 Principal of Jersey City Public School, No. 1. 
 
 From Rev. D. Leach, Principal of Roxbury High School. 
 
 I have examined with care and attention Greenleaf's National Arithmetic, 
 and am happy in having an opportunity of expressing my opinion of its excel- 
 lence. It is truly a very complete and practical work, — one of the best, if not 
 the very best I have ever seen. I have also examined the Introduction, but 
 with less attention, and am highly pleased with its judicious arrangement, con- 
 cise rules, and practical character. The National Arithmetic has lately been 
 adopted in my School. Very respectfully, yours, 
 
 Roxbury (Mass.) High School, June 12, 1843. DANIEL Leach. 
 
 Having used Mr. Greenleaf's National Arithmetic for several years in my 
 School, I am decidedly of the opinion it is the best work of the kind now ex- 
 tant. John T. Tasker, 
 
 Principal of the Male High School, Portsmouth, iV. H, 
 
 After a careful and candid examination of Mr. Greenleaf's National Arith- 
 metic, I think I can truly say, that, in regard to variety and amount of useful 
 matter, skill in arrangement, and clearness of illustration, it excels all other 
 works of the kind with which I am conversant. It happily unites the inductive 
 with the synthetic methods of instruction, and embraces several rules and tables 
 commonly omitted in similar treatises. It is enriched with an excellent article 
 upon the subject of exchange, and it also contains a new and concise system of 
 book-keeping, which, together with a short treatise on geometry, greatly en- 
 hances its value. Indeed, I am acquainted with no system of arithmetic so com- 
 plete and practical as this, and I shall therefore introduce it immediately into 
 my School. Elias Nason, 
 
 Principal of the Young Ladies' High School, Newburyport . 
 
 8 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREENLEAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 Having made constant use of the National Arithmetic for five years past, I 
 gladly embrace an opportunity of expressing the high opinion which I entertain 
 of its merits. In my view, it is decidedly preferable to any other work of the 
 kind with which I am acquainted. 
 
 (Signed,) Oliver A. Woodbury, 
 
 Salem, (Mass.) July 7, 1843. Teacher. 
 
 From Mr. R. S. Harlan, Teacher, Baltimore. 
 After an examination of Mr. Greenleaf 's Arithmetic, which you politely sent 
 me, I have no hesitation in pronouncing it superior to most works of the kind ; 
 and by its concise and plain rules, well adapted to the purposes for which it was 
 designed. This Arithmetic has very many things to recommend it to the care- 
 ful consideration of teachers, and trustees of schools generally. 
 
 Yours, respectfully, R. S. Harlan. 
 
 Having examined Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic, I do not hesitate to say, 
 that for its simplicity and systematic arrangement, I think it excels every other 
 publication on the subject with which I am acquainted. I intend to introduce 
 it into my School soon. The key is also a valuable work. 
 
 P. M. Neal, 
 Teacher of Select School, Portland, Me. 
 
 From a careful examination of Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic, my impres- 
 sions are, that it possesses more merit as a school book for general and practi- 
 cal use, than any other before the public. I shall use it next term in my School. 
 
 Ahira Jones, 
 Principal of the High School, Saco, Me., and Superintending School 
 
 Committee of the Town. 
 
 From A. B. Converse, Esq., Bangor. 
 A copy of Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic was handed me a few days since, 
 which I have perused with some care. It is already introduced into some of our 
 schools, and I do not hesitate to say, I think it the best we have in use. 
 
 Respectfully, yours, A. B. Converse. 
 
 My Dear Sir : I have examined the National Arithmetic, by Mr. Greenleaf, 
 with care, and have used it two or three years in my School. I consider it de- 
 cidedly the best system of arithmetic with which I am acquainted. 
 
 It is a complete system, and admirably adapted to facilitate the progress even 
 of the youngest pupil, and to make thorough scholars in the science it teaches. 
 
 The Key is a valuable aid to the teacher, and, as the author intended, should 
 be in his hands alone. Alfred W. Pike, 
 
 Principal of the High School, Hallowell, Me. 
 
 From Isaac Candler, Esq., Teacher, Baltimore. 
 
 Having examined Greenleaf 's National Arithmetic, I am able to inform you, 
 that it combines what is termed Mental Arithmetic, with the more complete 
 branches of the science, thus leading youths to be ready, as well as exact, in the 
 various operations. But lest they should perform them merely mechanically, as 
 the generality of persons do, the principles of the rules are given, by which 
 means they will be better grounded, than by doing double the work, without 
 understanding the reasons for the mode of procedure. The compendiums of 
 book-keeping and geometry appended to the treatise, render the whole particu- 
 larly eligible for schools. 
 
 I shall take pleasure in recommending the work, it being as superior to some 
 of the Arithmetics now in use, as Adams's Latin Grammar to the Eton, or as 
 Webster's Dictionary to Bailey's. Isaac Candler. 
 
 9 
 
Robert S. Davis"* Publications. 
 
 greenleaf's national arithmetic. 
 
 From Mr. J. P. Engles, A. M., Principal of the Classical Institute, Philadelphia. 
 
 I have examined, with considerable interest, Greenleaf's National Arith- 
 metic, and have no hesitation in recommending it as an admirable system of 
 Arithmetic, which contains all that is essential to a knowledge of the science, 
 and nothing that is useless. The arrangement, too, is such as to make the con- 
 tents easily available to the teacher and the pupil. Should it succeed in displac- 
 ing the host of so called "Assistants," with which our schools are flooded, I 
 conceive it would be equally to the comfort of teachers, and the profit of stu- 
 dents. I shall cheerfully introduce it into my Academy. J. P. Engles. 
 
 Philadelphia, Nov. 14, 1838. 
 
 I cheerfully concur in sentiment with Mr. Engles, respecting Mr. Greenleaf's 
 Arithmetic ; it is the best work of the kind I have ever seen. With a great 
 deal of pleasure, I shall introduce the same into my Seminary. 
 
 W. Alexander, Classical Teacher, Philadelphia. 
 
 I have examined Greenleaf's National Arithmetic with a great deal of 
 satisfaction, and have no hesitation in saying, that it is the most complete 
 system of Mercantile Arithmetic with which I am acquainted ; and will cheer- 
 fully recommend it as occasion may require. 
 
 E. Griffiths, Teacher of Mathematics, Philadelphia. 
 
 Philadelphia, Nov. 12, 1838. 
 
 The undersigned entirely concur in the opinions expressed by Messrs. Engles, 
 Alexander, and Griffiths, respecting Mr. Greenleaf's Arithmetic. 
 
 John W. F aires,} 
 
 B. P. Hunt, > Teachers in Philadelphia. 
 
 James P. Espy, j 
 
 I have examined Mr. Greenleaf's National Arithmetic with some care, 
 and am much pleased with its arrangement ; his examples, under each rule, 
 are numerous and appropriate : I am so well satisfied, that I intend to intro- 
 duce it into my Seminary. Thomas McAdam. 
 
 Philadelphia, Nov. 14, 1838. 
 
 We fully concur with the gentlemen, who have already given recommenda- 
 tions of the National Arithmetic, considering the work well calculated to 
 give youth a correct knowledge of the principles of Arithmetic. 
 
 E VM 6 V Kendall, \PhUadelphia Centre High School. 
 
 Copy of a letter from G. W. Harby, Esq., Principal of Harby's Academy, New 
 
 Orleans, addressed to the Publishers. 
 Gentlemen : Viewing the publication of School Books of the first importance, 
 it was with much pleasure that I received Greenleaf's National Arithmetic. 
 For fifteen years, and upwards, I have devoted my life to the instruction of 
 youth, during which time many Arithmetics have fallen under my inspection. I 
 take a strong interest in every work that pertains to mathematical learning, and 
 unhesitatingly pronounce Greenleaf's Arithmetic an important treasure to Acad- 
 emies ; it is fraught with a great deal of care, and in an easy, plain, and uni- 
 form style. His Geometrical, Mechanical, and Astronomical Problems are con- 
 cise and clear : they lead the youthful mind to the exercise of a little patience,—* 
 not so arduous as to fatigue, but sufficiently laborious to call the mental faculties 
 into exercise, and to create a taste for mathematical knowledge, and for scientific 
 discovery and invention, — which has lately so conspicuously crowned some of 
 our countrymen with brilliant success. I shail make it the standard book in 
 ruy Institution, and recommend it to others of my profession. 
 I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, 
 
 New Orleans, August 22, 1839. - George W. HaRBY. 
 
 10 
 
Robert S. Davis'' Publications. 
 
 greenleaf's national arithmetic. 
 
 Portsmouth, Aug. 5, 1838. 
 Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : Having examined, and, to some ex- 
 tent, introduced into our Schools the National Arithmetic, of which you are 
 the author, we *deem it a duty we owe to the public, no less than to yourself, to 
 express our decided approbation of its merits. The method, arrangement, and 
 quantum of matter it contains, the clear and lucid manner in which its rules 
 are demonstrated, together with its adaptation to the wants of the community, 
 entitle it, in our humble belief, to the patronage of every lover of scientific in- 
 vestigation Signed, 
 
 Hazen Pickering, John T. Tasker, 
 A. M. Hoyt, John J. Lane, 
 
 James Hoyt, Edward J. Laighton. 
 
 C. E. Potter, 
 
 School Teachers of Portsmouth, N. H. 
 
 From Rev. Dr. Hopkins, President of William's College. 
 
 My opinion of Greenleaf's Arithmetic is, that it is adapted to give a more 
 thorough knowledge of thatscience, than any other that I have seen. 
 
 Respectfully, yours, M. Hopkins. 
 
 Williamstown, Dec. 30, 1837. 
 
 Poughkeepsie Institute, Jan. 9, 1839. 
 We have carefully examined the National Arithmetic, and do not hesitate in 
 
 Pronouncing it the best work of the kind which has come under our notice, 
 'he deduction of the rule from the operations is, in our opinion, the proper 
 method ; and the copious examples, under the various rules, are well selected 
 and arranged. We hope it may meet with its merited success. We shall en- 
 deavour to extend and establish its use. Yours, respectfully, 
 
 J. L. Dusinbery, > t> • • j 
 A.H.Tobey, ' \Principals. 
 
 I have examined Greenleaf's Arithmetic, and consider it, in many respects, 
 preferable to any work of the kind with which I am acquainted. I am par- 
 ticularly pleased with his illustration of the Square and Cube Roots, and the 
 Rule of Proportion, and with the introduction of practical instruction on the 
 subject of Banking, Custom-House Duties, Assessment of Taxes, &c. I think 
 its introduction into Schools and Academies will prove of general interest to all 
 who wish to acquire a knowledge of Arithmetic. 
 
 A. B. Bullock. 
 Hudson, Dec. 7, 1838. 
 
 I fully concur in the above, and shall use my influence to introduce it into my 
 school. C. Greene. 
 
 From the Principal of the Dutchess County Academy . 
 
 After a careful and comparative examination of Greenleaf's Arithmetic, I 
 unhesitatingly say, I think it superior to any other Arithmetic within my 
 knowledge. I shall with pleasure use my influence to give it a circulation in 
 the Schools of this vicinity. Wm. Jennoy. 
 
 Poughkeepsie, Jan. 9, 1839. 
 
 I fully accord with Mr. Jennoy in his opinion of Mr. Greenleaf's Arith 
 metic, and shall esteem it a privilege to recommend its use whenever an oppor- 
 tunity presents. O. M. Smith, 
 
 Newburgh, January, 1839. Principal of Newburgh High School 
 
 11 
 
Robert S. Davis'' Publications. 
 
 greenleaf's national arithmetic. 
 
 
 I have examined Mr. Greenleaf's Arithmetic, and think it the best that has 
 come under my notice. We shall introduce it into our School. 
 
 Newburgh, (N. Y.) Jan., 1839. Samuel PHINNET, 
 
 Principal of the Orange County Institution. 
 
 I have examined Mr. Greenleaf's Arithmetic, and find it an excellent work ; 
 the Rules are very plain and distinctly in order, and the Examples are most 
 excellent, and ought to be patronized in all Schools. I shall use all my en- 
 deavours to have it used in my School. JOHN B. Clute. 
 
 Schenectady, Nov. 29, 1838. 
 
 I fully subscribe to the above opinion. R. M. BROWN 
 
 Schenectady Lyceum, Dec. 3, 1838. 
 
 From Rev. Wm. Cogswell, D. D., Cor. Sec. of the American Education Society. 
 
 Boston, March 16, 1838. 
 B. Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : I take this early opportunity to acknowl- 
 edge the receipt of your National Arithmetic, and to thank you for it. I have 
 cast my eye over it as my time would permit, and am very happy to say, I 
 have been much gratified in its perusal. The inductive plan, combining the 
 Analytic and Synthetic methods of instruction, which you have adopted, is un- 
 doubtedly the best. The work contains a very great amount and variety of 
 matter for its size, and is judiciously arranged. Its Rules, Explanations, and 
 Examples are perspicuous, copious, and apposite, and some of them are inge- 
 nious and original. It is a treatise of much merit, exhibiting indefatigable 
 labor, and great practical skill in the science and in the art of teaching this 
 branch of an education. The type and execution of the book are good, and do 
 honor to the publishers. As it becomes known to the public, its excellence, I 
 trust, will be fully appreciated, and your unwearied application of mind to this 
 department of instruction, for thirty years past, in the results here given, be 
 duly rewarded. Yours, with much respect. 
 
 William Cogswell. 
 
 Troy, (N. Y.) Nov. 28, 1838. 
 
 Dear Sir : I have given the National Arithmetic a second examination, 
 am much pleased with its system and arrangement, am inclined to believe, 
 that, if its merits can be generally known, it will supersede the use of about all 
 others now in use. 
 
 I have now in my School eight different kinds of Arithmetics, have fre- 
 quently regretted, that it should take so many to make one, and that one not 
 complete. 
 
 The National, I consider, possesses all the good qualities of these eight, with 
 some additions that are entitled to patronage, and all in one book. 
 
 I do sincerely hope, your labors in this valuable work will be generously re- 
 warded, for the benefit of its author and the public good. 
 
 Yours, respectfully, L. E. Gibbs, Teacher. 
 
 I have examined, with much pleasure, a text-book, entitled Greenleaf's Na- 
 tional Arithmetic. In many respects, I think it superior to the Arithmetics in 
 common use. The Explanations are very lucid, and the Examples of such a 
 character as to lead the pupil to make a practical application of every thing he 
 learns. The articles on Exchange, Roots, the System of Book-Keeping, &c, 
 are calculated to be eminently useful to the business man. As a whole, the 
 National Arithmetic is equal, if not superior, to any work of the kind that I 
 have ever seen. C. H. Ahthony, 
 
 Troy, Dec. 31, 1838. Principal of Troy Academy. 
 
 12 
 
Robert S. Davis'' Publications. 
 
 greenleaf's national arithmetic. 
 
 I have recently examined Greenleaf's National Arithmetic, and am well 
 pleased with the work. It contains much important information in reference to 
 mercantile pursuits, and, in my judgment, is well adapted to the wants of our in- 
 creasing number of Schools and Academies. I regard the systems of Book- 
 Keeping, contained in it, as very important. 
 
 Edward Wilson, Jr. 
 
 Troy, N. Y. Nov. 28, 1838. Teacher, Troy Monitorial School. 
 
 I have examined Mr. Greenleaf's National Arithmetic, and do not hesitate 
 to say, that it is not only a practical and valuable work, but an admirable one ; 
 one that is every way calculated to produce an interest in the student, and to 
 facilitate his advancement in the science of numbers. I shall use my influence 
 in introducing it into my School. Joseph Childs, Jr. 
 
 Troy, Nov. 1838. Teacher, 5th St. School, Troy. 
 
 I have examined Greenleaf's National Arithmetic, and cheerfully concur in 
 the above recommendations ; and shall use my influence in introducing it into 
 my School. James Park, 
 
 Troy, Nov. 28, 1838. Teacher, 4>th St. Academy. 
 
 Poughkeepsie, (N. Y.) Jan. 1, 1839. 
 After a cursory examination of Greenleaf's Arithmetic, I have no hesitation 
 in awarding to it a large amount of arithmetical knowledge, more, indeed, 
 than almost any work within my acquaintance. The youth, who should go 
 through this work carefully and thoroughly, could not fail of obtaining a fa- 
 miliar acquaintance with the properties and powers, and various applications, 
 of numbers. A. Lathrop, 
 
 Teacher of Mathematics in the Poughkeepsie Collegiate School: 
 
 The following is the conclusion of a critical notice of the work, from Thomas 
 M. Brewer, Esq., Principal of an Academy, Poughkeepsie. 
 
 Upon the whole, considering the judicious arrangement, the adaptation of the 
 Examples to the business requirements of our country, the perspicuity of illus- 
 tration, and the extensive range of Arithmetical Science embraced, I am happy 
 to say, I think the book worthy of its title. And I shall take an early opportu- 
 nity to introduce it into my Institution as the text-book best adapted to our 
 use of any I have seen. Thomas M. Brewer, 
 
 Poughkeepsie, Dec. 14, 1838. 
 
 I have examined Greenleaf's National Arithmetic with much care, and 
 hesitate not to pronounce it a very valuable work, superior in many respects 
 to any Arithmetic, now in use, with which I am acquainted. I shall imme- 
 diately introduce it into my School, and most cheerfully recommend it to the 
 public, believing it well adapted to the wants of our Schools and Academies. 
 Yours, very respectfully, James H. Howe, 
 
 Principal of the Lancasterian School, Poughkeepsie. 
 Poughkeepsie, Dec. 17, 1838. 
 
 Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq. Sir : I have had the pleasure of examining your 
 Arithmetic, and, among the many I have used in teaching, have never found 
 one without some deficiency until yours came into my hands. I think it prefer- 
 able to any other in its arrangement, the lucid illustration of its principles, 
 and the great amount of matter it contains. I shall feel in duty bound to in- 
 troduce and recommend it when an opportunity offers. 
 
 Yours, with respect, A. Kidder, 
 
 Poughkeepsie, Jan. 1, 1839. Teacher of a Select School. 
 
 b 13 
 
Robert S. Davis" 1 Publications. 
 
 greenleaf's national arithmetic. 
 
 I have examined, with considerable care and entire satisfaction, the Sys- 
 tem of Arithmetic by B. Greenleaf. I can say, without hesitation, 1 think it 
 the most complete and well-arranged School System, in this branch of science, 
 extant, and better calculated than any other to prepare our youth for active 
 usefulness in all those pursuits where a knowledge of Arithmetic is requisite. 
 I might speak of the happy combination of the Analytic and Synthetic methods 
 of operation, and the still happier union of clearness with brevity in all the 
 Rules and Definitions ; but all this will be seen and pleasingly felt by those 
 who peruse or study this truly valuable book. I shall do what I may, in my lim- 
 ited sphere of influence, to promote its introduction into the Schools of our State. 
 
 Albany, Dec. 1838. S. Steele, Teacher. . 
 
 I have examined Greenleaf's National Arithmetic, and am of opinion, from 
 its practical character and the order of the arrangement, that it is well calcu- 
 lated to induct the inquiring pupil into the useful business operations of the 
 community, for which the study of Arithmetic is designed. I shall not hesitate 
 to recommend it to my own pupils and to the teachers of other Schools. 
 
 Edward Small, 
 
 Albany, Dec. 1, 1838. Teacher of the Lancaster School, Albany. 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf. Sir : I have examined your National Arithmetic and am 
 glad to say, it meets my approbation ; and I think I shall introduce it into my 
 School, to the exclusion of all others. A. P. Smith, 
 
 Albany, Nov. 28, 1838. Teacher of the Second Public School, Albany. 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf. Dear Sir : I have examined your System of Arithmetic, 
 and am happy to state, that it meets with my unqualified approbation, and that 
 I shall immediately introduce it into my School. Yours, respectfully, 
 
 Albany, Nov. 27, 1838. Thomas McKee. 
 
 We fully concur in the above. 
 
 Newman & Wallace, Teachers, Mechanics Academy , Albany. 
 D. E. Bassett, Principal of an Academy, Do. 
 
 Joel Marble, Principal of District School, State Street, Do. 
 J. W. Bulkley, Principal of an Academy, Do. 
 
 From Dr. Fox, Principal of the Boylston School, Boston. 
 B. Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : I have just been examining your new Arith- 
 metic, and think it an excellent work. I like the plan of it much. Among its 
 many excellences I perceive the following, viz. — The Tables of Money, Weights, 
 and Measures carried out to the lowest denomination ; the great variety of ex- 
 amples under each Rule, and likewise your method of treating several parts of the 
 science, as Fractions, Proportion, Evolution, and Exchange, — everything con- 
 cerning them must appear clear, I think, to the student. The Geometry, Philosoph- 
 ical Problems, Mechanical Powers, and Book-keeping, seem also to be handled 
 in a perspicuous manner. The Rules of Cross Multiplication and Position, I am 
 happy to see have place in (he work ; for, after all, they are too useful, the lat- 
 ter especially, to be omitted in our arithmetical treatises On the whole, the 
 work appears to me well calculated to lead youth to a clear and thorough knowl- 
 edge of the various branches of this Science, and I doubt not it will be sought 
 after, as an improvement on former works of the kind, and obtain an extensive 
 circulation. Yours, respectfully, Charles Fox. 
 
 A thorough examination of Mr. Greenleaf's Arithmetic has induced me to 
 introduce it into the Academy with which I am connected. The arrangement 
 is excellent, and much valuable matter is found in the National Arithmetic, not 
 contained in others now in use. Very respectfully, yours, 
 
 Barnstable, Dec. 9, 1837. J F. A. CHOATE. 
 
 14 
 
Robert S. Davis'' Publications. 
 
 greenleaf's national arithmetic. 
 
 From Professor E. A. Andrews, Author of the Series of Latin School Books. 
 
 Boston, Sept. 1, 1837. 
 Mr. R. S. Davis. Dear Sir: The stereotype edition of Mr. Greenleaf's 
 National Arithmetic, is, in my opinion, a work of great excellence, and well 
 adapted to the use of Schools and Academies. It unites, in an eminent de- 
 gree, the practical advantages of both the Analytic and Synthetic methods. 
 By a judicious use of the former, the student is prepared to comprehend the 
 nature and design of the process to be performed, and the rule, when thus in- 
 troduced and explained, is easily understood and retained in memory. I have 
 seen no work of the kind, which surpassed this in the bsauty of its typographi- 
 cal execution. Yours, respectfully, E. A. Andrews. 
 
 0d= At the Annual Meeting of the Essex County Teachers' Association, in 
 1838, a Committee, composed of Rev. G. B. Perry, D. D., Hon. Wm. B. Ban- 
 ister, and D. P. Page, Esq., (Principal of the English High School, Newbury- 
 port,) was chosen to examine the principal Arithmetical works before the pub- 
 lic, with a view of selecting for use the best text-book in this department of 
 Science. After attending to the duty assigned, the Committee presented an 
 elaborate Report, of which the following summary only can here be given. 
 
 Extract from " Report of Committee on Arithmetics, submitted to, and ac- 
 cepted by, the Essex County Teachers' Association, at their Annual Meeting, hold- 
 en at Topsfield, Mass., Nov. 30, and Dec. 1, 1838." 
 
 "Fully aware of the delicacy which must attend the freedom of speech con- 
 cerning almost any class of school-books, since authors are nearly as numerous 
 as teachers, your Committee have supposed, that in praising one book they should 
 be considered as condemning others; yet they have endeavored to divest them- 
 selves of any partialities in favor of any particular works or their authors, any 
 further than the works themselves have seemed to possess distinguishing merit, 
 and have endeavored fearlessly to discharge the duty assigned them. 
 
 " The Committee have felt, moreover, the importance of the subject placed in 
 their hands. Arithmetic is, and ever must be, a very important branch of study 
 pursued in all our schools. Probably no subject receives so much attention, or 
 consumes so much of the time, of the pupil, as this. It is of consequence a ques- 
 tion of no secondary importance, ' What is the best text-book in this branch 
 of study V With a full and deep consciousness of its importance, your Com- 
 mittee think they have met this question ; and, in order to bring the whole bus- 
 iness into as narrow a compass as possible, they have taken the Five Arithmetics 
 out of the thousand-and-one before the community, which they have supposed to 
 be of the first class, and out of which a suitable selection might be made for the 
 wants of the public." [After enumerating the distinctive characteristics of each, 
 " the question of preference is instituted " by the Committee, wherein they arrive 
 at the following conclusion.] "We believe it (Greenleaf's) to contain more 
 exercise for the mind than any other book which has been published on the sub- 
 ject The Committee venture to express their preference, on the whole, 
 
 in favor of Mr. Greenleaf's, on the following grounds. — 1st. It abounds 
 with varieties in its questions, so that the scholar (and often the teacher too) 
 must think at every step. 2d. Its answers are inserted in the work, though by 
 some this may not be considered an argument in its favor. 3d. It is but one 
 volume, yet it contains matter simple enough for the tyro, and intricate enough 
 for the sophomore. It goes over the whole ground. 
 
 "All which is respectfully submitted." 
 
 (Signed) G. B. Perry, ^ 
 
 W. B. Banister, > Committee, 
 David P. Page, ) 
 15 
 
RECOMMENDATIONS OF GREEKLEAF'S ARITHMETIC. 
 
 From D. P. Page, Esq., Principal of the English High School, Newburyport. 
 Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq. Dear Sir : I have with much care examined the 
 National Arithmetic, of which you are the author, and, after having compared 
 it, article by article, with the various other publications that have come to my 
 hands, I hesitate not to say, that I think it contains a greater amount of matter, 
 and a better arrangement of subjects, than any other book I have seen. Your 
 rules and explanations are clear and definite, and your examples are well calcu- 
 lated to fix tkem in the mind. I congratulate the community on this valuable 
 accession to our list of school books ; and shall take pleasure in seeing your 
 Arithmetic extensively introduced into all our schools, as also into that under my 
 own care. Yours, with just respect, David P. Page. 
 
 From the late Principal of the Young Ladies' High School, Boston. 
 Dear Sir : I have examined with great care Mr. Greenleaf 's National Arith- 
 metic, and have used it as a text-book for my pupils. In my view, the plan 
 and execution of the work are quite perfect, the rules being deduced analyti- 
 cally from examples, and followed by copious questions for practice. The pupil 
 can hardly fail to understand as he advances ; nor can he go through the book, 
 without being a master of the science of Arithmetic. This is not an old book 
 with a new name, but the work of one who thoroughly understands the subject, 
 and who has learned, from a long and successful experience in teaching, how to 
 prepare one of the very best school books which has ever been issued from the 
 American press. Very respectfully, E. Bailey. 
 
 Having for two or three years past, made constant use of Greenleaf 's Na- 
 tional Arithmetic in my School, I am prepared to say, that it is far superior to 
 any work I have ever used. 
 
 It appears to me to be a complete system, and well calculated, not only to in- 
 terest the pupil, but also to give him a thorough knowledge of the science. I 
 think it richly deserves the high commendation and liberal patronage which it 
 generally receives. Alfred M. Hoyt, 
 
 Inst. Male School, Portsmouth, IV. H. 
 
 I have had the National Arithmetic, by Benjamin Greenleaf, in use in my 
 Seminary for several months past, and take pleasure in recommending it as an 
 excellent work. 
 
 I have no hesitation in saying, that I not only think it the best single volume 
 on the science of arithmetic extant, but that I consider its value to be equal, if 
 not superior, to that of any series of arithmetics now before the American public. 
 
 D. Ring, 
 Principal of the East Baltimore Female Institute. 
 
 From J. Peckham, Esq., Teacher, Westminster, N. H. 
 B. Greenleaf, Esq. Sir : I take great pleasure in recommending your Na- 
 tional Arithmetic. A number of classes went through with the book in the 
 course of my teaching, and I feel satisfied that they obtained a more thorough 
 and practical knowledge of the science, than they would have done by any other 
 text-book with which I am acquainted. While the work is sufficiently com- 
 pendious and cheap for general use, it at the same time, fully illustrates every 
 principle in common business. I think the appendix on book-keeping a very 
 valuable addition to the Arithmetic. Your obedient servant, 
 
 Joseph Peckham. 
 
 (Jtf=* On reference to the " Abstract of the Massachusetts School Returns,'' for 
 1840, it will be perceived, that Greenleaf's National Arithmetic is used in 
 many of the best Schools and Academies in the State. And wherever teachers 
 have given this system a fair trial, the result has been highly satisfactory. 
 
 16 
 
Robert S. Dams' Publications. 
 
 alger's Murray's books. 
 
 ALGER'S MURRAY'S GRAMMAR; being an abridgment 
 of Murray's English Grammar, with an Appendix, containing 
 exercises in Orthography, in Parsing, in Syntax, and in Punctua- 
 tion ; designed for the younger classes of learners. By Lindley 
 Murray. To which Questions are added, Punctuation, and the 
 notes under Rules in Syntax copiously supplied from the author's 
 large Grammar, being his own abridgment entire. Revised, pre- 
 pared, and adapted to the use of the " English Exercises," by Israel 
 Alger, Jr., A. M., formerly a teacher in Hawkins Street School, 
 Boston. Improved stereotype edition. 
 
 As a cheap and compendious elementary work for general use, this is pro- 
 bably the best Grammar extant, which is indicated by its introduction into 
 many Schools and Academies, in various sections of the United States. 
 Though furnished at a moderate price, it is so copious, as, in most cases, to 
 supersede the necessity of a larger work. 
 
 IClr By a vote of the School Committee, this work was introduced into all 
 the Public Schools of the city of Boston. 
 
 ALGER'S MURRAY'S ENGLISH EXERCISES: consisting 
 of Exercises in Parsing, instances of false Orthography, violations 
 of the rules in Syntax, defects in Punctuation, and violation of the 
 rules respecting perspicuous and accurate writing, with which the 
 corresponding rules, notes, and observations, in Murray's Grammar 
 are incorporated ; also, References in Promiscuous Exercises to the 
 Rules by which the errors are to be corrected. Revised, prepared 
 and particularly adapted to the use of Schools, by Israel Alger, Jr., 
 A. M. Improved stereotype edition. 
 
 Extract from, the Preface. 
 
 It is believed that both teachers and pupils have labored under numerous 
 and serious inconveniences, in relation to certain parts of these Exercises, for 
 the want of those facilities which this volume is designed to supply. Those 
 rules in Mr. Murray's Grammar which relate to the correction of each part 
 of the Exercises in Orthography, Syntax, Punctuation and Rhetorical con- 
 struction, have been introduced into this manual immediately preceding the 
 Exercises to which they relate. The pupil being thus furnished with the 
 principles by which he is to be governed in his corrections, may pursue his 
 task with profit and pleasure. In this edition, more than forty 18mo. pages 
 of matter have been added from Mr. Murray's Grammar. 
 
 ALGER'S PRONOUNCING INTRODUCTION TO MUR- 
 RAY'S ENGLISH READER, in which accents are placed on the 
 principal words, to give Walker's pronunciation. Handsomely 
 printed, from stereotype plates. 
 
 ALGER'S PRONOUNCING ENGLISH READER: being 
 Murray's Reader, accented by Israel Alger, Jr. Printed from 
 handsome stereotype plates, on good paper, and neatly bound. 
 
 f^ These editions of Murray's books are in the highest repute of any othf] 
 published in the United States, and are sold at a cheap price. 
 
 B* 17 
 
Robert S. Davis" 1 Publications. 
 
 Parker's exercises in English composition. 
 
 PROGRESSIVE EXERCISES IN ENGLISH COMPOSI- 
 TION. By R. G. Parker, A. M., Principal of the Franklin Gram- 
 mar School, Boston. Thirty-ninth Stereotype Edition. 
 
 O 3 The reputation of this little Manual is now so well established as to 
 render it unnecessary to present many of the numerous testimonials in its 
 favor, received from teachers and others of the first respectability. 
 
 The School Committee of Boston authorized its introduction into the Public 
 Schools of the city, soon after the first edition was issued, and it is now the 
 only work on Composition used in them. It has also been adopted as a text- 
 book in a large number of the best schools and higher seminaries in various 
 sections of the United States, having been highly commended by all intelli- 
 gent teachers, who have used it, and the demand is constantly increasing. 
 
 To show the high estimate of the work in England, the fact may be stated, that 
 it has been republished and stereotyped in London, and nine large editions have 
 been sold there ; which, together with its favorable reception throughout the 
 United States, furnishes sufficient evidence of its practical utility. 
 
 Among the public notices of the work in England, are the two following ; 
 
 The design of this work is unexceptionably good. By a series of progres 
 Bive exercises the scholar is conducted from the formation of easy sentences to 
 the more difficult and complex arrangement of words and ideas He is, step 
 by step, initiated into the rhetorical propriety of the language, and furnished 
 with directions and models for analyzing, classifying, and writing down his 
 thoughts in a distinct and comprehensive manner. — London Jour, of Education. 
 
 Of the Exercises in Composition, by Parker, we can speak with unmingled 
 praise. It is not enough to say, that they are the best that we have, for we 
 have none worth mention. The book is fully effective both in suggesting ideas 
 or pointing out the method of thinking, and also in teaching the mode of ex- 
 pressing ideas with propriety and elegance. — English Monthly Magazine. 
 
 From Mr. Walker, Principal of the Eliot School, Boston. 
 
 This work is evidently the production of a thorough and practical teacher, 
 and in my opinion it does the author much credit. By such a work all the 
 difficulties and discouragements which the pupil has to encounter, in his first 
 attempts to write, are in a great measure removed, and he is led on, progres- 
 sively, in a methodical and philosophical manner, till he can express his ideas 
 on any subject which circumstances or occasion may require, not only with 
 sufficient distinctness and accuracy, but even with elegance and propriety. 
 An elementary treatise on composition, like the one before me, is certainly 
 much wanted at the present day. I think this work will have an extensive 
 circulation, and I hope the time is not distant, when this branch of education, 
 hitherto much neglected, will receive that attention which in some degree its 
 importance demands. 
 
 From J. W. Bulkley, Esq., Principal of an Academy, Albany. 
 
 I have examined " Parker's Exercises in Composition," and am delighted 
 with the work ; I have often felt the want of just that kind of aid, that is here 
 afforded : the use of this book will diminish the labor of the teacher, and great- 
 ly facilitate the progress of the pupil in a study that has hitherto been attended 
 with many trials to the teacher, and perplexities to the learner. 
 
 If Mr. Parker has not strewed the path of the student with flowers, he has 
 "removed many stumbling-blocks out of the way, made crooked things straight, 
 and rough places smooth." It is certainly one of the happiest efforts that I 
 have ever seen in this department of letters, — affording to the student a beau- 
 tiful introduction to the most important principles and rules of rhetoric ; and I 
 would add, that if carefully studied, it will afford a " sure guide " to written com- 
 position. I shall use my influence to secure its introduction to all our schools. 
 
 18 
 
Robert S. Davis* Publications. 
 
 parker's exercises in English composition. 
 
 From Rev. Mr. Burroughs, of Portsmouth, N. H. 
 
 I was much gratified by the receipt of your book, entitled Progressive Exer- 
 cises in English Composition ; and, if possible, still more so by its original, 
 judicious and excellent plan. It is a valuable and successful attempt to give 
 instruction in relation to one of the most difficult, though important depart- 
 ments of education; and I should conceive it would afford great pleasure, as 
 well as benefit, to the minds of the young. I sincerely hope that it will be 
 introduced into our schools, where such a work has been long wanted. 
 
 From Mr. Andrews, Professor of Mt. Vernon School, Boston. 
 
 Parker's Progressive Exercises in English Composition will, in my opinion 
 aid the teacher, and encourage the pupil, in this important branch of education. 
 I feel confident that the work will be highly acceptable to those who have 
 experienced the difficulties to be surmounted in bringing forward a class to 
 compose with any degree of accuracy. 
 
 From Samuel P. Newman, Professor of Rhetoric in Bowdoin College. 
 
 I have examined " Progressive Exercises in English Composition," by R. G 
 Parker, with some care, and hesitate not to express an opinion that it is well 
 adapted to the purpose for which it is designed. It is well fitted to call into 
 exercise the ingenuity of the pupil, to acquaint him with the more important 
 principles and rules of Rhetoric, and to guide and aid his first attempts in the 
 difficult work of composition. 
 
 From Mr. Pike, late Preceptor of Framingham Academy. 
 
 From Walter R. Johnson, Esq., Franklin Institute, Philadelphia. 
 
 Having often felt the necessity of reducing to its simple elements the art of 
 composition, and having been compelled, from the want of regular treatises, to 
 employ graduated exercises expressly prepared for the purpose, and similar in 
 many respects to those contained in this treatise, I can speak with confidence 
 of their utility, and do not hesitate to recommend them to the attention of 
 teachers. 
 
 From Dr. Fox, Principal of the Boylston School, Boston. 
 
 This little manual, by the simplicity of its arrangement, is calculated to 
 destroy the repugnance, and to remove the obstacles which exist in the minds 
 of young scholars to performing the task of composition. I think this work 
 will be found a valuable auxiliary to facilitate the progress of the scholar, and 
 lighten the labor of the teacher. 
 
 From Mr. Dillaway, Principal of the Latin School, Boston. 
 
 Their clearness and simplicity strongly recommend them to the instructers 
 in this important branch of education. 
 
 From Mr. Oliver, Principal of the Salem Classical School. 
 
 I have introduced the work into this Institution, and heartily recommend it 
 to the notice of the profession. 
 
 From Mr. Joseph Healy, of Pawtucket. 
 I think it a very valuable auxiliary in the cause of education. 
 
 From the R't Rev. G. W. Doane, Bishop of New Jersey, formerly Professor 
 of Rhetoric and Oratory in Washington College. 
 
 Your little book on composition is excellent. It is the best help to that 
 difficult exercise for the young that I have ever seen. 
 
 5jP The same author has in course of preparation <s Second Part, or Sequel 
 to the above popular school book, which will be published soon. 
 
 19 
 
Robert S. Davis' Fuhhcations. 
 
 smith's class book of anatomy. 
 
 THE CLASS BOOK OF ANATOMY, explanatory of the first 
 principles of Human Organization, as the basis of Physical Educa- 
 tion ; with numerous Illustrations, a full Glossary, or explanation 
 of technical terms, and practical Questions at the bottom of the 
 page. By J. V. C. Smith, M. D., formerly Professor of General 
 Anatomy and Physiology in the Berkshire Medical Institution. 
 Sixth, Improved Stereotype Edition. 
 
 Id" This work has received the highest testimonials of approbation from 
 the most respectable sources, and has already been adopted as a text book in 
 many schools and colleges in various sections of the United States. 
 
 The estimation in which it is held in other countries may be inferred from 
 the fact, that a translation of it has recently been made into the Italian lan- 
 guage, at Palermo, under the supervision of the celebrated Dr. Placido Portel. 
 It is also in the progress of translation into the Hawaiian language, by the 
 American missionaries at the Sandwich Islands, to be used in the higher 
 schools, among the natives ; and the plates are soon to be forwarded, with 
 reference to that object, by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign 
 Missions ; which furnishes conclusive evidence of its value and utility. 
 
 From Rev. Hubbard Winslow, Pastor of Bowdoin St. Church, Boston. 
 
 Boston, Nov. 7, 1836. 
 
 I have examined the Class Book of Anatomy, by Dr. Smith, with very great 
 satisfaction. For comprehensiveness, precision, and philosophical arrange- 
 ment, it is surpassed by no book of the kind which I have ever seen. The 
 study of Anatomy and Physiology, to some extent, is exceedingly interesting 
 and useful as a branch of common education ; and it is to be desired that it 
 should be more extensively adopted in all our higher schools. To secure this 
 end, there is no other book before the public so well prepared as the one under 
 remark. It is also a convenient compend to lie upon the table of the scientific 
 anatomist and physician, and a very valuable family book for reference, and 
 for explanation of terms which often occur in reading. "FT W <; 
 
 We are gratified to see the attempt to introduce a new subject to ordinary 
 students. It is wonderful that civilized man has been so long willing to 
 remain ignorant of the residence of his mind, and the instruments by which it 
 operates. The book before us abounds in information in which every adult 
 reader will feel a deep interest, and from which all may derive valuable les- 
 sons of a practical kind. We are gratified to see frequent references to the 
 Great First Cause of life and motion. We cordially wish success to his enter- 
 prise in a path almost untrodden. — American Annals of Education. 
 
 Copy of a Communication from Mr. C. H. Allen, of the Franklin Academy ', 
 
 Andover, Mass. 
 
 North Andover, Dec. 10, 1836. 
 
 Mr. R. S. Davis. Dear Sir : During my vacation, I have had time to ex- 
 amine Smith's Class Book of Anatomy, the second edition of which you have 
 recently published. I do not hesitate to speak of it as the very work which 
 the public have long demanded. It contains knowledge which should be 
 widely diffused. The author is remarkably clear in his explanations and des- 
 criptions, and very systematic in his arrangement. So that he has rendered 
 this neglected branch of useful knowledge highly interesting to all classes. 
 
 Yours, respectfully, Chas> h All£n> 
 
 20 
 
Robert S. Davis' Publications. 
 
 SMITH'S CLASS BOOK OF ANATOMY. 
 
 Front JRev. Charles Brooks, of Hingham, who alluded to this xcork, in very 
 commendable terms, in a popular lecture on Education, delivered in the Mss- 
 sachusetts House of Representatives. 
 
 Mr. R. S.' Davis. Dear Sir : Dr. Smith's " Class Book of Anatomy," which 
 you was so kind as to send me, I have examined with pleasure and profit. It 
 is the best book of the kind which I have seen. I wish every child in the 
 United States could be made to see its uses. Did parents fully understand 
 physical education, how much pain and illness would be prevented, and, more- 
 over, how would intellectual and moral culture be advanced ! Our community 
 cannot come to its growth — we cannot have whole men, until all the physical, 
 intellectual, and moral powers are developed in their natural order, proper 
 time, and due proportion. In the hands of a competent teacher, this book will 
 be one step's advance towards such a result. 
 
 Bb&m, Fet. 20, 1837. ^ reSPeCtfUlly ' <""«- *««•• 
 
 Extract from a notice in the Boston Christian Watchman. 
 
 We think many of your readers will be pleased to know that a book on 
 Anatomy is prepared for popular use, on such a plan. Why should a subject 
 of such common interest oe excluded from the great mass of general readers, 
 and confined to the medical profession ? The author, a professed anatomist, 
 has conferred a great favor on this class, by presenting, in a form as simple as 
 the nature of the subject would allow, a popular outline of an intricate science, 
 and by preparing for his work plates and descriptions which are otherwise to 
 be obtained only at great expense. 
 
 From Rev. George W. Blagden, Pastor of the Old South Church, Boston. 
 
 I have read with much pleasure and profit part of Dr. Smith's " Class Book 
 of Anatomy," — sufficient, I think, to warrant me in saying, that it will be highly 
 useful in promoting the end for which it was designed, wherever it is used. 
 Without, of course, being able to speak of it as an anatomist, I take pleasure 
 in recommending it as highly adapted to impart instruction on that subject. 
 
 Very truly, yours, G w Blagden. 
 
 From the Boston Christian Review (for March, 1837.) 
 
 The title of this book explains its object. It contains a minute, and, we 
 presume, an accurate, account of the structure of the human body, illustrated 
 by numerous plates. A general knowledge of the organization of the body, 
 and of its physiology, ought to form a part of the education of every individual. 
 It would have a favorable influence on the health, and it ought to awaken de- 
 vout reverence towards the Author and Preserver of this wonderful mechanism. 
 
 Dr. Smith's book has been introduced into many academies and some of the 
 higher class of seminaries, and it has passed to a second edition. These facts 
 indicate that it has been found to be adapted to the purposes of education. 
 
 Extract from "Remarks on the Classical Education of Boys, by a Teacher," 
 
 (Professor Cleaveland.) 
 
 If the pupil has leisure, as he undoubtedly will in the course of an education 
 of seven or eight years, there are still other branches suited to his age, and 
 which will be interesting to him ; — and first I should recommend that he gain 
 some knowledge of Anatomy. This will be highly interesting, and will be 
 available knowledge as long as he lives. I observe with great pleasure that a 
 text book on this subject has just been prepared by Dr. J. V. C. Smith, which 
 ought to be adopted into all our schools. 
 
 It is a very valuable production, and in all things pre-eminently calculated 
 to gain the confidence and respect of the public. — Providence Journal. 
 
 21 
 
Robert S. Davis' Publications. 
 
 BOSTON SCHOOL ATLAS. 
 
 BOSTON SCHOOL ATLAS. Embracing a Compendium of 
 Geography. Containing seventeen Maps and Charts. Embellish- 
 ed with instructive Engravings. Twelfth edition, handsomely 
 printed, from new plates. One volume, quarto. 
 
 The Maps are all beautifully engraved and painted ; and that of Massachu- 
 setts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, contains the boundaries of every town in 
 those states. 
 
 spf* Although this book was designed for ihe younger classes in schools, for 
 which it is admirably calculated, yet its maps are so complete, its questions 
 so full, and its summary of the science so happily executed, that, in the opinion 
 of many, it contains all that is necessary for the pupil in our common schools. 
 
 From the Preface to the Sixth Edition. 
 
 The universal approbation and extensive patronage bestowed upon the 
 former editions of the Boston School Atlas, has induced the publishers to pre- 
 sent this edition with numerous improvements. The maps of the World, 
 North America, United States, Europe, England, and Asia, have been more 
 perfectly drawn, and re-engraved on steel ; and the maps of Maine, of New 
 Hampshire and Vermont, and of the Western States, also, on steel, have been 
 added ; and some improvements have been made in the elemental part. 
 
 It has been an object, in the revision of this edition, to keep the work, as 
 much as possible, free from subjects liable to changes, and to make it a perma- 
 nent Geography, which may hereafter continue to be used in classes without 
 the inconvenience of essential variations in different editions. 
 
 From R. G. Parker, author of " Progressive Exercises in English Composi- 
 tion," and other popular works. 
 
 I have examined a copy of the Boston School Atlas, and have no hesitation 
 in recommending it as the best introduction to the study of Geography that I 
 have seen. The compiler has displayed much judgment in what he has 
 omitted, as well as what he has selected ; and has thereby presented to the 
 public a neat manual of the elements of the science, unencumbered with use- 
 less matter and uninteresting detail. The mechanical execution of the work 
 is neat and creditable, and I doubt not that its merits will shortly introduce it 
 to general use. Respectfully yours, 
 
 R. G. Parker. 
 
 From E. Bailey, Principal of ihe Young Ladies' School, Boston. 
 
 I was so well pleased with the plan and execution of the Boston School 
 Atlas, that I introduced it into my school, soon after the first edition was pub- 
 lished. I regard it as the best work for beginners in the study of Geography 
 which has yet fallen under my observation ; as such I would recommend it to 
 the notice of parents and teachers. 
 
 From the Principal of one of the High Schools in Portland. 
 I have examined the Boston School Atlas, Elements of Geography, &c, and 
 think it admirably adapted to beginners in the study of the several subjects 
 treated on. It is what is wanted in all books for learners — simple, philosophi- 
 cal, and practical. I hope it will be used extensively. 
 
 Yours, respectfully, Jas. Furbish. 
 
 I have perused your Boston School Atlas with much satisfaction. It seems 
 to me to be what has been needed as an introduction to the study of Geogra- 
 phy, and admirably adapted to that purpose. 
 
 Very respectfully, yours, &c. B. D. Emerson. 
 22 
 
Robert S. Davis"* Publications. 
 
 ADAMS'S NEW SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY AND ATLAS. 
 
 ADAMS'S SCHOOL GEOGRAPHY, new edition, improved; 
 being a Description of the World, in three parts. To which is add- 
 ed a brief Sketch of Ancient Geography ; a plain Method of con- 
 structing Maps ; and an Introduction to the use of the Globes. Il- 
 lustrated by numerous Engravings. Accompanied by an Improved 
 Atlas. Designed for Schools and Academies in the United States. 
 By Daniel Adams, A. M., author of the "New School Arithmetic." 
 Seventeenth edition, revised. 
 
 Advertisement to the Seventeenth Edition. 
 
 The present edition of this work has undergone an entire revision, without 
 a change in its original and generally approved plan, with a design better to 
 adapt it to the present state of Geographical Science. 
 
 In that portion relating to the United States, particularly, much useful infor- 
 mation, touching Internal Improvements, State Governments, Education, &c. 
 has been incorporated ; together with the addition of many new and useful 
 pictorial illustrations, which, with the improvement in its mechanical execu- 
 tion, it is believed, will render this edition more worthy of public patronage 
 than the preceding ones. 
 
 The work is systematically arranged in three parts; — the First Part, or 
 Grammar, contains the elements of the science, concisely arranged to be 
 committed to memory j with practical questions on the maps. 
 
 Instead of interspersing the whole book with statistics and exercises on the 
 Maps, Dr. Adams has comprised this department in the First Part, occupying 
 about one third of the Book. This part, particularly intended to be studied, 
 simplifies the labor of the pupil and teacher, by presenting the lesson to be 
 learned, without the necessity of marking off particular portions. 
 
 A distinguishing feature of this work is the Second Part, or Descriptive Ge- 
 ography, so eminently fitted for a reading book in classes. It is a kind of nar- 
 rative read with great interest and attention by children who have made, or 
 who at the time may be making geography a study. 
 
 The Third Part, entitled Geographical Orthography, comprises a Pronounc- 
 ing Vocabulary of Geographical Names. 
 
 The Atlas accompanying the revised edition of this Geography, has receiv- 
 ed various corrections and improvements, which recent changes in different 
 sections of the United States, and other countries described in the Geography, 
 render necessary. It contains twelve maps, including an additional map of 
 the Southern States, all of which are handsomely engraved on steel, and beau- 
 tifully painted in full colors. 
 
 Although numerous School Geographies have been issued since this work 
 appeared, yet Adams's Geography retains all its popularity, and is constantly 
 increasing in circulation. Indeed the excellence of its plan needs only to be 
 examined to be admired : and, being furnished at a cheap price, it is well suit- 
 ed to the public Schools in the United States. 
 
 FOWLE'S GEOGRAPHY, with an ATLAS. This Geography 
 is used with great success in the Monitorial School in Boston, and 
 meets with universal approbation among instructors. The Atlas 
 (which is furnished separately) is considered to be the most correct 
 and beautiful ever presented to our schools. 
 
 Extract of a letter from an accomplished Jnstructer in Philadelphia. 
 
 I hope to see Fowle's Geography introduced into several schools here. It 
 is certainly an excellent work. 
 
 23 
 
Robert S. Davis'' Publications. 
 
 walker's school dictionary and the classical reader. 
 
 WALKER'S BOSTON SCHOOL DICTIONARY. Walker's 
 Critical Pronouncing Dictionary, and Expositor of the English Lan- 
 guage. Abridged for the use of Schools throughout the United 
 States. To which is annexed, an Abridgment of Walker's Key 
 to the pronunciation of Greek, Latin and Scripture Proper Names. 
 Boston stereotype edition. 
 
 This handsome and correct edition, prepared for the Boston schools, 
 with gieat care, has so long been used, that it is only necessary for the pub- 
 lisher to keep it in a respectable dress, to ensure it a general circulation. 
 
 The price of the work, neatly bound in leather, is reduced to 50 cts. single, 
 $5,00 a"dozen. 
 
 THE CLASSICAL READER. A Selection of Lessons in 
 Prose and Verse, from the most esteemed English and American 
 Writers. Intended for the use of the higher classes in Public and 
 Private Seminaries. By Rev. F. W. P. Greenwood and G. B. 
 Emerson, of Boston. Tenth stereotype edition. 
 
 This work is highly approved, as a First Class Reader, and has received 
 many commendable notices from Public Journals throughout the United 
 States, from which the following are selected. 
 
 From the Visiter and Telegraph, Richmond, Va. 
 
 This work is a valuable acquisition to our schools. It is a work purely 
 national and modern. It has many valuable historical facts and anecdotes in 
 relation to the early history, the character, manners, geography and scenery 
 of our country. In the matter it contains, it is veil adapted to the taste, feel- 
 ings, and habits of the present age. It embodies many of the brightest and 
 most sparkling gems of Irving, Webster, Everett, Jefferson, Channing, Sparks, 
 Bryant, Percival, &c. • 
 
 From the American Journal of Education. 
 
 We are happy to see another valuable addition to the list of reading books, 
 — one which has been compiled with a strict regard to the tendency of the 
 pieces it contains, and which bears the stamp of so high a standard of literary 
 taste. In these respects the Classical Reader is highly creditable to its 
 editors. 
 
 Extract from ihe North American Review. 
 
 The Classical Reader is selected from the very best authors, and the quan- 
 tity from each, or the number of pieces of a similar character, by different 
 authors, affords all that can be required for classes, and in sufficient variety, 
 too, of manner, to facilitate greatly the formation of correct habits of reading, 
 and a good taste. From each of those considerations, we give it our cordial 
 recommendation. 
 
 §^= The Publisher respectfully solicits the attention of Teachers, School 
 Committee's, and all interested in the cause of Education, to the foregoing list 
 of School Books,— feeling confident that an examination of the works will lead 
 to a conviction of their merits, — copies of which will be furnished for this pur- 
 pose, with a iriew to their adoption, without, charge. 
 
 24 
 
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