1 
 
 THE 
 
 READER'S GUIDE, 
 
 CONTAINING A 
 
 NOTICE OF THE ELEMENTARY SOUNDS 
 
 IN THE 
 
 ENGLISH LANGUAGE; 
 INSTRUCTIONS FOR READING 
 
 BOTH PROSE AND VERSE, 
 
 WITH 
 
 NUMEROUS EXAMPLES FOR ILLUSTRATION, 
 
 AND 
 
 LESSONS FOR PRACTICE. 
 
 BY JOHN HALL, 
 
 PRINCIPAL OF THE ELLINGTON SCHOOL. 
 
 HARTFORD : 
 PUBLISHED BY CANFIELD & ROBINS. 
 
 1836. 
 

 
 Entered according: to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, 
 
 By JOHN HALL, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. 
 
 zy- 7 o 
 
 The following errors, (with some others of minor importance, particularly in the char- 
 acters employed for notation,) escaped notice, or were not corrected, till the sheets 
 were printed off. 
 
 Page 18, line 9th from top, for a consonant, read an accented consonant. 
 " 23, 12th line from top, for ledgyer, read ledyer. 
 " 43, 12th line from bottom, erase one not. 
 " 80, 3d line from top, put virtues' for natures'. 
 " 92, 16th line from top, for when read where. 
 " 105, 16th line from bottom, erase the accent from clos'd. 
 " 172, 13th line from bottom, erase are with the preceding comma. 
 " 208, 2d line in the note at bottom, for father read late ; and for late re&dfather. 
 " 216, 10th line from bottom, place a point under with, and erase it over thee. 
 " 219, 8th line from bottom, form should have the rising slide. 
 " 250, 5th line from bottom, read too for two. 
 " 260, Bottom line in second note, for sound read the stomach. 
 " 309, 8th line from top, for purposes read purpose. 
 " 321, 10th line from bottom, for all rear s-lf. 
 " 324, 14th line from top, put a dash — after remove. 
 
 / 
 

 PREFACE 
 
 The following work is designed for those who have already 
 learned to call their words with fluency, and are sufficiently ad- 
 vanced to be taught how to read with propriety and good taste. 
 Among those who are thus far advanced are many grades of 
 proficients, demanding different amounts of instruction. It would 
 be idle to think of providing a separate res.ding-buok for each 
 of these grades ; any attempt to graduate books to their respec- 
 tive wants, would produce complexity and confusion, rather 
 than any real advantage. Whilst some would be too simple to 
 benefit those of an advanced standing, others would exceed the 
 capacity of those in their early stages. This evil I have en- 
 deavored to avoid, and have provided a series of reading lessons 
 in progi.--.oive order, beginning with selections adapted to those 
 who are in their first rudiments as it respects rhetorical execu- 
 tion, and advancing gradually to meet the wants of higher, and 
 «till higher proficients. It is not presuming too much to believe 
 that those, who have made considerable attainments in elocu- 
 tion, will here find something worthy of attention ; — they will 
 certainly find much that is new, in whatever light they may 
 consider its value. 
 
 Without much reflecting on the subject, some may think that 
 Pafts I, II, and III, are dilated beyond the proper limits for a 
 reading book designed for extensive use. To this suggestion 
 it may be replied, that much of this seeming prolixity is a mere 
 illusion. A large proportion of these pages, especially in Parts 
 second, and third, is occupied only with examples for illustration, 
 and for the exercise of the voice. After the examples are de- 
 ducted, it will be found that what is strictly, and merely, pre- 
 ceptive, is comprised within very moderate limits. In my own 
 opinion, I might as well have said nothing, as to have said much 
 less. There is hardly a stranger conceit on the whole subject 
 of education, than the one that correct reading can be taught 
 successfully without precepts, or with such few and meager 
 ones as to strip them of all value. No books for education, in- 
 deed, are so generally popular, at this day, as those which prom- 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 ise the learner that they can be understood without any mental 
 effort. Simplifications, abridgements, and epitomes, in which 
 nothing is condensed, but almost every thing of value is leftout y 
 in which much is promised, and very little or nothing accom- 
 plished, are the books which are chiefly recommended to the 
 use of scholars. In attempting and promising to bring every 
 thing down to the comprehension of learners, it seems to be for- 
 gotten that the proper object of education is to elevate the hu- 
 man mind, not to depress it, nor to keep it stationary. But if a 
 child is not to be taught any thing except what he knows al- 
 ready, if every thing must be so simplified as to retain the child 
 in his simplicity, it is not easy to conceive how his mind is to be 
 elevated, and improved. It is a truth which ought not to be 
 concealed^ hat there is no branch of education in this country 
 at a lower ebb than that of elocution at large. How few tole- 
 rably good readers are to be found in any class of people among 
 us — from him who reads a portion of Scripture or a hymn from 
 the pulpit, or some document in a public assembly, to him or 
 her who reads for the entertainment of a social circle, or of a 
 family fireside. What perversion of taste, what distortion of 
 thoughts and of sentiment, what mangling of authors, is every 
 where, and every day, witnessed. Shall this state of things be 
 suffered to continue, or shall some effort at reform be ventured? 
 If the latter, what shall it be ? Shall we give our youth the 
 means of reform and improvement, or withhold them ? Will the 
 evil be remedied by continuing to give learners nothing but 
 such meager instructions as have heretofore been given, and 
 from which so little benefit has been derived, or shall we at- 
 tempt to do something adequate to the purpose ? If the old 
 practice has brought us to our present state, will a continuance 
 of it deliver us ? — If more than enough to accomplish what is 
 desirable is here contained, will objectors inform us what part is 
 superfluous? Let us know what this superfluity, this redun- 
 dancy is. It is always easier to make a vague, random, decla- 
 ration, than it is to support it ; and to surmise, than to substan- 
 tiate. If any thing here contained is incorrect, there is then, 
 indeed, so much that is superfluous ; if there is any thing useless, 
 there is too much ; but if none of it could be omitted without 
 materially lessening the attainments of the learner, there can- 
 not be more than is useful and desirable. 
 
 Should the instructions contained in the book, if not excessive 
 in amount, be thought too difficult for the learner to master, it 
 may be remarked that they are incomparably easier than the 
 rudiments of singing, which persons of all ages and capacities 
 nevertheless learn. If the proper modulations of the voice in 
 
• PREFACE, V 
 
 reading are to be acquired at all, I do not perceive that they 
 could be made plainer and more intelligible than they are here 
 presented. I am not apprised that any real difficulties lie in 
 the way of learning any thing which is here offered ; but allow- 
 ing that some time and attention are required for this object, who 
 that adequately estimates the importance of reading well, would 
 grudge the expense of a little time and labor for its attainment ? 
 How much money, time, and labor are continually expended on 
 other acquisitions of inferior value. 
 
 After all, these apprehensions of prolixity and of difficulties 
 may be laid aside, as entirely groundless, for a still different 
 reason. — Neither of the first three parts were designed for uni- 
 versal use. Either, or all of them, may be omitted by teachers, 
 whenever they deem the use of them inexpedient on account of 
 the age, or other circumstances of their pupils. They are in- 
 troduced for the benefit of all who may wish to avail themselves 
 of the assistance which they offer. It is believed that there are 
 very many who will be so disposed ; and where such a dispo- 
 sition exists, the means for its gratification should be furnished. 
 These several parts, especially the second and third, are design- 
 ed for exercises in reading, as well as the Lessons which follow 
 in Part fourth. When these shall be frequently read in school, 
 although the preceptive portions should never be studied and 
 recited in form, much would nevertheless be learned from them, 
 and retained in mind. The pupils would become familiarized 
 with first principles, and could hardly fail to derive advantage 
 from them. Again, although his scholars should never make 
 use, directly, of the instructions here offered, the teacher will 
 have them at hand for his own guidance and benefit, and they 
 will serve as a key to explain the correct reading of the Les- 
 sons. They will enable him to teach better, and thus, through 
 him, they will prove useful to his pupils. They are not, there- 
 fore, in any view of the case, to be considered a useless appen- 
 dage, but important auxiliaries to both teachers and scholars. 
 
 Part first, which contains an analysis of all the simple sounds 
 in the English language, and the position of the organs of speech 
 in pronouncing them severally, I have introduced on account of 
 the assistance which it may afford in correcting a faulty pro- 
 nunciation. Faults of this kind are often originated and made 
 perpetual from ignorance of the right position of the organs for 
 framing certain sounds. No one, for instance, would ever lisp 
 were he duly apprised of that which causes the fault, and of the 
 remedy which would cure it, unless he should continue in his 
 error from choice. So it is with many other faults of utterance. 
 I do not know that a correct analysis of all the elementary 
 1* 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 sounds in our language was ever before given, nor that the true 
 position of the organs in forming them, has ever been attempt- 
 ed. If I have been successful in the attempt now made, this 
 part of the book, alone, will more than compensate for the cost, 
 and examination of the whole. 
 
 In Part second, under Inflections, Cadence, Interrogative 
 Sentences, and Emphasis, I have ventured on a pretty wide de- 
 parture from what is generally laid down in books on these 
 respective topics. Much of what is here advanced is entirely 
 new, and, it is hoped, better calculated to throw light on these 
 different subjects than the methods of considering them to which 
 we have been accustomed. 
 
 Part third, on Prosody, has been inserted, because, in modern 
 days, it is seldom to be met with, and is so much abridged, and 
 so seldom taught, even when it is furnished. Heretofore, this 
 has been considered a part of Grammar ; but few grammars 
 now contain it, and it is excluded from other books. There 
 seems to be a special propriety in attaching this subject to a 
 treatise on elocution, which teaches the reading of poetry as 
 well as of prose. Without some knowledge of prosody, it is 
 difficult to conceive how poetry can be read with correctness ; 
 and it is a fact that it hardly ever is read with decency, and 
 much less, with propriety. But the ability to read poetry with 
 grace, is too important a part of a refined education to be neg- 
 lected ; it contributes to a correct poetical taste, and adds to 
 the sources of innocent enjoyment. How many of our well ed- 
 ucated young ladies have been taught, at great expense of time 
 and money, to become proficients in vocal and instrumental 
 music, when they cannot read, with any grace, the very words 
 to which their music is adapted ! How preposterous is an edu- 
 cation so conducted. 
 
 The reading Lessons in Part fourth have been selected with 
 a view to the object for which they are wanted — for practical 
 exercises of the voice. Most compilers of reading books seem 
 to think that they have done enough, if the pieces which they 
 select have a good moral or religious tendency, or give instruc- 
 tions in other matters, though they contain nothing which is 
 suited to illustrate the peculiar principles of elocution. They 
 seem to have forgotten that a book may have an excellent mor- 
 al or religious character, or be instructive on other subjects, and 
 yet be wholly unsuited to the purpose of a reading book. Too 
 many books now in use are of this description — faultless in their 
 moral tendency ; containing selections from the best authors ; 
 and sufficiently instructive about every thing except elocution. 
 Some of these do not even profess to give instructions in this 
 
 ) 
 
PREFACE. VU 
 
 department ; that is, they are books which teach, without teach. 
 ing : others do indeed profess to give something under the name 
 and form of rules, or instructions, but these are so few, so brief, 
 and so general in their character, as to be altogether useless. 
 The pieces selected for reading, are, generally, too dry and mo- 
 notonous either to interest learners, or to teach them the various 
 modulations of the voice. This defect, along with others, I 
 have endeavored to remedy by selections which will interest all 
 classes of readers, and call into exercise a great variety of vocal 
 modulations ; at the same time, care has been taken to admit 
 nothing which can be ofFensive to the nicest sense of decency 
 and religion. 
 
 As this is designed for a reading book, and nothing more, such 
 instructions and exercises as belong peculiarly to declamation 
 and public speaking are excluded. To a great extent, indeed, 
 the same principles are involved, and the same exercises are re- 
 quired in both reading and speaking ; and a good foundation for 
 the latter is always best laid in the due cultivation of the for- 
 mer ; yet I have chosen not to transcend the obvious bounda- 
 ries between them. 
 
 To those who think that this work contains too much instruc- 
 tion, I would again remark, that what is here contained is but 
 an epitome of what belongs to this department of learning. It 
 has been my wish to say enough to do some good ; if more than 
 that is said, I shall regret the loss of so much superfluous labor. 
 To have said less than enough to do some good, for the sake of 
 cheapening the work, and of conciliating public favor by spe- 
 cious pretenses, I am not able to reconcile with a good con- 
 science. 
 
 No merit is claimed for this work on the ground of my per- 
 sonal experience, for many years, in the subject of which it 
 treats, although many precedents could be found to sanction 
 such a resort. I am content that the book shall rest on its own 
 merits, independent of their source. If it has defects, the expe- 
 rience of its author cannot correct them ; if it has merit, it is of 
 little consequence to the public how it was obtained. It is not 
 claimed that the work is perfect ; yet a hope is indulged that it 
 embraces several important improvements, which will render it 
 a useful and acceptable offering to the cause of public educa- 
 tion. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Page 
 
 Organs of speech. ...... 13 
 
 Vowels. ........ 16 
 
 Consonants 19 
 
 Accent. . . . . • . . . 24 
 
 Faults of utterance. ...... 26 
 
 Words and phrases of difficult pronunciation. . . 28 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Inflections described. ...... 32 
 
 Rules for using the primary inflections. ... 35 
 
 Secondary inflections. ...... 49 
 
 Monotone. ........ 51 
 
 Cadence. ........ 53 
 
 Pauses. ........ 61 
 
 Interrogative sentences. ..... 64 
 
 Emphasis. ........ 72 
 
 PART III.— Phosody. 
 
 Quantity, what it is. ...... 88 
 
 Poetical Feet. . 90 
 
 Iambic verse. ....... 90 
 
 Trochaic verse. . . . . . , , 95 
 
 Anapestic Verse. ....... 96 
 
 Different kinds of Poems. ..... 98 
 
 Rules for reading poetry. ..... 101 
 
 Cesural Pause. ....... 103 
 
 PART IV.— Lessons for Exercise. 
 
 LESSONS IN PROSE. 
 Lesson 
 
 1. The little Orphan Girl. . By Mary Hughes. 107 
 
 2. The way to bear pain. . . Unknown. Ill 
 
 3. An Example. . . . Fireside Series. 113 
 
 4. Miss Troublesome. . . . Unknown. 118 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 5. 
 6. 
 
 7. 
 
 8. 
 
 9. 
 
 10. 
 
 11. 
 
 12. 
 
 13. 
 
 14. 
 
 15. 
 
 16. 
 
 17. 
 
 18. 
 
 30. 
 
 31. 
 
 32. 
 
 33. 
 
 34. 
 
 35. 
 
 36. 
 
 37. 
 
 38. 
 
 39. 
 
 44. 
 
 45. 
 
 46. 
 
 47. 
 
 53. 
 
 54. 
 
 55. 
 
 56. 
 
 57. 
 
 58. 
 
 59. 
 
 67. 
 
 68. 
 
 69. 
 
 71. 
 
 72. 
 
 76. 
 
 75. 
 
 83. 
 
 84. 
 
 85. 
 
 The Goose and the Colt. 
 
 The Forest Trees. . . 
 
 The Frog and his Neighbors. 
 
 The Countryman and his Pig. 
 
 The Cock and the Fox. 
 
 Tit for Tat. 
 
 The Shepherd's Dog. 
 
 Peter the Great. 
 
 Good for Trade. 
 
 The Ape and the Beaver. 
 
 The Massacre of Scio. 
 
 Dogs and a Lion. 
 
 Symptoms of Imposture. 
 
 The Miller's Daughter of Argenton 
 
 Elm-tree Hall. ' • 
 
 The Basket of Tools. 
 
 The Evil of Conceit. 
 
 Wealth and Fashion. 
 
 The Hunters of the Prairie. 
 
 The Mother and her Infants. 
 
 Melancholy Moments. 
 
 Story of a Hunter. 
 
 Temper. 
 
 A Republic of Prairie Dogs. 
 
 The Widow and her son. 
 
 Rural Funerals. 
 
 Thoughts on Death. 
 Cain and Abel. 
 The Adventure of a Mason. 
 The Truant. 
 Improvement of Taste. 
 
 Parley's Fables 120 
 Ibid. 121 
 Ibid. 122 
 Ibid. 123 
 Ibid. 124 
 Ibid. 125 
 Unknown. 126 
 127 
 128 
 128 
 129 
 131 
 132 
 132 
 156 
 160 
 164 
 167 
 169 
 171 
 172 
 173 
 177 
 181 
 193 
 196 
 198 
 200 
 
 Carlton Bruce. 
 
 Instructive Fables. 
 
 Stories worth telling. 
 
 W. Irving. 
 
 Scrap Book. 
 
 Miss Mary E. Jackson. 
 
 Scrap Book. 
 
 Mrs. Opie. 
 
 W. Irving. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Job, vii and xiv. 1 — 14. 
 Exod. iv. 3— 15 
 
 W. Irving. 208 
 
 Ibid. 211 
 
 Blair. 
 
 C. C olden. 
 
 213 
 214 
 215 
 217 
 218 
 229 
 
 Specimen of Indian figurative Language. 
 
 Parables from the Bible ; Old Testament. 
 
 Job rebuked by Eliphaz. . . Jobiv, 
 
 Sinai at the giving of the Law. Exod. xix. 16 — 25 
 
 Tale of Potted Sprats. . . Mrs. Opie 
 
 A Pilgrimage to the W. Mountains. Token for 1836. 231 
 
 Dialogue. A scene from the Gipsy. Metropolitan. 238 
 
 The Governor and the Notary. Irvings' Alhambra. 246 
 
 A Thunder Storm on the Prairies. 
 
 Deer Bleating. Magic Balls. 
 
 A Frontier Farm house. 
 
 Indolence. 
 
 Escape of Birch and Wharton. 
 
 Anecdote of Dr. Chauncy. 
 
 W. Irving. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 . Dennie. 
 
 Cooper. 
 
 . Tudor. 
 
 251 
 257 
 260 
 275 
 
 277 
 
 284 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 xi 
 
 90. 
 
 Description of a Death Scene. 
 
 Miss Francis. 
 
 291 
 
 91. 
 
 National Union. 
 
 Gouv. Morris. 
 
 294 
 
 92. 
 
 Misinterpretation of motives. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 295 
 
 93. 
 
 Scene in the Burning of Rome. 
 
 Croly's Salathiel. 
 
 297 
 
 94. 
 
 Extract from Webster's speech 
 
 on the trial of John 
 
 
 F. Knapp. 
 
 . 
 
 301 
 
 102. 
 
 Death of Le Fever. 
 
 Sterne. 
 
 310 
 
 103. 
 
 Eternity of God. 
 
 Greenwood. 
 
 311 
 
 104. 
 
 Preaching of Whitfield described. 
 
 Miss Francis. 
 
 328 
 
 105. 
 
 Intemperance. 
 
 Brockway, 
 
 334 
 
 106. 
 
 The Value of the Bible. 
 
 Robert Hall. 
 
 337 
 
 107. 
 
 Character of Infidelity. 
 
 Dwight. 
 
 339 
 
 108. 
 
 Encouragement to religious Effort. Woyland. 
 
 341 
 
 109. 
 
 Final Triumph of the Gospel. 
 
 Dr. J. M. Mason. 
 
 342 
 
 115. 
 
 Hagar and Ishmael. 
 
 Gen. xxi. 9 — 21 
 
 327 
 
 116. 
 
 Joseph and his brethren. 
 
 Gen xlii. 1—24. 
 
 328 
 
 117. 
 
 Sufferings of Christ foretold. 
 
 Is. liii. 
 
 330 
 
 118. 
 
 Desire of Immortality natural to 
 
 men. Wayland. 
 
 331 
 
 119. 
 
 Benevolent Beings, higher than ourselves. Ibid. 
 
 332 
 
 120. 
 
 Advantage of having Christ for our King. Dwight. 
 
 335 
 
 121. 
 
 Dying. 
 
 Wayland. 
 
 337 
 
 122. 
 
 Psalm xviii, 1 — 16. 
 
 . 
 
 338 
 
 123. 
 
 Isaiah xl. 12—31. 
 
 . . 
 
 339 
 
 130. 
 
 Galatians hi. 
 
 . . 
 
 347 
 
 131. 
 
 Profanity reproved. 
 
 Dwight. 
 
 340 
 
 
 LESSONS IN POETRY. 
 
 
 19. 
 
 Poetry. 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 141 
 
 20. 
 
 Amelia and the Spider. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 142 
 
 21. 
 
 The paper Kite. 
 
 a 
 
 143 
 
 22. 
 
 The Ball. 
 
 Jane Taylor. 
 
 144 
 
 23. 
 
 The Spider and his Wife. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 145 
 
 24. 
 
 The Donkey's Epitaph. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 146. 
 
 25. 
 
 A Chaffinch and his Mate. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 147 
 
 26. 
 
 The Fox and the Crow. 
 
 Jane Taylor. 
 
 150 
 
 27. 
 
 The notorious Glutton. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 152 
 
 28. 
 
 The Jackdaw. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 153 
 
 29. 
 
 A Desire to praise. 
 
 Farnell. 
 
 155 
 
 40. 
 
 The Land of the Blest. 
 
 Mrs. Abdy. 
 
 184 
 
 41. 
 
 The Orphan's Song. London Monthly Maga. 
 
 185 
 
 42. 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thompson. 
 
 Collins. 
 
 186 
 
 43. 
 
 The Bird of Paradise. 
 
 Stennett. 
 
 188 
 
 48. 
 
 The Host of Night. 
 
 Mellen. 
 
 201 
 
 49. 
 
 Recollections of Childhood. 
 
 English Paper. 
 
 203 
 
 50. 
 
 Cling not to Earth. . Wilmington Herald. 
 
 204 
 
 51. 
 
 Holiness to the Lord. 
 
 W. B. Tappan. 
 
 205 
 
xu 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 52. 
 60. 
 61. 
 
 62. 
 63. 
 
 64. 
 65. 
 66. 
 
 70. 
 73. 
 76. 
 77. 
 78. 
 79. 
 80. 
 81. 
 82. 
 86. 
 87. 
 88. 
 89. 
 95. 
 
 96. 
 
 97. 
 
 98. 
 
 99. 
 
 100. 
 
 101. 
 
 110. 
 
 111. 
 
 112. 
 
 113. 
 
 114. 
 
 124. 
 
 125. 
 
 126. 
 
 127. 
 
 128. 
 
 129. 
 
 132. 
 
 133. 
 
 134. 
 
 135. 
 
 130. 
 
 I shall be satisfied. . Miss H. F. Gould. 
 
 The Soul's Defiance, . Anonymous, 
 
 Fable of the Wood Rose and the Laurel. 
 
 Monthly Anthology. 
 The Soap Bubble. . . . Mrs. Sigourney. 
 The Consumptive. . Rockingham Gazette. 
 
 Escape from Winter. . . Percival. 
 
 A Castle in the Air. . Professor Frisbee. 
 
 Extract from Cowper's Conversation. 
 Shy lock and Antonio. Shakspeare's Merch. of Ven. 
 Prince Arthur. . Shakspeare's King John. 
 
 An Enigma. . . . Jane Taylor, 
 
 Friendship. ... . Cowper. 
 
 The Retired Cat. . . . Ibid. 
 
 Roderic Dhu. . . . Scott. 
 
 The Ocean. . . . Byron. 
 
 Lines written in a Church Yard. H. Knowles. 
 
 Eve's Lamentation. . . Milton. 
 
 The Deserted Village. Extract. Goldsmith. 
 
 Celadon and Amelia. . . Thompson. 
 
 Night. .... Young. 
 
 Elegy to the Memory of an unfortunate Lady. Pope. 
 Ode for the 50th Anniversary of American Indepen- 
 
 dence 
 Warren's Address at Bunker Hill. 
 Birthday of Washington. 
 King Richard's Soliloquy. 
 Snow Storm. 
 Vain Anticipations. 
 Destruction of Sennacherib. 
 The Rose of Sharon. 
 Lovest thou me ? John xxi. 17 
 Pilgrim's Song. 
 Safety in God. 
 The last Judgment. 
 Dedication Hymn. 
 Resurrection of Christ. 
 Divine protection. 
 Going to Church. 
 The Redeemer's Message. 
 Proclamation of the Gospel. 
 Praise to God for his Goodness. 
 In that day, &c. Zech. xiii. 1. 
 Thanksgiving Hymn. 
 God's Universal Dominion. 
 Hymn to God. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Pierpont. 
 
 Brainerd. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Thompson. 
 
 Young. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Whitfield. 
 
 Watts. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 5 Doddridge. 
 
 Watts. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Rippon. 
 
 Watts. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Kelly. 
 
 Henry Ware t Jun. 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 Thompson. 
 
 207 
 219 
 
 221 
 222 
 223 
 225 
 226 
 228 
 241 
 253 
 262 
 263 
 263 
 269 
 271 
 273 
 274 
 285 
 287 
 289 
 290 
 
 303 
 
 304 
 
 305 
 
 306 
 
 307 
 
 308 
 
 309 
 
 322 
 
 323 
 
 324 
 
 325 
 
 326 
 
 341 
 
 142 
 
 343 
 
 344 
 
 345 
 
 346 
 
 350 
 
 351 
 
 352 
 
 353 
 
 354 
 
PART I 
 
 ANALYSIS OF ALL THE SIMPLE SOUNDS IN THE ENG- 
 LISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 REMARKS ON ACCENT, &c. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE ORGANS OF SPEECH. DISTINCTION BETWEEN VOWELS, 
 
 AND CONSONANTS. DEFINITION OF BOTH. 
 
 A brief account of the organs of speech, and of the manner 
 in which the sounds of the voice are made, is useful to every- 
 one who would learn to modulate those sounds with propriety. 
 I can see no good reason why books designed to teach us to 
 read and speak, that is, to manage skilfully the human voice, 
 should entirely omit every thing relating to the structure of its 
 organs and the mode of their operation. How few, even 
 among persons advanced in life, and, it might be added, among 
 scholars too, understand the true distinction between a vowel 
 and consonant, or know how many of either our language con- 
 tains. They have been told in spelling books, and occasionally 
 elsewhere, that we have twenty six letters, six of which are 
 vowels, and the rest consonants ; and nine hundred and ninety 
 nine out of a thousand learners are left to believe that we have 
 just six vowel sounds in our language, no more nor less, and 
 twenty consonants precisely. We have, indeed, just so many 
 characters, called letters, in common use, which meet the 
 eye in writings or in print ; but so miserably imperfect are 
 these characters as representatives of sounds, that they teach 
 us nothing at all in relation to the number of the latter. The 
 same character, in many instances, is made to represent several 
 sounds, and the same sound is represented by several charac- 
 ters. 
 
 As a specimen of this perversion of all propriety in the use 
 of characters, take the vowel sound as heard, not seen in the 
 2 
 
14 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 following words ; late, ail, veil, prey, pay, gauge, great, deign, 
 eight, tete. Here are no fewer than ten characters, or combi- 
 nations of characters, namely, a, ai, ei, ey, ay, au, ea, eig, eigh, 
 and e, employed to denote one simple vowel sound ; and to 
 make bad worse, most of these same characters and combina- 
 tions are also used to express other sounds besides. Among 
 the consonants there is a similar confusion ; c, k, ch, are used 
 to denote the same consonant sound as heard in can, take, 
 chasm ; sometimes c is sounded like s, as in mace, and in com- 
 bination with h, it is made sometimes to represent the sound 
 heard at the end of the word such, and sometimes that heard in 
 the beginning of chaise. These specimens are sufficient to 
 show us how difficult it must be to ascertain the real number 
 of elementary sounds in our language from attending only to 
 what the alphabet teaches, or indeed from any other sources 
 to which people in general have access. 
 
 Our alphabet, to be perfect, should contain just as many char- 
 acters as there are simple sounds in our language ; and no 
 character should represent more than one sound. The advan- 
 tages of such an alphabet would be incalculably great, extend- 
 ing to every individual who has or shall have, use for it, at the 
 present, and in all future time. No such thing as bad spelling, 
 or bad reading, so far as calling the words is concerned, could in 
 such a case exist ; the expenditure of many millions of dollars, 
 annually, in teaching children to read and spell might be saved, 
 the business be better accomplished, and a great amount of 
 time would be redeemed for the pursuit of other objects. 
 
 Before attempting to exhibit the elementary sounds which 
 our language contains, let us first attend to the organs of speech, 
 and the manner in which those sounds are formed. 
 
 The organs of speech are the throat, the passage leading 
 thence through the nose, the palate, the tongue, the roof of the 
 mouth, the upper jaw with its gums, the front teeth, especially 
 the upper ones, and the lips. To these may with propriety be 
 added the lungs, as being the bellows which sends forward the 
 air through the throat, mouth, and nose. By the various ac- 
 tion of these organs, the air, in coming from the lungs, is 
 vibrated, reverberated, and otherwise affected, so as to produce 
 all that variety of sounds which are heard in both speaking and 
 singing. 
 
 If a passage for the breath be left open and uninterrupted 
 from the throat quite through the mouth and lips, the sound 
 which is produced, however modified it may be in other respects, 
 is continuous and open, capable of being protracted 'or short- 
 
ELEMENTARY SOUNDS. 15 
 
 ened, elevated, or depressed, in various degrees. A sound, so 
 produced, is called a vowel. While this current of breath, or 
 air, is issuing' from the throat, if two or more of the organs of 
 speech are brought into contact so as to stop it, or to allow but 
 a very small portion of it to escape, except in some few cases it 
 passes out through the nose, the sound, or modification of sound, 
 so produced, is called a consonant. If the organs are similarly 
 situated before the air is issued from the throat, and the effort 
 to issue it is then made ; that is, if the commencement of sound- 
 ing has the same position of the organs as the ending of it, the 
 effect is the same. The distinction then between a vowel and 
 consonant is, that the former is a sound uninterrupted by the con- 
 tact of the organs, and not deflected by them into a new chan- 
 nel; while the latter is a sound in which the breath is quite or 
 nearly interrupted, or deflected from the mouth through the 
 nose. Let any one make an experiment on any or all of the 
 vowels, he will perceive the breath to escape through the mouth 
 without interruption, or deflection. Let him attempt to pro- 
 nounce the syllable ep ; he will perceive that no breath escapes 
 either from his mouth or nose, but that both passages are firmly 
 closed. Let him make trial of the syllable eb ; he will find 
 the same position of the organs as before, with no escape of 
 breath ; but he will perceive that the breath has how been 
 forced up part way through the nose and there arrested in its 
 progress, producing a slight vibratory sound in that organ. 
 Again, let him take the syllable em, and try as before ; here 
 every thing will appear as in the two former cases, except that 
 now the breath will escape, and entirely so, through the nose. 
 All the difference, therefore, between these three consonants con- 
 sists in the entire stoppage of the breath at the lips, a deflection of 
 it from the mouth a little way into the nasal passage where it 
 is stopped, and its entire passage through the nose ; yet what a 
 difference in their respective sounds is the result. A similar 
 experiment may be made with t, d, and n, placing the tongue 
 against the gum of the upper front teeth, and then breathing as 
 before ; — the same order of results will be again obtained. A 
 like order of results will be obtained by taking the consonants 
 heard in the syllables, ak, ag, ang, or eng, or ing. By crowd- 
 ing the tongue against the extremities of the upper jaw and its 
 rear teeth, if it have them, and the arch of the mouth immedi- 
 ately above, and thus entirely preventing the escape of the 
 breath, every way, the first of these consonants will be produced ; 
 
16 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 suffer the breath to pass up the nasal passage and there stop it, 
 the second will be formed ; allow the breath to pass entirely 
 through the nose, and the last one will be uttered.* 
 
 A vowel may now be defined to be, A sound of the human 
 voice, uttered with an open passage for the breath through the 
 throat, mouth, and lips. A consonant may be defined, A modi- 
 fication of sound produced by the contact of some of the or- 
 gans of speech so as to interrupt or impede the passage of the 
 breath. 
 
 A dipthong is the union of two vowels in one utterance ; as 
 in voice ; out ; — what the two vowels in each example are, will 
 be shown hereafter. A tripthong is the union of three vowels 
 in one utterance ; of which an example will be given further 
 on. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SPECIFICATION OP ALL THE VOWEL SOUNDS. POSITION OF THE 
 
 ORGANS IN FORMING THEM. DIPTHONGS. 
 
 In the following syllables, each contains a distinct vowel 
 sound, without any repetition of the same one. Take away 
 the consonants from every syllable, and the vowel will be left 
 alone, and ought to be named and pronounced, as it thus stands. 
 For convenience of reference I shall designate each separate 
 vowel by arithmetical figures. This will also prevent circum- 
 locution, and at the same time each figure may be pronounced, 
 if one chooses, according to the vowel which it represents. 
 
 123456 7 8 9 
 
 f Art, at, ale, eel, all, ope, boot, tune, up. 
 Here are given nine different sounds having all the charac- 
 teristic distinctions of vowels, and for which there ought to be 
 nine separate characters, or letters. Most of these can also be 
 divided into long and short, by which means a still greater va- 
 riety of sounds is produced. 
 
 * This proves that ng in the end of a syllable is a simple, and not a double 
 consonant sound, as we are usually taught. 
 
 t Strike off the consonants, and the sound which remains is the true name 
 of the vowels. 
 

 ELEMENTARY SOUNDS. 17 
 
 Let the lips be open, and lying against the teeth, forming a 
 very flat oval-shaped aperture, with the corners a very little 
 drawn in, at the same time let the tongue, gently pressing 
 against the extremities of the upper jaw, form an aperture there 
 similar in shape to the first, and then let the breath be passed 
 out, the vowel 1 will, or may be, sounded. Let every thing 
 be as before except contracting the corners of the mouth, 
 and flat both apertures a very little more, and the vowel 2 
 will be produced. Carry the whole further yet, and further 
 still ; and the vowels 3, 4, will be pronounced. Now protrude the 
 lips a little from the teeth, with the aperture large and of a cir- 
 cular form ; in the mean time let the aperture at the root of the 
 upper jaw assume a corresponding shape, and vowel 5 will be 
 produced. Protrude the lips still more; preserve the shape, 
 but lessen the size of their aperture ; diminish the size, but 
 increase the rotundity of the interior aperture ; and you will 
 have vowel six ; go still further with the protrusion of the lips, 
 and the lessening of both apertures, and you will have 7. Pro- 
 trude the lips, but make the opening of them oval instead of 
 circular, while the interior aperture assumes again an oval 
 form, with the muscles of the tongue pressing forward and not 
 so perpendicularly upward as in the case of vowels 1, 2, 3, 4; 
 you will then pronounce the vowel 8.* Vowel 9 is nothing 
 more than a deep guttural breathing, forcibly made with the 
 mouth open. 
 
 Some have denied that 2 is a distinct vowel. An attentive 
 consideration, however, of the position of the organs, and of the 
 real sound which is made, will show that it is, in reality, inter- 
 mediate between 1 and 3. It is, besides, always short, while 1 
 is generally, and indeed almost always, long ; and where a short 
 1 might otherwise be wanted, 2 is principally employed in its 
 stead. This may be another reason why 2 has been confound- 
 ed with short 1. 
 
 For the sake of undeceiving such as are liable to mistake 
 the real short vowel sounds, on account of our false orthogra- 
 phy, I will here write down the respective long vowels, with 
 their corresponding short ones underneath. From this exhibi- 
 tion it will be readily seen how our ears have been deceived by 
 what has met our eyes. 
 
 * The French u, has the same position of the organs, except that the aper- 
 tures are still more flattened. 
 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 1 
 
 3 
 
 Art: 
 
 ale; 
 
 1 
 
 3 
 
 Hannah ; 
 
 ell; 
 
 i 
 
 3 
 
 America ; 
 
 men 
 
 5 
 
 all; 
 
 6 
 
 ope; 
 
 7 
 
 boot ; 
 
 5 
 
 6 > 
 
 7 
 
 doll; 
 
 opinion ; 
 
 good; 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 7 
 
 what; 
 
 fellow ; 
 
 pwll ; 
 
 tune ; 
 
 8 
 
 circular. 
 
 statue 
 
 4 
 
 eel; 
 
 4 
 
 ill; 
 
 4 
 
 p% ; 
 
 Vowels 2 and 9 are always short. 1, 6, and 8, when short, 
 are never followed by a consonant in the same syllable. When 
 our characters a, o, u, are followed by a consonant in the same 
 syllable, they do not represent the sounds of 1, 6, 8, but of other 
 vowels. The sound in map, tan, dab, is that of 2 ; the sound 
 in top, blot, is that of 5 ; in son, idol, that of 9. The sound in 
 but, hum, is that of 9 ; in pull, full, that of 7. 
 
 Dipthongs contain two short vowels ; and the combination 
 will produce a long syllable, except those into which the vowel 
 7 enters, and is placed first ; these latter may be either long or 
 short. The vowels which form a tripthong are likewise short, 
 and the syllable into which they enter is long. The only dip- 
 thongs which we have in our language are those heard in the 
 words mind, out, toil, and vowel 7 in combination with each of 
 the other sounds except 8, and, what is peculiar, with itself* 
 The simple vowels which constitute the dipthong heard in mind, 
 mile, bile, are 2 and 4, very intimately united. Those which 
 constitute the dipthong heard in out, owl, our, are 1 and 8 ; 
 those which constitute it in toil, loin, noise, are 5 and 4, less in- 
 timately blended than in either of the preceding ones. Ex- 
 ample of the union of 7 with other vowels, may be seen in 
 
 12 3 4 5 6 7 9 
 
 waft, wax, wane, weep, wall, wo, wood, word. Waft, with its 
 derivations, affords the only instance of a union between 7 and 1, 
 which I can recollect. In all dipthongs of this kind beginning 
 with 7, we employ the letter w, to denote the first vowel sound. 
 It has not, I am aware, been customary to call these combina- 
 tions of 7 with the other vowels, dipthongs. W has been gen- 
 erally treated as though it was a consonant, and the vowel 
 united with it as a simple sound. But there cannot, I be- 
 lieve, be any definition of a dipthong given with any tolera- 
 ble correctness, which will not include these combinations of 7 
 with other vowels. The union of sounds in all these cases is 
 very intimate, but it is a union of vowel sounds alone. 
 
 The only tripthongs in our language are the combinations of 
 7~with the dipthong composed of 2, 4, as heard in wipe, wild ; 
 and with the dipthong 18, as heard in wound, participle of the 
 verb to wind. This word, and the substantive wound, with the 
 
SPECIFICATION OF THE CONSONANT SOUNDS. 19 
 
 verb to wound and its derivatives, are the only ones in which, to 
 my recollection, the latter tripthong occurs.* 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SPECIFICATION OF ALL THE CONSONANT SOUNDS IN THE LAN- 
 GUAGE. POSITION OF THE ORGANS IN FORMING THEM. 
 
 The following syllables exhibit, I believe, every simple con- 
 sonant to be found in our language, and express the names by 
 which they should be called. 
 
 Pe, be, em, te, de, en, ka, ga, eng, enk, ef, ve, eth, the, el, 
 es, ze, ar, ye. He, may be added, though not properly a letter. 
 
 In this exhibition I have had regard to classification of sounds, 
 and convenience of explaining them, rather than the order of 
 the common alphabet, so far as the latter contains them. In 
 that alphabet, c is unnecessary, it being always represented 
 otherwise either by s or k. Q is also useless, for k might al- 
 ways take its place, and is the same with it. J is needless, 
 because it is a compound of two other consonants, as I shall 
 presently show ; if retained, it would be only a matter of con- 
 venience, not of necessity. W is likewise unnecessary, as it 
 merely represents, and is, the vowel 7. G should be recogni- 
 zed as having but one sound, as heard in either ga, or ag ; its 
 name might be either. Let eng, as heard in thing, long, among, 
 dangle, be pronounced as it naturally would be, and this pro- 
 nunciation would be a proper name for that consonant ; it is 
 never found except in the end of a syllable. Let eth, as heard 
 in think, hath, both, through, be pronounced in like manner, for 
 its name ; and the, as heard in this, that, bathe, for its name. 
 Pronounce ye as heard in year, yet, yell, for the name of thai 
 consonant, which is one of those that most frequently occur in 
 our language, and more than any other, perhaps, enters into 
 combination with other consonant sounds ; yet we have no ap- 
 propriate character to represent it, for y is often used for the 
 vowel 4 ; and ye, (as I name it,) often occurs without any no- 
 tation at all which can serve to indicate its use. Even its 
 
 * Many, I am aware, pronounce this latter word as though it were spelled 
 woond ; but I never found any good ground for giving it that sound. The 
 word is Saxon, and in all other words of Saxon origin, ou has one uniform 
 sound. Why then this exception ? Why this needless anomaly ? 
 
20 the reader's guide. 
 
 name, as commonly given it, might as well have been James, 
 as wi, for any purpose of indicating its proper use. He is 
 neither a consonant, nor vowel ; it is merely an aspirate, or 
 peculiar mode of breathing while a vowel is sounded. It is, 
 however, so much used, and is so important, that it deserves a 
 distinct character and name to denote it.* There is another 
 breathing, softer and less forcible, which our language employs, 
 but for which it has neither a character, nor name ; but, unlike 
 the other, it is a breathing on a consonant, or rather between 
 consonants, and not on a vowel. It is heard in the last syllable 
 of able, between b and I ; in the last syllable of happen, seven, 
 battle, speckle, between the letters pn,vn,tl, kl; and in many 
 other words. We ought to have some character, and a name 
 for it, to denote this kind of breathing, j" 
 
 I shall now attempt to show the position of the organs in pro- 
 nouncing each of the consonants ; taking them in the order as 
 they stand above. Every reader is desired to make a full 
 trial of these positions for himself, that he may be satisfied of 
 their accuracy. 
 
 The position of the organs in pronouncing the first nine of 
 these consonants has been already given, and needs not be here 
 repeated.^ In pronouncing the letter k the breath is expelled 
 from the throat through the mouth, when it is suddenly inter- 
 rupted in its passage, and that sound is made. Instead of pass- 
 ing through the mouth, let the breath issue through the nasal 
 passage, and be there suddenly stopped by the same position of 
 the organs which k requires, the letter enk will be sounded. 
 This consonant like eng, is used only in the end of syllables, 
 where it is frequently heard, as in the words think, sank, uncle, 
 anchor. The letter efis pronounced by placing the upper part 
 of the under lip against the ends of the upper front leeth, and 
 allowing some breath to escape between the lip and teeth, and 
 no where else. Let the position of the under lip and upper 
 teeth continue the same, but let no breath escape between them, 
 or very little indeed, and let it gurgle somewhat in the com- 
 
 * The name aytch, most usually given this character, indicates its use in no 
 way whatever, and is too barbarous to be retained. 
 
 t The practice of pronouncing seven, even, and other words in which this 
 breathing occurs, as though it were the short sound of the vowel 3, or 9, is a 
 provincialism, which should be discarded, rather than countenanced as it too 
 often is, by men of education, and particularly clergymen. The pronunciation 
 has nothing English about it, and is destroying one variety of utterance, and 
 one of the softest tones of the language. 
 
 t The true position of the organs is best ascertained, in the sounding of a 
 consonant, by letting a vowel precede instead of following it ; as ek, ak, ok, 
 instead of he, ka, ko ; em, am, um, &c. instead of me, ma, &c. See page 15. 
 

 SPECIFICATION OF THE CONSONANT SOUNDS. 21 
 
 mencement of the nasal passage from the throat, and the letter 
 ve will be pronounced. Place the end of the tongue against 
 the front upper teeth, and let a little breath escape between 
 them, as in the case of ef, and the letter eth will be sounded. 
 Let all remain as before, but suffer no breath, or but very little, 
 to e&cape between the tongue and teeth, and let it gurgle, or be 
 vibrated, in the nasal passage, as before, and the letter the will 
 be formed. Place the end of the tongue against the upper 
 edge of the gum of the upper front teeth, let the breath be there 
 stopped, and be vibrated through the nasal passage, and the 
 letter el will be enunciated. Let the end of the tongue be put 
 somewhat farther back, and be turned a little upward, leaving 
 a space between it and the roof of the mouth, through which 
 cause the breath to rush with a whistling sound, with none es- 
 caping through the nose, and the letter ess will be heard. 
 With the tongue as before, only let it press against the roof of 
 the mouth, so as nearly to stop the breath, and then cause the 
 breath to vibrate in the nasal passage, the letter ze will be ut- 
 tered. Let the tongue be drawn a little farther back, with the 
 end of it turned up, and somewhat over, near to the roof of the 
 mouth, and a slight vibratory, or tremulous motion given it 
 while the breath passes through, the letter ar will be sounded. 
 We trill, or vibrate this letter much less, probably, than any 
 other people in whose language it is found. The French, Ital- 
 ians, Spanish, and Portuguese, trill it very much, as do the 
 Scotch and Irish, so as to be unpleasant to our ears. In our 
 aversion to harshness of sounds, we have almost lost the pecu- 
 liarities of this letter, and have fallen into the opposite extreme 
 of pronouncing it so faintly, as hardly to make its articulation 
 audible — an error which is to be avoided. If the sides of the 
 tongue be pressed against the gums of the upper double teeth 
 on each side, and the upper surface of the tongue be brought 
 in contact with the roof of the mouth at the same time, and the 
 breath be made slightly to vibrate in the nasal passage near 
 the throat, the sound of the consonant ye will be produced. 
 This consonant always precedes a vowel, unless it closes a 
 syllable ; and is often understood before the vowel 8, when 
 no consonant is expressed ; as unit, use, unite. 
 
 The aspirate he is produced by causing the breath to rush 
 with considerable force through a hollow passage made by 
 raising the sides of the tongue to the upper gums in the back 
 of the mouth, and depressing the center of it. This position 
 may be somewhat varied to accommodate the utterance of the 
 different vowels, but in all cases there is a hollow passage 
 made for the breath by the tongue, and roof of the mouth. 
 
22 the reader's guide. 
 
 From the preceding representation, it appears that we have 
 nineteen simple consonants in our language ; and if we include 
 the aspirate he, we have twenty., If the nine vowels are added, 
 we have then twenty-eight or twenty-nine simple sounds in all. 
 For the representation of these we ought to have as many arti- 
 ficial marks or characters, each of which should invariably 
 stand for the same simple sound. This would give us a per- 
 fect alphabet ; would save, at least, seven-eighths of the time 
 now spent in teaching children to read and spell, and would 
 teach them with entire success ; would enable foreigners to ac- 
 quire our language so as to read and speak it, in half the time 
 now consumed, and cause them to admire it besides ; would 
 save much time and expense in writing and printing, because 
 then there would be no silent letters, which now, as supernume- 
 raries, occupy so much space ; and, in addition to the whole, 
 would render our written and printed language much more 
 worthy of the hundreds of millions of people who will hereaf- 
 ter speak it. 
 
 But what provision, it may be asked, is made, in the foregoing 
 view, for the expression, or representation of the sound usually 
 denoted by ch, as in much ; of that heard in treasure, and rep- 
 resented there by s ; of that heard in shun, nation, there rep- 
 resented by sh, and tio ; and of the sound represented by j, 
 and sometimes by g, as in jade, age ? I will answer the question. 
 Each of those sounds alluded to is a compound of two simple 
 consonants, as badly represented in our orthography as they 
 well could be. The first, (ch,) is in reality a compound of t and 
 y ; that is te, and ye ; nothing more or less. This will appear 
 most readily by placing this compound between two vowels, 
 or in the middle of a word. Take the word teach, and add 
 the syllable er, so as to make teacher ; spell the latter word 
 with ty instead of ch, the other letters retaining their former 
 sound, 5, and we shall have teatyer, which we can pronounce only 
 in one way, giving the sound of ch. Spell leeches, leetyes ; 
 satchel, satyel ; hatching, hatying ; righteous, rityous ; riches, 
 rityes ; the results will be the same. In all these examples, 
 each word, however commonly spelt, has the sound of ty, and 
 ought to be represented by them. Much, blotch, ditch, churn, 
 choose, church, contain precisely the same sound, (the last twice 
 over,) and should, of course, have the same representation. 
 
 In the words treasure, seisure, adhesion, we have the com- 
 pound of %y ; as treazyure ; seizyure, adhezyon, or still better 
 expressed, trSzy9r, s4:zy9r, adh4:zy9n. All other words, con- 
 taining the same sounds, should have the like spelling. 
 
POSITION OF THE OEGANS. 23 
 
 In the words nation, captions, wish, shun, sure, the sound of 
 sy occurs in each, though differently represented. Let the let- 
 ters, except those which stand for sy, be retained and pronoun- 
 ced as usual, and insert sy ; we shall then have nasyun, cap- 
 syus, wisy, syun, syure. Place the organs in the position for 
 pronouncing sy, and no other sound than the one under consid- 
 eration can be made, whether at the beginning, middle, or end 
 of a word. 
 
 The sound commonly represented by j, or soft g, as it is call- 
 ed, as in jade, age, adjure, ledger, agile, is compounded of d 
 and y. This will be best seen by taking a word with these 
 consonants in the middle. Ledger, is ledgyer ; adjure, is ad. 
 jure ; agile, is adyil ; age is ddy, or adye ; and jade is dyade. 
 Here, again, the organs, placed in the position of these two 
 consonants, can give no other sound than that of our common j. 
 
 X, which has not been mentioned before, is well known to 
 represent a combination of sounds. In the beginning of a 
 word it is pronounced like z. When used as a double conso> 
 nant, it represents either ks, or gs ; as tax, exist ; which might 
 be written taks, egzist. It is not, therefore, a letter represent- 
 ing any distinct sound, and of course cannot be necessary. 
 
 If there is any sound in our language which cannot be ex- 
 pressed by the simple vowels and consonants which I have ex. 
 hibited, including the aspirate he, and the simple breathing heard 
 in able, seven, it has altogether eluded my researches. To a 
 person who has never analyzed the sounds of our language by 
 ascertaining the actual position of the organs in the formation of 
 each of them, (the only way in which a perfect analysis can be 
 formed,) the notation which I have employed may at first ap- 
 pear awkward. Let the novelty of it, however, wear off, and 
 let him become familiar with it by practice, this awkwardness 
 would disappear. Surely, if we have been so accustomed to 
 the use of ch to denote the sound which we hear in much, as to 
 be reconciled to it, when in fact neither c nor h enter at all into 
 the composition of the sound, it would not require much practice 
 to reconcile us to a notation which expresses the truth. 
 
 What must have been the accuracy of the ears and of the re- 
 search of those men, who, sensible that ch is not quite the proper 
 notation of the sound for which these letters are made to stand, 
 have substituted for them tsh as the true representatives of the 
 compound letters of that sound ? The same question might be 
 put with regard to several other notations ; for example, those 
 which have been adopted to express the sounds heard in plea- 
 sure, nation, age. The truth is we have suffered our ears to be 
 misguided by our sight, or by our imagination, until we have 
 
24 
 
 become involved in errors which we are more solicitous to per- 
 petuate than remove. 
 
 A knowledge of the elementary sounds of our language and 
 the true position of the organs in uttering them is very impor- 
 tant to him who would attain to a good elocution. Faults in 
 articulation seldom arise from defective organs ; they generally 
 proceed from a bad management of them. To know how to 
 place them aright in order to produce a perfect sound of the in- 
 tended kind, must surely be the direct way to get rid of making 
 imperfect ones. If a person errs in the distinct and proper ar- 
 ticulation of a particular letter or combination of letters, let him 
 bring his organs to the right position for uttering them, he will 
 then, of course, make the proper sound, and will continue to 
 make it so long as he shall be attentive to the subject. 
 
 Every person who lisps does so by a wrong position of the 
 organs. He places the end of his tongue against the roots of 
 the upper front teeth, or near them, instead of farther back as 
 directed for the pronouncing of the letter s. After knowing the 
 source of his mistake, and the correct mode of avoiding it, he 
 needs to lisp no longer, if he is willing to take a little trouble to 
 habituate himself to the change. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ACCENT. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A LONG AND ACCENTED 
 
 SYLLABLE. 
 
 Accent is a strong and firm enunciation of a consonant after 
 a vowel, in the same syllable. Such, at any rate, is accent in 
 the English language, whatever it may be in other languages. 
 It is heard in such words as men, mat, top, beset, befit, dispel, 
 distract, desist. In each of these words there is one consonant 
 which is uttered with a firmer compression of the proper organs, 
 than the rest, giving to that consonant greater prominence and 
 force. In consequence of this firmer compression of the or- 
 gans, some little delay is occasioned in the utterance ; hence, 
 although the preceding vowel is always short, the syllable itself, 
 taken together, requires as much time for its pronunciation, as 
 a syllable which contains a long vowel. 
 
 It is usual with writers on this subject to speak of vowels as 
 being accented. Thus they would say that in the word abode, 
 
LONG, AND ACCENTED, SYLLABLES. 25 
 
 an accent is placed on the last syllable ; yet all that can be 
 properly said of that syllable is, that the vowel o is protracted 
 in the utterance of it. To show the difference between simply 
 a long syllable, and an accented one, take the two words, late, 
 and let. Here is precisely the same vowel in both words, 
 namely, 3 ; in the first word it is long, in the other short ; in 
 the first word it is pronounced slowly, in the other rapidly ; in 
 the first word the final consonant is uttered with a slight com- 
 pression of the organs, in the other with a firm one. The same 
 things hold true of mane, men ; tale, tell ; nought, not ; pool, 
 pull ; seen, sin.* Every one can perceive a striking differ- 
 ence between the consonants, in those words which have the 
 accent, and those which are not accented. This difference 
 always exists between the two, whenever, and however, they 
 occur ; and a consonant after a long vowel in a syllable is never 
 uttered as is a. consonant on which the accent falls. 
 
 From what I have said, there is an obvious distinction be- 
 tween a long syllable, and an accented one. A long syllable 
 is one which contains a long vowel ; an accented syllable is one 
 which has the consonant in it, following a vowel, accented. A 
 short syllable is properly one in which the vowel is short ; an 
 unaccented syllable is one which has no accented consonant, f 
 
 It will follow from what has now been advanced, that a long 
 syllable is never accented ; and that an accented syllable is 
 never long, in the sense of having in it a long vowel ; — it may 
 be added that some syllables are both short and unaccented ; 
 as the second and third syllables in every, ivory, merriment. 
 
 The use of accents gives the English language a great supe- 
 riority over those which do not have them, in point of variety, 
 force, and sprightliness of diction. By giving a greater num- 
 ber of combinations to its sounds, it is less exposed to monotony, 
 and is better adapted to the uses of poetry. 
 
 * I hardly need to say, that the sounds which meet the ear, not the letters 
 which meet the eye, are to be here regarded. 
 
 t See Prosody. 
 
 
26 the reader's guide. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FAULTS OF UTTERANCE. RAPIDITY AND INDISTINCTNESS. CLIP- 
 
 PING. SOUNDS OF DIFFICULT UTTERANCE. REMARKS. LET- 
 TER S. 
 
 There are two great faults in reading and speaking, inde- 
 pendent of what is included in propriety of expression, which 
 deserve our attention. These are rapidity and indistinctness of 
 utterance ; faults which almost every young reader possesses 
 in a greater or less degree, and of which it is extremely difficult 
 to cure him. " Read slow" — « don 't read so fast" — " you read 
 too quick" — " read distinctly" — " dont 't huddle your letters so 
 much together" — "nobody can understand what you read," 
 are repeated the thousandth time with about as much effect in 
 removing the difficulty, as the pattering of rain on the house- 
 top. Few scholars, 1 believe, were ever cured of the evils in 
 question, by such monitions, simply, however often reiterated, 
 or however well intended. A sense of shame at being so often 
 noticed, and the loss of vivacity with the increase of years will 
 commonly do something, in process of time, towards a remedy. 
 After all, the fault of indistinctness often continues with little 
 amendment, when that of rapidity has much abated — a proof, 
 by the way, that the former is not so dependent on the latter, 
 as is sometimes imagined. Were I to attempt to destroy both 
 faults in one, I should begin with that of indistinctness, rather 
 than that of rapidity. When a person becomes clear and dis- 
 tinct in his enunciation, he will generally lose his rapidity ; or, 
 at least, so much of it as to render it comparatively harmless. 
 A person cannot be clear and distinct in his articulation, and be, 
 at the same time, very rapid ; but he may be not deficient in 
 slowness, and yet quite indistinct. The fault of indistinctness 
 will therefore claim my principal attention. 
 
 A person never clips a long vowel, or one that is followed by 
 an accent ; nor is it common for him to clip, or sink, the first 
 consonant in a word or syllable. The vowels which he clips, 
 or sinks, or confounds, are those which are short and not follow- 
 ed with an accent : the consonants which he treats in this way, 
 are those which end a word or syllable. Let a person clearly 
 enunciate every unaccented short syllable, and the final conso- 
 nant in every syllable, and he will always read distinctly. In 
 
DISTINCT ENUNCIATION. 27 
 
 this, I believe, there is no mistake ; and if there is not, the chief 
 points to be regarded, and difficulties to be overcome, are redu- 
 ced to two. Hence I propose two general rules to be regard- 
 ed, in order to read clearly and distinctly. 
 
 Rule I. 
 
 Clearly enunciate, or pronounce, every short unaccented 
 syllable. 
 
 Rule II. 
 Clearly enunciate the final consonant of every syllable. 
 
 Words containing short unaccent- Liable to be pronounced 
 
 ed syllables. 
 
 Tempestuous, Tempestious. 
 
 Calculate, Calclate* 
 
 Inconceivable, Inconceivble. 
 
 Very desirous. Very zirous, or ver desirous. 
 
 Barbarous, Barbrous. 
 
 Vanity, Vanty. 
 
 Treachery, Treachry. 
 
 Preliminary, Prelimnary. 
 
 Dispensatory, Dispenstory. 
 
 Cotemporary, Cotemprary. 
 
 Besides this sinking of a vowel, there is a great tendency 
 with indistinct readers to confound one vowel with another. 
 Thus, for calcw-late they read calke-late ; for barba-rous, bar- 
 barous ; for stinm-late, stime-late ; for victo-ry, victe-ry ; for 
 exasper-ate, exaspwr-ate. There is hardly a greater blemish 
 in reading than this confusion of sounds, and yet nothing is 
 more common. A reader of good taste will give every vowel, 
 however short it may be, its true sound, with its due proportion 
 of utterance ; and in doing this he will not, like some, make a 
 syllable long, when correct usage makes it short. Stimulate 
 should be so pronounced as to give the second syllable, u, the 
 short sound of vowel 8, and to give it clearly ; so with petulant, 
 virtuous, natural, without the insertion of ye before the vowel ; 
 nor should that consonant ever be inserted in similar cases, as 
 some have taught. Give the short sound of 8 its legitimate 
 expression, and there will be no occasion for inserting ye to dis- 
 tinguish it from other vowel sounds. Every, and ivory, should 
 be so pronounced that the second syllable of the one may be 
 readily distinguished from that of the other. These are only 
 
28 
 
 given as a few specimens of what is continually occurring in 
 vowel sounds. 
 
 T^he dipthong 24, (heard in mind, bind,) is frequently sound- 
 ed short, while it retains its dipthongal character. I, my, thy, 
 are always short, when they are not emphatical, as 
 
 I love thy kingdom, Lord, 
 
 The house of thine abode. — And 
 
 My God, my king, thy various praise, 
 Shall fill the remnant of my days. 
 
 Some give to my the sound of me short ; as, Me God, me 
 king, &c. Such a pronunciation appears affected, and it is 
 anomalous ; — we might as well call 7, e, and thy, the. 
 
 When a consonant follows a long vowel, or another conso- 
 nant, it is often carelessly enunciated ; that is, the organs are 
 too feebly or imperfectly compressed, and the breath is too 
 languidly employed. Take the word transcendent ; — the s, d, 
 and t, at the end of the several syllables may be, and sometimes 
 are, so faintly articulated as to be scarcely audible. In the 
 words contact, abrupt, defunct, resist, resists, commands, com- 
 mandments, are consonants in the like condition. 
 
 Most persons are very prone to give the consonant ar too 
 feeble an articulation. In the words liberty and government, 
 this is particularly true ; many persons almost entirely sink this 
 letter in these two words. In some words it is made to do little 
 more than to lengthen the vowel which precedes it ; as in bar, 
 star, more ; this is more especially the fact after the former of 
 these vowels. But this sound should never be so suppressed as 
 to be inaudible ; the consequence of doing it is a feeble and in- 
 distinct utterance of other letters with which it is connected ; — 
 nor, on the other hand, do our ears tolerate that full vibration 
 of the letter which foreigners generally give it. It should have 
 a distinct enunciation, but little more. 
 
 I will now subjoin a few examples in which are contained 
 words, the utterance of which is difficult to one who has not 
 habituated himself to use distinctness. 
 
 For forms of government let fools contest ; 
 What'er is best administered is best. 
 
 Those who vociferate loudest in favor of liberty, are not of 
 course its truest supporters, or best defenders. 
 
 His sons stood still around him. Through distant worlds, 
 and regions of the dead- Tempests and fire. These things 
 distract the mind. They thronged the road through which we 
 passed. With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound. He heed- 
 
SOUNDS OF DIFFICULT UTTERANCE. 29 
 
 ed not the obstacles in his way. The shepherd of Salisbury- 
 plains. 
 
 The incompressibility of bodies is their power of resisting 
 compression into a smaller compass. 
 
 His arguments were considered to be incontrovertible by 
 most of his hearers. 
 
 It came upon him in an unexpected moment. — They entered 
 into an agreement to reconsider and settle all their differen- 
 ces.— The treacherousness of the memory, is like the treache- 
 rousness of an adversary. 
 
 The mysteriousness and unaccountableness of things do not 
 prove that they have no existence. 
 
 He conceived an unconquerable aversion to such idealisms. 
 
 There sat he with the most inconceivable imperturbation of 
 -countenance. 
 
 The crows flew clamorously into the crevices of the rocks. 
 
 The most incompatible and incongruous ideas were crowded 
 together. 
 
 His disingenuous and incommunicative disposition continually 
 produced suspicions injurious to his reputation. 
 
 It is strongly recommended to all who would acquire a clear 
 and distinct articulation, to practice much on such sounds of 
 difficult utterance as have now been given. It answers a valu- 
 able purpose to select from a spelling book columns of difficult 
 words of every description, and read them with a slow, full, dis- 
 tinct enunciation. By taking this course the organs are not 
 embarrassed by the blending of sounds from different words, 
 as they are in reading sentences, but are employed on a single 
 word at a time. An opportunity is thus afforded to dwell on 
 each syllable long enough to make it distinct ; and if any error 
 is committed, to ascertain in what it consists. The sound of 
 every letter can in this way be noticed, and the organs be prac- 
 ticed till they make it perfectly and readily. 
 
 Although I consider the rules and suggestions which I have 
 given, sufficient to enable a person to acquire a clear and dis- 
 tinct articulation, yet it should be remembered that they are 
 sufficient to those only who will be at the trouble to practice 
 them. It is not enough that a scholar reads them over, per- 
 haps once a month, to his teacher, or is even made to recite 
 them, and then thinks about them no more ; he must practice 
 them by himself alone ; — he must read aloud to himself alone, 
 till he conquers the difficulties which he has to encounter. A 
 person may be taught how to make each separate sound in the 
 language, and make it perfectly at the time ; but if he does it 
 3* 
 
30 the reader's guide. 
 
 but once in a great while, and thinks nothing about it in the in- 
 tervals, he can never make it familiar to him, and he will always 
 be liable to embarrassment in his trials before company. Prac- 
 tice as truly makes perfect in reading as in all other things. 
 
 After all, perhaps the greatest difficulty in the way of a good 
 enunciation is the want of a desire to excel in this particular. 
 So far as my knowledge reaches, there is a great indifference 
 on this subject among most young persons. If they can only 
 name the words with rapidity, it seems to be all at which they 
 aim — too many do not aim even at this. How the component 
 parts of a word are expressed gives them little concern. But 
 this ought not to be so. To read well is an accomplishment of 
 the highest order, and stands among the first of desirable at- 
 tainments. Every person, whatever may be his station in so- 
 ciety, has occasion to read in the hearing of others, and to read 
 well. It is, moreover, an accomplishment as elegant and digni- 
 fying, as it is useful. Yet, strange to tell, fewer persons excel 
 in reading than in any other branch of learning. In a select 
 company of young gentlemen and ladies, if a book is presented 
 and some one requested to read, the task is declined by one after 
 another, as beyond his or her ability to perform ; or if one at 
 last consents, how often is it the result of his own happy igno- 
 rance of himself, rather than a consciousness of his real attain- 
 ments. 
 
 The first excellence to be obtained in reading, is to read in- 
 telligibly; that is, so as to be clearly heard and understood, so 
 far as words are concerned ; the second is, to read with propri- 
 ety, so that the entire sense of what is written may be express- 
 ed, not only by the words themselves, but by the tones and man- 
 ner of the voice in giving them utterance. What I have hith- 
 erto said has related to the former of these divisions. A know- 
 ledge of the elementary sounds in our language, and the true 
 position of the organs of speech in uttering them, seems to be 
 of the highest importance in gaining an ability to speak clearly 
 and distinctly. My other remarks and observations have thus 
 far tended to that object. After considering a faulty utterance 
 of a single letter, I shall proceed to treat of such subjects as re- 
 late to propriety. 
 
 The letter to which I have just alluded is s. Its recurrence 
 in our language is very frequent, and it is so pronounced by 
 some readers and speakers as to keep up almost a continuous 
 hiss. This with some is mere affectation ; (an ill conceived 
 one indeed ;) with others it is the result of inattention to the 
 sounds of their own voices. The effect is very unpleasant on 
 an audience of any refinement in the relish of sounds, and is a 
 
LETTER S. 3T 
 
 blemish which every one should avoid. Most persons give this 
 letter a greater degree of hissing than is either pleasant or ne- 
 cessary. The fault is generally noticed by foreigners, and 
 would be oftener observed by ourselves, were it not so familiar 
 to us. The cause of this fault arises from keeping the tongue 
 too long in the position for making the sound, and thus protract- 
 ing the hiss till it becomes disagreeable. Instead of this the 
 tongue should be removed from the requisite position as soon as 
 is consistent with making the sound audible, and the letters 
 should be pronounced as gently as possible. By taking this 
 course the unpleasant hissing may be nearly or quite avoided. 
 Too much moisture around the tongue, at the time of uttering 
 this sound, contributes also to the fault in question, and merits, 
 therefore, a suitable attention. The letter z is liable to a simi- 
 lar fault, but in a much less degree ; it does not, however, require 
 a separate consideration. 
 
PART II. 
 
 VARIOUS MODULATIONS OF THE VOICE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INFLECTIONS DESCRIBED. CHARACTERS USED. EXAMPLES. 
 
 In the pronunciation of each syllable, in speaking, the voice 
 either rises or falls, during its utterance ; that is, the voice is 
 higher, or lower, at the close of the syllable, than it was at the 
 commencement of it. Let any one make the experiment on the 
 pronoun I ; and he will find that the least protraction of that 
 sound will necessarily carry the voice either upward, or down- 
 ward. Let him try each of the simple vowel sounds, and he 
 will find the same to be true. Nor will the result be different, 
 if he adds or prefixes a consonant. Although the voice thus 
 rises and falls on every syllable and word, it does not, however, 
 rise or fall to the amount of a whole note, or tone, on the same 
 syllable. The voice may rise or fall a whole note, or more, 
 as it passes from word to word, and even from syllable to 
 syllable in the same word ; but whatever note it strikes, it will 
 end somewhat higher or lower than the note which it first 
 touched. 
 
 When a person sings, the case is quite different. Then, 
 whatever note the voice touches, its elevation is the same both 
 at the beginning and the end of the sound. The voice leaps 
 from note to note with the full interval of a tone, or semitone 
 between ; whereas in speaking, the intervals between these 
 tones, or semitones, are partially, at least, filled. Hence it is 
 that, in speaking, there is such a continuity of sound, from the 
 beginning to the end of a sentence ; or till the voice is inter- 
 rupted by a cadence. Hence, too, is the danger of contracting 
 the habit of a drawling pronunciation, on the one hand ; or of 
 an abrupt and jerking one, on the other. From this view of 
 the subject, also, we learn the true difference between the 
 
INFLECTIONS. 33 
 
 speaking, and singing voice, and the occasion there is for a 
 distinction in the rules to be given for their management. 
 
 These risings and fallings of the voice on the same syllable, 
 are denominated inflections, or slides. The rising of the voice 
 is called the rising slide, or inflection ; the falling of the voice, 
 the falling slide, or inflection. Sometimes it happens that the 
 voice both falls and rises on the same syllable ; in this case the 
 fall and rise is called a circumflex. But this fall and rise is 
 not usually thus denominated, unless the rise be at least equal 
 to the previous fall. It is very important to observe further, 
 that so opposed is the voice, or rather the ear that governs it, 
 to remaining stationary at any single point of elevation or de- 
 pression, it seldom rises on a syllable without again falling on 
 the same, even where there is no circumflex ; and seldom falls 
 without again rising in some degree, but without having the 
 last inflection equal to the first, or so strongly marked. This 
 latter turn or variation of the voice may, with propriety, be 
 called a secondary inflection ; and, for the sake of distinction, 
 the first mentioned inflections might be termed primary. On 
 the right management of this secondary inflection much of skil- 
 ful reading depends. It serves greatly to prevent abruptness, 
 makes the transition from note to note easy and gentle, and 
 happily modifies the general utterance. 
 
 The rising inflection is usually marked thus ( ' ) ; the falling 
 thus ( \ ) ; and the circumflex thus ( * ), or thus ( y ). I shall 
 adopt the former. The secondary inflections may be thus 
 marked (^, A ), the first for the secondary slide on the 
 rising, and the latter for the secondary slide on the falling 
 inflection. 
 
 When the inflection is strongly marked, it is then called in- 
 tensive. Thus we speak of an intensive upward, or rising, 
 inflection, and of an intensive downward, or falling, inflection. 
 All the inflections vary greatly in degree. Sometimes they 
 are so faintly made as to be scarcely heard, and as to require 
 considerable attention and skill to distinguish them ; yet, by 
 attentive observation, they will be discerned even on the short- 
 est syllables, and in a rapid utterance. Those which are more 
 strongly marked should be first pointed out to the learner, and 
 practiced upon ; he will gradually learn to distinguish those 
 which are fainter. 
 
 In the following examples I have marked only those words 
 or syllables on which the inflections are more evident to the 
 ear, yet even in those which are marked, all are by no means 
 equally intensive, and especially so with regard to the circum- 
 
34 the reader's guide. 
 
 flex. The words which are marked should be read with a 
 stress porportionate to what the sense requires. 
 
 When the inflection is intensive in any degree, it is used on 
 those syllables in a word which are either long, or accented ; 
 when not intensive, it may be used either on these, or such as 
 are short or unaccented. 
 
 examples for illustrating the primary inflections. 
 
 It was neither black nor white. 
 It was James, or John. 
 An avaricious man' cannot be happy. 
 Begone, my unbelieving fears. 
 My son', give me thy heart. 
 Sound the loud timbrel' o'er Egypt's dark s£a ; 
 Jehovah has triumph'd', his people are free. 
 Saul and Jonathan were lovely in their lives' ; and in 
 their deaths they were not divided. 
 Cease, ye pilgrims', cease to mourn. 
 I that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 
 I said an elder soldier, not a better; did I s x ay better. 
 Fly x me, riches' ; fl v y me c'ares. 
 
 Cassius. You wrong me every way, — you wrong me, 
 Brutus ; 
 
 I said an elder soldier not a better ; 
 
 Did I say better ? 
 Brutus. If you did, I care not. 
 
 Cas. When Cae'sar liv'd', he durst not thu^s* have mov'd 
 me. 
 
 Bru. Peace, peace, you durst not so have tempted him. 
 
 Cas. What ? durst not tempt him' ? 
 
 Bru. For your life"* you durst not. 
 
 Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
 
 I may do what I shall be sorry for'. 
 
 Pierre. Hence ! I know thee not. 
 
 Jaffier. Not know me, Pierre ! 
 
 Hamlet. He was a man', take him for all in all', 
 
 1 shall not look upon his like again. 
 Horatio. My lord', I think I saw him' yesterni'ght. 
 Ham. Saw, — whom ? 
 
 * Secondary. 
 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 35 
 
 Hor. My lord', the kin'g, your farther. 
 Ham. The king, my father' ? 
 Hor. Season your admiration but a while', 
 With an attentive ear ; 
 
 And it came to pass at noon', that Elijah mocked them', and 
 said, cry aloud, for he is a god; — either he is talking, or he is 
 pursuing, or he is in a journey ; or, peradventure, he is sleep- 
 ing, and must be awaked. 
 
 No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die' with 
 you. But I have understanding as well as you; I am not in- 
 ferior to you. 
 
 Art thou the first man that was born' ? or wast thou made 
 before the hills' ? Hast thou heard the secret of God', and 
 dost thou restrain wisdom to thyself? What knowest thou 
 that we know not ? what understandest thou which is not in 
 us? 
 
 The foregoing examples are sufficient to illustrate the rising 
 and falling inflections, together with the circumflex. I have 
 introduced more of the latter than is commonly done in books 
 which treat of them, because the learner is more apt to be 
 troubled in acquiring the proper use of this inflection, than of 
 the other. It is recommended to the teacher that he should 
 exercise his pupils on these examples until they become quite 
 familiar with them, and be able to form the different inflections 
 with correctness and ease. He should remember, that without 
 this ability there can be no good reading. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 RULES FOR USING THE PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 
 
 I shall now give a few general rules for the use of the inflec- 
 tions. It is not my design to enter at large on this part of elo- 
 cution ; but barely to do enough to assist the beginner, and to 
 prepare him for greater progress in the art of reading, as future 
 circumstances may direct him. At the same time, it is hoped 
 that the following rules and examples will be of service to 
 readers in general, whose opportunities will not allow them to 
 resort to higher sources of instruction. 
 
36 the reader's guide. 
 
 Rule I. 
 
 When a thought or sentiment is left incomplete at a pause, 
 and is still carried forward in what follows, the rising inflection 
 is used on the word or syllable at which the pause is made. 
 
 Emphasis may form an exception to this rule, but this will 
 be hereafter considered. Mere exclamations, or broken parts 
 of sentences, are not here embraced. The rule has reference 
 to sentences which have their parts connected. 
 
 EXAMPLES. 
 
 When you are disposed to be vain of your mental acquire- 
 ments', look up to those who are more accomplished than 
 yourself, that you may be fired with emulation ; — but when 
 you feel dissatisfied with your circumstances', look down on 
 those beneath you', that you may learn content. 
 
 Since the days that are past are gone forever', and those 
 that are to come may not come to thee", it behoveth thee to 
 employ the present time', without regretting the loss of that 
 which is past', or too much depending on that which is to 
 come. 
 
 Whatsoever thou rpsolvest to do', do it quickly ; defer not 
 till the evening' what the morning may accomplish. 
 
 Honor', Prudence', and Pleasure', undertook to keep house 
 together. Honor was to govern the family', Prudence to pro- 
 vide for it', and Pleasure' to conduct its arrangements. For 
 sometime they went on exceedingly well', and with great pro- 
 priety ; but after a while, Pleasure getting the upper hand', 
 began to carry mirth to extravagance', and filled the house 
 with gay', idle', riotous company', and the consequent expenses 
 threatened the ruin of the establishment. Upon this', Honor 
 and Prudence', finding it absolutely necessary to break up the 
 partnership', determined to quit the house', and leave Pleasure 
 to go on her own way. This could not continue long', as she 
 soon brought herself to poverty', and came begging to her 
 former companions', Honor and Prudence', who had now 
 settled together in another habitation. However', they would 
 never afterwards admit Pleasure to be a partner in their house- 
 hold', but sent for her occasionally', on holidays', to make 
 them merry ; and, in return', they maintained her out of their 
 alms. 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 37 
 
 Note, Many persons seem to suppose that a sentence is not com- 
 pleted if a semicolon, merely, closes the passage; and therefore they 
 read along without either a cadence, or a falling inflection. This error 
 should be avoided. A sentence is complete when the thought, or sen- 
 timent, intended to be expressed by it, is fully brought out and comple- 
 ted ; and when this is done, the voice should denote the fact, whatever 
 gramatical pause the writer, or printer, may choose to adopt. Thus, 
 in the first example, there is a full cadence, with a falling slide, on the 
 word emulation; and near the close of the last example, there is the 
 same on the word merry. Another error is, to make a full stop with 
 the voice, that is, to stop it in the manner of a cadence, as often as a 
 semicolon occurs, or perhaps only a comma ; although the sense is 
 unfinished, and what follows is essentially connected with what pre- 
 ceded, making part of the thought which the whole is intended to 
 express. Thus in the fourth example, after the words " filled the 
 house with gay, idle, riotous company," some readers would make a 
 full cadence; whereas the sense requires that the voice should be 
 kept up to the close of the whole sentence. This error is more 
 common than the one first mentioned, and is to be especially guarded 
 against. 
 
 In the examples which follow cases will be found where 
 the rising inflection is used before a semicolon, and when, of 
 course, the voice is to be kept up, and carried forward to the 
 succeeding parts. 
 
 Forasmuch as many have taken in hand to set forth in order 
 a declaration of those things which are most surely believed 
 among us', even as they' delivered them unto us', which from 
 the beginning were eye-witnesses', and ministers of the word' ; 
 it seemed good to me also', having had perfect understanding 
 of all things from the very first', to write unto thee in order', 
 most excellent Theophilus', that thou mightest know the cer- 
 tainty of those things wherein thou hast been instructed. 
 
 To look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength'; 
 to consider that she is to shine forever 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. 
 
 But tell me, if there be ought of his doings that fills us with 
 so adoring a veneration', as when we behold the high and lofty 
 One stooping from the high and holy place to feed the hungry' ; 
 to clothe the naked' ; to counsel the ignorant' ; to be the father 
 of the fatherless' ; the Judge of the widow' ; to comfort the 
 cast down'; to speak peace to the penitent'; and, drawing 
 near to the lowly couch of the humblest of his children', to 
 whisper in the ear of the departing spirit', Fear not, I am with 
 4 
 
38 the reader's guide. 
 
 thee' ; be not dismayed', I am thy God' ; I will strengthen 
 thee' ; I will help thee' ; yea, I will uphold thee' with the right 
 hand of my righteousness'. 
 
 Note. The pause which is made while the voice is simply kept up, 
 is called the pause of suspension. The inflection used will, of course, 
 be the rising, though it will seldom be intensive. 
 
 Rule II. 
 
 The last pause but one in a sentence, whether that pause be 
 denoted by a grammatical point, or by the sense merely ; or 
 be made for convenience of utterance, will usually have the 
 rising slide. 
 
 EXAMPLES. 
 
 There cannot be a greater treachery than first to raise a 
 confidence', and then deceive it. 
 
 It is wiser to prevent a quarrel beforehand', than to revenge 
 it afterward. 
 
 Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry' ; for anger resteth in 
 the bosom of fools. 
 
 Therefore, all things whatsoever ye would that men should 
 do to you', do ye even so to them', for this is the law and the 
 prophets. 
 
 For if ye forgive men their trespasses', your heavenly Father 
 will also forgive you' ; but if ye forgive not men their tres- 
 passes', neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. 
 
 It is in vain for a rogue in grain' to pass himself off for an 
 honest man. 
 
 Every addition of useful knowledge' is adding something to 
 a man's treasures. 
 
 The wants of nature are few v : it is the office of reason to 
 regulate both the taste' and the appetite ; and those who are 
 governed by her laws' will be enabled to leave their wealth, 
 their health, and their example', rich endowments to their heirs. 
 All beyond enough' is too much ; all beyond nourishment' is 
 luxury' ; all beyond decency' is extravagance. 
 
 Rule III. 
 
 Friendly address, invitation, kind entreaty, devotional suppli- 
 cations, and petition in general, require the rising inflection. 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. e$9 
 
 EXAMPLES. 
 
 Sir', your most obedient', and humble servant'. 
 
 Men', brethren', and fathers', hearken. 
 
 It is no surprising thing, Sir', that men should sometimes 
 differ in their opinions. 
 
 Come unto me all ye that labor', and are heavy laden', and 
 I will give you rest. 
 
 Ho, every one that thirsteth', come ye to the waters' ; and 
 he that hath no money', come ye', buy and eat' ; yea come', 
 buy wine and milk', without money' and without price. 
 
 My son', hear the instruction of thy father', and forsake not 
 the law of thy mother ; for they shall be an ornament of 
 grace unto thy head', and chains about thy neck'. My son', if 
 sinners entice thee', consent thou not'. 
 
 And he lifted up his eyes and looked, and lo, three men stood 
 by him ; and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the 
 tent door, and bowed himself towards the ground, and said ; my 
 Lord', if I have now found favor in thy sight', pass not away', 
 I pray thee', from thy servant'. Let a little water', I pray you', 
 be fetched,' and wash your feet', and rest yourselves under the 
 tree', and I will fetch a morsel of bread', and comfort ye your 
 hearts ; after that' ye shall pass on ; for therefore are ye come 
 to your servant.' 
 
 The following is an example of the most moving entreaty on 
 the part of young prince Arthur, to the officer who had been 
 commissioned by the king to burn out his eyes with a hot iron, 
 taken from Shakspeare's tragedy of King John. The passage 
 should be read slow, and with semitones.* Hubert, the officer, 
 first speaks to the attendants. 
 
 Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 
 
 Arthur. Alas', what need you be so boisterous rough' : 
 
 I will' not struggle ; I will stand stone still'. 
 
 For heaven's sake, Hubert', let me not be bound'. 
 
 Nay, hear me, Hubert', drive these men away', 
 
 And I will sit as quiet' as a lamb' ; 
 
 I wil not stir', nor wince, nor speak a word', 
 
 Nor look upon the irons' angrily' ; 
 
 Thrust but these men away', and I'll forgive you, 
 
 Whatever torment you do put me to. 
 
 * For semitones see page 40. 
 
40 the reader's guide. 
 
 Have mercy upon me, O God', according to thy loving kind- 
 ness' ; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot 
 out my transgressions'. Wash me thoroughly from my iniqui- 
 ty', and cleanse me from my sin'. 
 
 If this passage be read devotionally, there will be a slight 
 turning of the voice upward in the last syllable of transgres- 
 sions, at the end of the first sentence, and in the word sin at the 
 close of the last. So in the following examples, at the close of 
 a sentence there should be, in most cases, a slight inflection up- 
 ward on the last syllable in a sentence, although some of the 
 preceding syllables may not require it, and may even demand a 
 small depression of the voice, preparatory to its rise. 
 
 O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me ; 
 nevertheless, not as I will', but as thou wilt." 
 
 O Lord God of Israel', whodwellest between the cherubims', 
 thou art the God', even thou alone, of all the kingdoms of the 
 earth' ; thou hast made heaven and earth'. Lord', bow down 
 thine ear', and hear' ; open', Lord', thine eyes and see ; and 
 hear the words of Sennacherib who hath sent him to reproach 
 the living God'. Of a truth', Lord', the kings of Assyria hfave 
 destroyed the nations and their lands', and have cast their gods 
 into the fire ; for they were no gods', but the work of men's 
 hands', wood and stone' ; therefore they have destroyed them'. 
 Now', therefore', O Lord our God', I beseech thee save thou us 
 out of his hand/ that all the kingdoms of the earth may know' 
 that thou art the Lord God', even thou only. 
 
 The petitioners', therefore', pray your Honor to take their 
 case into consideration', and to inquire into the truth of the fore- 
 going facts', and', on their being found true', to order and de- 
 cree that the several parties', heretofore named', shall release 
 and convey to them all their right and title to the premises' ; or 
 that your Honor would transfer', by decree', the title thereof to 
 them according to said contract', under such limitations', or in 
 such manner', as justice and equity may require' : or that such 
 other relief may be granted' as the merits of the case shall de- 
 mand' ; and they', as in duty bound', shall pray. 
 
 Rule IV. 
 
 Gentleness, kindness, pity, and tender feeling in general, in- 
 cline the voice to the rising slide, and to the use of semitones. 
 
 Note. A semitone is half a. tone ; and is the smallest inter- 
 val between two sounds as the voice rises or falls. I mention 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 41 
 
 this here, on account of its necessary connection with the rising 
 slide in cases to which this rule applies. The semitone is 
 equally adapted, in general, to the cases which fall under Rule 
 III ; but I deferred a particular mention of it till now, because 
 the learner, after the preceding exercises, will be better prepar- 
 ed to understand its application. This rule is so often violated 
 by readers, that T wish its bearing to be particularly noted, and 
 the examples under it to be well practiced upon. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 My little children', let us not love in word', neither in tongue ; 
 but in deed', and in truth'. 
 
 Beloved', believe not every spirit' ; but try the spirits', wheth- 
 er they are of God'. 
 
 Let not your heart be troubled' : ye believe in God', believe 
 also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions' ; if it 
 were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place 
 for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come 
 again', and receive you to myself. 
 
 And she said, behold thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her 
 people, and unto her gods ; return thou after thy sister-in-law. 
 And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee ; for whither thou 
 goest', I will go ; and where thou lodgest', I will lodge ; thy 
 people shall be my people, and thy God' my God'. Where 
 thou diest', I will die, and there will I be buried.' The Lord 
 do so to me and more also, if aught but death' part thee and 
 me. 
 
 Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends', 
 for the hand of God hath touched me. 
 
 My kinsfolk have failed', and my familiar friends have for- 
 gotten me. They that dwell in my house, and my maids', 
 count me for a stranger' — I am an alien in their sight'. I call- 
 ed my servant', and he gave me no answer ; — I entreated him 
 for the children's sake of my own body'. Yea, young children' 
 despised me ; — I arose, and they spoke against me. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man', 
 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door', 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span' ; 
 O give relief, and heaven will bless your store. 
 
 Poets themselves must fall like those they sung', 
 Deaf the praised ear', and mute the tuneful tongue'. 
 4* 
 
42 the reader's guide. 
 
 Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays', 
 Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays' ; 
 Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part', 
 And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart' ; 
 Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er', 
 The muse forgot', and thou be lov'd no more. 
 
 I was soon', however', called to the sad reality. The figure 
 of her father bending over the grave of his darling child' ; the 
 silent' suffering' composure', in which his countenance was 
 fixed' ; the tears of his attendants', whose grief was light', and 
 capable of tears' ; these gave me back the truth', and reminded 
 me' that I should see her no more. There was a flow of sor- 
 row', with which I suffered myself to be borne along' with a mel- 
 ancholy kind of indulgence ; but when her father dropped the 
 cord', with which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth', 
 its sound on the coffin chilled my heart', and horror', for a mo- 
 ment', took place of pity.* 
 
 Rule V. 
 
 When two alternatives are expressed, denoted by the con- 
 junctions, or, nor, simply; or by either, or ; neither, nor ; the 
 first alternative will have the rising inflection, and the last the 
 falling. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 It was John', or James. 
 
 Love or hatieJ. 
 
 It was either you, or I. 
 
 Decide on going', or staying. 
 
 You are either my friend', or my enemy. 
 
 I am neither one', nor the other. 
 
 He will be governed by neither fear', nor hope. 
 
 We must either conquer them', or they will conquer us. 
 
 You must either learn when young', or be ignorant in old age. 
 
 Was this the calculation of a man well versed in public 
 affairs', or was it the dream of a smattering politician' ? 
 
 Had you rather that Caesar were living', and die all slaves', 
 or that Caesar were dead, and live all freemen ? 
 
 Who sees with equal eyes, as God of all' 
 A hero perish', or a sparrow fall. 
 
 * For remarks on the proper close of sentences, involving many of the fore- 
 going, and succeeding examples, see observations on cadence, page 53. 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 43 
 
 Rule VI. 
 
 The answer to a question, has the falling slide, whether the 
 question be put formally, or informally ; directly, or indirectly. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 What did you give for that penknife ? A dollar. 
 
 When did he return from his journey' ? Yesterday'. 
 
 Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean' ? Not one. 
 
 It may perhaps be asked, what can we do 1 Are we to go to 
 war' ? Are we to interfere in the Greek cause ? Are we to en- 
 danger our pacific relations' ? No; certainly not. 
 
 When Pyrrhus had shown the utmost fondness for his expedi- 
 tion against the Romans, Cyneas, his chief minister, asked him 
 what he proposed to himself by this war? Why\ says Pyrr- 
 hu's, to con'quer the Romans, and reduce all Italy to my obedi- 
 dience. What then? To pa'ss over into Si v cily, and then all 
 the Sicilians must be our subjects. And what does your majes- 
 ty intend next ? Why x , truly, to conquer Ca'rthage, and make 
 myself master of all Africa. 
 
 What shall we say then? Is the law sin ? Go v d forbi'd. 
 Nay" 1 had not known lus't except the law had said, thou shalt 
 not covet. 
 
 Wherefore then serveth the law ? It was added because of 
 transgressions, till the seed should come to whom the promise 
 was made ; and it was ordained by angels in the hands of a 
 mediator. 
 
 Hamlet. But where was this ? 
 
 Horatio. My lord', upon the platform where we watched. 
 
 Hamlet. Did you not not speak to it' ? 
 
 Horatio. My lord', I did. 
 
 Hamlet. Then saw you not his face ? 
 
 Horatio. O, yes, my lord', he wore his beaver up. 
 
 Hamlet. What, looked he frowriingly' ? 
 
 Horatio. A countenance more in sorrow, than in anger. 
 
 Hamlet. Pale, or red ? 
 
 Horatio. Nay, very pale. 
 
 Hamlet. And fix'd his eyes upon you ? 
 
 Horatio. Most constantly. 
 
 Hamlet. I would I had been there. 
 
 Horatio. It would have much amaz'd you. 
 
44 the reader's guide. 
 
 Is it a small matter, then, that you have deprived us of our 
 ancient possessions', Sicily', and Sardinia, but you would have 
 Spain too ? Well, we shall yield Spain ; and then — you will 
 pass into 'Africa. Will pass, did I say' ? — This very year 
 they ordered one of their consuls into 'Africa, the other into 
 Spain. 
 
 Would you learn wisdom', consult experience ; would you 
 be happy', learn how to be contented ; would you command 
 respect', seek to deserve it. 
 
 Rule VII. 
 
 When several things are contrasted together, the expression 
 of that which stands first in the contrast requires the rising in- 
 flection ; of that which stands last, the falling. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 Boy's and girls ; men and women ; ol'd and young ; parents' 
 and chil'dren ; love and hatred ; hope and fear' ; joy' and grief; 
 wealth' and poverty. 
 
 What they know by reading', /know by ac'tion. They are 
 pleased to slight my mean birth' ; I despise their mean charac- 
 ters. Want of birth and fortune is the objection against me ; 
 want of personal worth, against them. 
 
 Mirth' is short' and transient', cheerfulness fixed and perma- 
 nent. Mirth is like a flash of lightning', that breaks through a 
 gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment' ; cheerfulness keeps 
 up a kind of day light in the mind, and fills it with a steady 
 and perpetual serenity. 
 
 I esteem a habit of benignity' greatly preferable to munifi- 
 cence ; the former is peculiar to great and distinguished per- 
 sons' ; the lat'ter belongs to flatterers of the people, who court 
 the applause of the inconstant vulgar. 
 
 If the flights of Dryden, therefore, are higher', Pope con- 
 tinues longer on the wh\g. If of Dryden's fire' the blaze is 
 brighter', of Pope's, the heat is more regular and constant 
 Dryden' often surpasses expectation', and Pope never falls 
 below it. Dryden' is read with frequent astonishment', and 
 Pope with perpetual delight. 
 
 When we have looked on the pleasures of life, and they have 
 vanished away ; when we have looked on the works of nature', 
 and perceived that they were changing ; on the monuments of 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 45 
 
 art', and seen that they would not stan'd ; on our friends', and 
 they have fled while we were gazing ; on ourselves, and felt 
 that we were as fleeting as they ; when we have looked on 
 every object to which we could turn our anxious eyes', and they 
 have all told us that they could give us no hope** nor support', 
 because they were so feeble themselves', — we can look to the 
 throne of God : change and decay' have never reached that ; 
 the revolution of ages has never moved it ; the waves of an 
 eternity are rushing past it', but it has remained unshaken ; the 
 waves of another eternity are rushing towards it', but it is 
 fix ed, and can never be disturbed. 
 
 There are many subjects which it is not easy to understand' ; 
 but it is always easy to misrepresent; and when arguments 
 cannot be controverted, it is not difficult to calumniate mo- 
 tives. 
 
 Rule VIII. 
 
 The language of command, authority, threatening, rebuke, 
 aversion, surprise, astonishment, and wonder, incline the voice 
 to the downward slide. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 Go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways and be 
 wise. 
 
 Then said the king to the servants, bin v d him hand and foot, 
 and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness ; there 
 shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. 
 
 Awake, ye sons of Spain', awake, advan'ce. 
 
 Strike, for the sires' who left you free ! 
 
 Strike, for their sakes who bore you ! 
 Strike, for your homes and liberty, 
 
 And the heav'en you worship o'er you. 
 
 Arm\ warriors', arnf for fight. 
 
 Let each 
 
 His adamantine coat gird well, and each 
 Fit well his helm, gripe fast his orbed shield. 
 
 Vanguard, to rig'ht and left the front unfold. 
 
 I make a decree, that in every dominion of my kingdom, 
 men trem'ble and fear before the God of Daniel. 
 
 And the Lord God commanded the man saying; of every 
 tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of 
 
46 the reader's guide. 
 
 the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it ; for in 
 the day thou eatest thereof, thou shalt surely d'ie. 
 
 Hear me, rash man ! on thy allegian'ce hear me. 
 
 Silence ye win'ds, 
 
 That make outrageous war upon the oc'ean ; 
 And thou, old ocean, still thy boisterous waves ; 
 Ye warning elements, be hus'h'das death. 
 
 If when three days are expired', 
 
 Thy hated trun'k be found in our dominions, 
 That moment is' thy death. 
 
 If then ye have judgments of things pertaining to this life, 
 set them to judge, who are least esteemed in the church. I 
 speak to your shame. Is it so, that there is not a wise man 
 among you ? no, not one that shall be able to judge between 
 his brethren ? but brother goeth to law with brother, and that' 
 before unbelievers. Now there is utterly a fault among you, 
 because ye go to law on'e with another. Why do ye not 
 rather take wrong' ? Why do you not rather suffer yourselves 
 to be defrauded'? Nay, ye do wrong, and defraud ; and that', 
 your brethren. 
 
 Bring no more vain oblations. In'cense is an abomination 
 to me. The new moons and sabbaths, the calling of assem'- 
 blies, I cannot away with ; — it is iniquity, even the solemn 
 meeting. Your new moons, and your appointed feas'ts my 
 soul hateth ; — they are a trouble unto me ; — I am weary to 
 bear them. 
 
 Ha ! who comes here ! 
 
 Is this the reg'ion, this the soil, the clim'e, 
 
 Said then the lost Archangel ! — this the seat 
 
 That we must change for heaven ! — this mournful gloom, 
 
 For that celestial light ! 
 
 They come ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! 
 
 Be aston'ished, O ye heavens, at this, and be horrfbly afraid ! 
 Be ye very desola.e saith the Lord. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father', these, 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of thee. 
 
 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of thi 
 heavenly host, praising God', and saying', glor'y to God in the 
 hig'hest, and on eai\h peace, good w'ill to men. 
 
 It may be here remarked, that all those affections and mo- 
 
PRIMARY INFLECTIONS. 47 
 
 tions which indicate love, cheerfulness, and a lively state of 
 mind in general, and especially if one is desirous of producing 
 such feelings in another, incline the voice to the rising slide ; 
 while those which indicate a. depression of mind, from whatever 
 cause, incline the voice to the falling slide. The book of La- 
 mentations, by Jeremiah, is full of examples of the latter kind. 
 As a general rule, too, emotions of every kind which are over- 
 powering, incline the voice to the falling inflection ; even when 
 some of them, existing in a less degree, would incline it to the 
 rising. In a book, however, so elementary as this, it is inexpe- 
 dient to dwell on this subject, or to multiply rules and examples. 
 Due reflection, with proper taste, will usually assist one to read 
 passages of the description referred to, without any very essen- 
 tial errors. 
 
 There is one mistake so common, and yet so important in its 
 tendency, that it deserves mention ; and the mention of it pro- 
 perly falls under the last rule. The mistake is this — the use 
 of the falling slide on a verb in the imperative mode, in all 
 cases and circumstances. Those who commit the error seem 
 to suppose that this form of the verb always commands ; and 
 thus they naturally use the slide adapted to such a case. But 
 the verb in the imperative does, by no means, always com- 
 mand ; on the contrary, it often invites, entreats, supplicates ; 
 and in a way, too, the most remote from dictation or authority. 
 The imperative mode is employed in the humblest petitions 
 for mercy from an inferior to a superior — even to God himself, 
 and is consistent with the deepest sense of humility on the part 
 of the suppliant. In the mouth, also, of a superior, it is often 
 expressive of the utmost kindness, and simply invites, allures, 
 and entreats, in a manner the most winning. Nothing then 
 can be more preposterous than to read passages where these 
 expressions of feeling occur, in the tone and manner of authori- 
 ty, as must be done if the falling inflection is employed, and 
 especially if it is made intensive. 
 
 Take this passage, "Come unto me all ye that labor and 
 are heavy laden," and read it with the falling slide on come, and 
 the language is made repulsive rather than inviting. 
 
 Come, sound his praise abroad', 
 And hymns of glory sing. 
 
 Read now the first line of the above couplet, with the falling 
 inflection in the words, come, and abroad, and make the same 
 inflection intensive on the word sing, at the end of the second 
 line, and you will destroy all that is inviting in the language 
 
48 
 
 by the impropriety of your expression ; — you will issue a com- 
 mand, when you should have given a kind invitation. 
 
 O wash my soul from every sin', 
 And make my guilty conscience clean. 
 
 Put the downward slide on the words wash, or what would 
 oftener be done, on sou/, and on sin, in the first line of the above 
 couplet, and on make, and clean, in the second one, and you 
 would need a feeling of the heart quite different from the ex- 
 pression of the lips, to receive a gracious answer to your sup- 
 plication. Go yet further, and in all of these examples use 
 full tones instead of semitones, with a strong enunciation, and 
 the impropriety alluded to will be still more apparent. 
 
 Rule IX. 
 
 Implication, contempt, doubtfulness, and supposition, are 
 often expressed by the circumflex. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 I will do it if you desire me. (The implication is, I would 
 not do it if another desired me.) 
 
 To travel in different countries, and there survey the works of 
 nature, and the monuments of art, would once have given me 
 the highest gratification. (Here it is implied that it would not 
 now.) 
 
 She sings delightfully. (Just the contrary is meant.) 
 
 What think you of the impotent threats of your adversary ? 
 What think ?— they are unworthy of my notice. 
 
 To the voice of the people I will bow ; but never shall I sub- 
 mit to the calumnies of an individual hired to betray them', and 
 slander me v . The right honorable gentleman has sug- 
 gested examples which I should have shunned', and examples 
 which I should have followed'. I shall never follow his, and I 
 have ever avoided it. Am I to renounce those habits now for- 
 ever', and at the beck of whom 1 I should rather say of what ? 
 — half a minister — half a monkey — a 'prentice politician, and 
 a master coxcomb. 
 
 How long will your friend be absen't ? He may be gone a 
 week^ — a fortnight 1, — and possibly a month. 
 
 If these things are so, all further negotiation, all further in- 
 quiries, are at an end. 
 
SECONDARY INFLECTIONS. 49 
 
 Must I endure all this ? 
 All this 1 Ay\ more. 
 
 If twenty thousand men will not do, fi'fty thousand shall. 
 
 If any, against all these proofs, should maintain that the peace 
 with the Indians will be stable without the posts, to them I will 
 urge another reply. From arguments calculated to produce 
 conviction', I will appeal directly to the hearts of those who 
 hear me, and ask whether it is not already planted there? I 
 resort especially to the conviction of the western' gentleman, 
 whether, supposing no posts and no treaty, the settlers will re- 
 main in security 1 
 
 And Abraham answered and said', behold, now I have taken 
 upon me to speak unto the Lord', which am but dust and ashes', 
 peradventure there shall lack five of the fifty righteous' ; wilt 
 thou destroy all the city for lack of five ? And he said, if I 
 find these forty and five, I will not destroy it. — And he spake 
 unto him yet again, and said', — peradventure there shall be 
 forty' found there' 1 And he said, I will not do it for forty's 
 sake. — x\nd he said unto him, O let not the Lord be angry', and 
 I will speak ;— peradventure there shall thirty be found there ? 
 And he said, I will not do it if I find thirty' there. And he 
 said', behold, now I have taken upon me to speak unto the 
 Lord 1 ',- — peradventure there shall be twenty found there ? And 
 he said, I will not destroy it for twenty's sake. And he said, 
 
 let not the Lord be angry', and I will speak yet but this 
 on ce ; — peradventure ten shall be found there ? And he said, 
 
 1 will not destroy it for ten"s sake. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Secondary Inflections. — Monotone. 
 
 Hitherto, I have considered only the primary inflections, as 
 being the most obvious, and, of course, the most easily explain- 
 ed, and understood. The way is now prepared to consider, 
 with some chance of success, those which I have denominated 
 secondary. 
 
 The secondary inflection, or slide, chiefly occurs when the 
 sound of the voice is protracted on a long, or an accented syl- 
 
 5 
 
50 the reader's gtjide. 
 
 lable, detaining, as it were, the attention of the hearer for a 
 very short time on the thought which is there expressed ; or 
 when it is employed for the sake of euphony,* removing the as- 
 perity and abruptness of passing directly from the extreme of 
 a slide on one note, to another below or above it. Hence it is, 
 that the secondary inflection is oftenest found in cases which re- 
 quire a slow movement of the voice, and in the expression of 
 tender sentiments, and of devotional feeling. Both the sublime 
 and beautiful incline the voice naturally to it ; poetry abounds 
 in it, as requiring the voice to correspond with its own harmo- 
 ny of numbers ; while all the rough and boisterous feelings 
 avoid it, from a similar correspondence between them and the 
 voice. 
 
 A critical ear will not unfrequently detect this secondary in- 
 flection on even a short, or unaccented syllable, but I shall con- 
 tent myself with pointing out what is more obvious, and more 
 immediately important. The reader who is disposed to pursue 
 this matter further, can avail himself of his own researches, or 
 resort to other sources of information. 
 
 A few examples will now be given for the illustration of 
 what has been suggested under this head. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 I never shun a grave'' -yard', and I entered this''. There 
 were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was not reg- 
 ularly planted ; and I thought it looked better, than if it had 
 been. The only paths'" were those which had been worn by 
 the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy', as they followed love^ 
 and friendship to the grave ; and this too was well, for I dis- 
 like a smoothly rolled gravel-walk in a place like this. 
 
 And when I saw that no man , who had loved the beauty of 
 the rose 1 ', gathered again its scattered leaves* 1 , or bound up the 
 stalk which the hand of violence had broken', I looked earnest- 
 ly at the spot where it grew 11 , and my souF received instruc- 
 tion. 
 
 With all my powers of hearf and tongue ^ 
 
 I'll praise my Maker' in my song'' ; 
 
 Angels'' shall hear the noles I raised 
 
 Approve 4, the song', and join^the praise''. 
 
 These'', as they change, Almighty Father', these 
 Are but the varied' God 4 " : The rolling year 11 
 Is full of Thee''. 
 
 ^Euphony ; an agreeable sound ; one pleasing to the ear. 
 

 SECONDARY INFLECTIONS. 51 
 
 Arise'' , shine'', for thy light is come', and the glory of the 
 Lord' is risen upo'n thee. 
 
 A wake'' , awake'', put on thy strength/ O Zion' ; put on thy 
 beautiful garments', O Jerusalem', the holy city ; for hence'' - 
 forth' there shall no more come into thee the uncircumcised and 
 the unclean*". 
 
 Lo\ earth'' receives him from the bending skies ; 
 Sink down^, ye mountains', and ye vallies' ris'e. 
 With heads declined^, ye cedars', ho'mage pay ; 
 Be smooth'', ye rocks' ; ye rapid floods^, give way''. 
 The Savior comes'' ! by ancient bards foretold^ ; 
 Hear him', ye deaf, and all ye blind ^ behold''. 
 
 We'll crowd'' thy gates' with thankful' songs'' ; 
 High 11 as the heavens' our voices raise'' ; 
 And earth'' with her ten thousand tongues' 
 Shall fill'' thy courts' with sounding praise''. 
 
 Wide'' as the world' is thy command'' ; 
 ' Vast'' as eternity' thy love'' ; 
 
 Firm'' as a rock' thy tru^th must stand', 
 When rolling years' shall cease'' to move''. 
 
 I will here repeat what has been already suggested, that the 
 different inflections, whether primary, secondary, or circumflex, 
 are to be expressed with various degrees of fulness, according 
 as the sentiment, and propriety shall demand. In learning 
 their use, it will necessarily happen that they must be marked 
 with more strength and distinctness, than correct and graceful 
 reading would require ; so much so, indeed, as to seem, for a 
 while, stiff and clumsy ; but when the proper use of them is 
 once acquired, this difficulty will disappear. Something very 
 similar occurs in acquiring the rudiments of singing ; but when 
 these rudiments are mastered, the advantage of learning them is 
 made apparent. 
 
 Monotone. 
 
 Monotone is the same note, or elevation of the voice, contin- 
 ued through a whole sentence, or several words, in succession, 
 in a sentence. Although the voice neither rises nor falls, as it 
 respects the note on which it is pitched, it may nevertheless 
 have the differeut inflections, but in a less degree than in other 
 cases. The inflections never continue on the same level, nor in 
 the same degree ; and it is rare that the voice is kept on the 
 
52 the header's guide. 
 
 same note for any considerable length of time, without some in- 
 tervals of rising and falling. 
 
 The monotone is generally employed when the language is 
 sublime, elevated, or grave, and in making comparisons. It is 
 sometimes used to give emphasis. The monotone is usually 
 marked by a short horizontal line drawn over the words or syl- 
 lables on which it is employed. 
 
 EXABIPLES. 
 
 For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eterni- 
 ty, whose name is Holy ; I dwell in the high and holy place. 
 
 And one cried unto another and said ; Holy, holy, holy,, is 
 the Lord of hosts ; the whole earth is full of his glory. 
 
 He stood and measured the earth ; he beheld, and drove 
 asunder the nations : and the everlasting mountains were scat- 
 tered, the perpetual hills did bow ; his ways are everlasting. 
 
 Blessing, honor, and glory, and power, be unto him that sit- 
 teth on the throne, and to the Lamb forever and ever. 
 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away, 
 But fix'd his word, his saving power remains ; 
 Thy realm forever lasts ; thy own Messiah reigns ; 
 
 ——All heaven 
 
 Resounded , and, had earth been then', all earth' 
 Had to her center shook. 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store', 
 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er', 
 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill', 
 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still' ; 
 
 Thus'' to my breast' alternate passions rise^, 
 
 Pleased with each good' that heav'n to man 1, supplies'. 
 
 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. 
 
 Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven, 
 
 And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n. 
 
CADENCE. 53 
 
 Mock sublime. 
 
 High on a gorgeous seat that far outshone' 
 Henley's gilt tub', or Fleckno's Irish throne', 
 Or that where on her Curls the public pours', 
 All bounteous', fragrant grains and golden showers', 
 Great Clbber sate. 
 
 Emphatic Monotone. 
 
 Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. 
 
 Thou shalt not kill. 
 
 Socrates died like a philosopher', but Jesus Christ like a 
 God. 
 
 Man giveth up the gho'st, and where is he ? 
 
 And man himself, whose works are so fragile', where is he' ? 
 The history of his works is the history of himself. He exist- 
 ed h ; he is gone. 
 
 Pigmies are pigmies still', though perch'd on Alps', 
 And Pyramids are Pyramids in vales. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Cadence. 
 
 We are commonly told in treatises on elocution, that cadence 
 is a falling of the voice at the close of a sentence. Sometimes 
 we are left to infer that it is no more than the falling inflection ; 
 sometimes it is represented as a dying away of the voice when a 
 sentence closes ; and true enough, a sentence is often closed as 
 though it died away, and the reader with it. All such instruc- 
 tion, to say the least, is useless ; and it is probable that the read- 
 er, if left to his own sense of propriety, would make a better ca- 
 dence than when so taught. To close a sentence properly is 
 one of the highest attainments in reading, or speaking. It is 
 this which produces on the mind, through the medium of the 
 voice, the final effect of every thought or sentiment. It is this 
 which gives grace and dignity to expression, more than any 
 other part of a sentence. It must then be very important that 
 we form correct views of the manner in which a sentence 
 should be closed, and that our practice should be correspond- 
 ent. 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 What then is a cadence ? It is a fall of the voice on the last 
 syllable in a sentence. Although this is a correct general defi- 
 nition, sundry particulars are to be noticed, in order to gain a 
 clear understanding of cadence in its various applications. 
 
 A cadence is formed on a single syllable only, and that is the 
 last one of a sentence. If the voice begins to drop sooner, the 
 close will be feeble in proportion to the number of syllables on 
 which it falls. If it falls on no more than two, the close will 
 be too weak ; weaker still if on three ; and so on. It is a rule 
 to which I know no exceptions, that the last syllable in a sen- 
 tence but one should be pronounced on as high a note, at least, 
 as the key note of that sentence ; that is, the medium note, or 
 that on which the voice is, or should be, pitched. When the 
 last syllable but one is on the key note, the last will, of course, 
 be on a note lower than the average. But frequently a single 
 note merely, below the key note, would render the close feebler 
 than the vigor of the thought, or a due expression, demands; in 
 this case, the last syllable but one is raised a note, or a semi- 
 tone, in order to enable the voice to descend with ease, and ful- 
 ness. 
 
 It is seldom that a cadence is more than one note, or tone of 
 the voice ; very frequently, not more than a semitone, especially 
 in passages where semitones abound. There may be cases, 
 however, in which a lower fall of the voice may be required ; 
 but these are so unfrequent, that they need not be particularly 
 noticed* 
 
 When a due force and energy of expression demand that the 
 last syllable but one in a sentence should be raised a note high- 
 er than the preceding syllable, the cadence may then be on the 
 keynote, or the note of the last syllable but two ; this is requir- 
 ed, not because the voice had been previously raised to make 
 way for a full and easy cadence, as before mentioned, but be- 
 cause having been raised for another purpose, it is now simply 
 required to fall. From a comparison, therefore, of these obser- 
 vations, it will appear that a cadence is always a fall of the 
 voice below the last syllable but one in a sentence, whatever 
 may be the note on which that syllable is pronounced ; so that 
 this syllable determines the point, whether the cadence shall be 
 higher than the key note of the sentence, shall be on the key 
 note, or shall be below it. This syllable, therefore, entirely 
 governs the cadence ; and its place in the scale of the voice is 
 to be primarily regarded, in order to form a cadence with har- 
 mony, and propriety. 
 
 A regular cadence naturally requires the falling inflection, 
 either primary or secondary. If the close is designed to be 
 
CADENCE. 55 
 
 quite bold, forcible, or abrupt, the primary is used ; at least, the 
 secondary turn is faintly perceptible ; when the close is gentle, 
 or the sound is protracted for any cause, the secondary is em- 
 ployed. 
 
 It can now be seen that they greatly mistake who seem to 
 consider a cadence the same thing as the falling slide. This 
 slide is indeed used when a cadence is made, and so it is when 
 one is not made ; but a proper cadence is the fall of a note or 
 a semitone and not a mere turn of the voice, such as is denoted 
 by an inflection, although the latter may accompany it. 
 
 I wish to be very particular in guarding against the too prev- 
 alent error of ending sentences with a faint and feeble utter- 
 ance. It universally produces a monotonous manner of speak- 
 ing or reading, with a faint, languid, indifferent air ; and, of 
 course, it is inconsistent with natural vivacity and force. If one 
 begins a sentence with some proper life and vigor, but loses 
 them as he proceeds, and finally dies away in feeble accents, 
 the effect is the same as though the beginning had been faulty 
 as well as the close. 
 
 In explanation of the following examples, the relative position 
 of the two last syllables, in order to form a cadence, is denoted, 
 by the place which they respectively occupy in the printing. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 1. All men are mortal. — 2. Life is short. — 3. No man is 
 always wise. — 4. Fly swifter round ye wheels of time. — 5. Be 
 wise to-day' ; 'tis madness to defer. 
 
 All men are mor — Life is —No man is always 
 
 tal. short. wise, 
 
 of 
 Fly swifter round ye wheels time. — Be wise to-day^ ; 'tis 
 
 de 
 madness to fer. 
 
 The first three examples exhibit a common cadence, where 
 a sentence is closed without any thing to require particular en- 
 ergy of expression, and the last syllable but one is supposed to 
 be on the key note. In the fourth example, " Fly swifter round 
 ye wheels of time," the expression is more energetic, and I 
 have therefore placed the penult* syllable or note higher 
 than the one which precedes it, in order to strengthen the ca- 
 dence. The same is done in the fifth example, the word " de- 
 fer" requiring a full expression. 
 
 * Penult : last but one. 
 
56 the reader's guide 
 
 Take now the third example, and lay a slight stress on the 
 word always so as to express the general sentiment, merely, 
 that men sometimes are not wise ; the cadence would then be 
 
 ways 
 denoted thus ; No man is aF wise ; the penult being raised 
 
 a note, and the last syllable being placed on the key note, or that 
 of the antepenult.* Again let the meaning be, that though 
 a man is not always wise, yet he is sometimes ; this meaning 
 
 ways 
 might be thus denoted ; No man is al wise ; the antepe- 
 
 nult being circumflexed, the penult being raised a note, and the 
 last syllable being on the key note, as before, for the cadence. 
 Once more ; let the meaning be conveyed that a man is not al- 
 ways wise, with the question implied, is he 1 or do you think he 
 is ? and the meaning might be denoted in this manner ; No man 
 
 wise 1 ' ; 
 is always or suppose that one should simply wish to ex- 
 
 press himself with much gravity, the reading of the sentence 
 might be thus marked ; No man is al wise'' ; in both of 
 
 ways' 
 these cases, there would be no cadence at all, but the sentence 
 would be closed without one ; that is, without any depression 
 of voice on the last syllable. 
 
 These examples may serve to show what a cadence is, and 
 also, in one particular, what it is not ; namely, that it is not al- 
 ways, and as a matter of course, a concluding note of a sentence. 
 So far is the latter from being true, we shall find that very ma- 
 ny sentences require no depression of voice at their close, and 
 that they frequently require it to be elevated. In all extempora- 
 neous speaking, whether it be in conversation, or in addressing 
 assemblies of people, we shall find that speakers elevate their 
 voices at the end of their sentences much more commonly than 
 is generally supposed, or than persons generally do when they 
 read, or when they practice declamation. By elevation of 
 voice is not here intended a greater degree of loudness, nor 
 more volume of sound, but its relative position in the scale of as- 
 cending and descending, without regard to the quantity of noise 
 which it produces ; it is, in short, the note which is touched, or 
 its elevation of tone. 
 
 A regular cadence is accompanied with the falling inflection, 
 either primary or secondary ;f and which of these should be 
 
 * Antepenult, last but two, or the one before the penult, 
 t A syllable which forms a cadence may, however, and often does, admit the 
 rising slides. 
 
CADENCE. 57 
 
 employed, must be determined by the rules which govern those 
 inflections respectively. 
 
 In extemporaneous speaking, just alluded to, not only is the 
 last syllable in a sentence raised to a higher note than that of 
 a cadence, but it has also the rising slide, more frequently than 
 in reading. Without attempting to decide the question wheth- 
 er this elevation of voice, and this particular slide, should occur 
 as often in reading as in the other cases, it may be safely af- 
 firmed that they should be heard much more frequently than 
 they are, especially when what is read is a speech, in fact, or 
 a production in the nature of one. 
 
 As to the question which may now be asked, when should a 
 cadence be made ? I do not know that any rule can be given 
 which would not be encumbered with many exceptions. Should 
 it be said that a cadence is made when the voice comes to a full 
 rest, this would be true, probably, in a great majority of cases ; 
 yet the voice very frequently comes to this rest on a note higher 
 than that of the penult syllable. Should it be said that a ca- 
 dence occurs when a particular thought or sentiment is termi- 
 nated, this again would be true to a great extent, but not uni- 
 versally. Perhaps the most general and unexceptionable rule 
 which can be given is, that a cadence occurs at the close of a 
 thought or sentiment which is complete in itself, and which con- 
 veys an intimation that there is nothing to follow which is es- 
 sentially dependent on what has already been said. It is quite 
 certain that a cadence always interrupts the chain of thought, 
 and that it never occurs without producing a pause in the atten- 
 tion of the hearer, by inclining him instinctively to suppose that 
 such a pause is demanded by the speaker himself. Hence it is 
 easy to deduce a general rule, showing when a cadence is not 
 to be used. 
 
 When a particular thought or sentiment is started, a cadence 
 is not to be made until this thought or sentiment is fully express- 
 ed, and completed. 
 
 Thus a cadence should never be made between a nominative 
 and its verb, however separated by adjuncts ; nor between any 
 of the component parts of a sentence, however numerous, and 
 long continued. Though this rule is quite obvious on the least 
 reflection, yet none is oftener violated both in reading and speak- 
 ing, especially if what is spoken has been previously commit- 
 ted to writing, or the promptings of natural feeling and a sense 
 of propriety have been otherwise suppressed. Not a few 
 preachers violate this rule in the reading of the Sacred Scrip- 
 tures and of hymns, and in the delivery of their written dis- 
 
58 the reader's guide. 
 
 courses ; and a large proportion of all who read in public do 
 the same to a greater or less extent. 
 
 Examples of a right and wrong use of Cadence. 
 
 Whosoever shall break one of these least commandments', 
 and shall teach men so', he shall be called least 1 ' in the king- 
 dom of heav 
 
 en. 
 
 Whosoever shall break one of these least command 
 
 ments, 
 and shall teach men he shall be called least in the kingdom 
 
 so, 
 of heav 
 
 en. 
 
 And yet I say unto you that even Solomon', in all his glory', 
 of 
 was not array 'ed like one these''. 
 
 And yet I say unto you that even Solo in all his glory, 
 
 mon, 
 of 
 was not arrayed like one these. Or, 
 
 And yet I say unto you that even Solomon', in all his glo' 
 
 of 
 was not arrayed like one these. Or, 
 
 And yet I say unto you that even Solo in all his glo 
 
 mon, ry, 
 
 of 
 was not arrayed like one these. 
 
 Fine sense'' and exalted sense are not halP so valuable as 
 mon 
 
 com sense. 
 
 Fine sens v e and exalted are not half so valuable as 
 
 sen'se, 
 mon 
 com sense. 
 
 Fine and exalted are not half so valuable as 
 
 sense sen v se, 
 
 mon 
 com sense. 
 
CADENCE. 59 
 
 That man may last, but never lives h , 
 
 ing' 
 Who much receives', but noth" gives. 
 
 That man may last', but never 
 
 lives, 
 re 
 Who much ceive^s, but nothing 
 
 gives. 
 
 Come', holy Spirit', heavenly Dove', 
 
 With all thy quick ning powers', 
 Kindle a flame of sacred love', 
 
 In these cold hearts of 
 
 ours. 
 
 Come\ holy Spirit', heavenly Dov'e, 
 With all thy quickening 
 
 power s, 
 o> 
 In these cold hearts of 
 
 Kindle a flame of sacred love, 
 
 ours. 
 
 O death', all eloquent', you only prove 
 
 man 
 What dusf we dote on', when 'tis we 
 
 love. 
 
 death', all elo you only prove 
 
 quent, 
 What dust we dote on x , when 'tis man we 
 
 love. 
 
 Examples of cadence in compound sentences, at pauses of a 
 semicolon, or colon. — A false cadence is not here noted. 
 
 Honor is but a fictitious kind of hones a mean, but a ne- 
 
 ty; 
 cessary' substitute for it , in societies who have it is a sort 
 
 none; 
 of paper-credit', with which men are obliged to traMe who are 
 deficient in the sterling cash'' of true morality' and reli 
 
 gion. 
 
 He that acts sincerely' has the easiest task in the be- 
 
 world*" ; 
 cause he follows nature, and so is put to no trouble and care 
 
 
60 the reader's guide. 
 
 ac' 
 about his words and tion v s ; he needs not invent any pre 
 tenses beforehand', nor make excuses afterwards', for any thing 
 
 or 
 he has said done''. But insincerity' is very troublesome to 
 man a hypocrite has so many things to attend to', as make 
 
 age ; cate 
 
 his life a very perplexed' and intri thing. A liar hath 
 
 need of a good memory', lest he contradict' at on v e time what 
 he hath said at ano'th but truth is always consistent with it- 
 er ; 
 se\If, and needs nothing to help out ; it is always near at 
 
 it 
 hand, and sits upon our whereas' a lie is troublesome', 
 
 lips; 
 and needs a great many mo 're to make it 
 
 good''. 
 
 In the second place', we are to consider those who have mis- 
 taken notions of hon'' And these are such as establish any 
 
 or. 
 thing to themselves for a point of honor which is contrary ei- 
 
 coun 
 ther to the laws of God', or of their try' ; who think it 
 
 . J* 
 
 more honorable to revenge^, than to forgive'' an in ry' ; who 
 
 make no scruple of telling a lie, but would put any man to 
 
 of 
 death that accuses them it ; who are more careful to guard 
 
 vir' 
 their reputation by their courage than by their tue. True 
 fortitude is indeed'' so becoming in human nature, that he who 
 
 a 
 wants it' scarce deserves the name of man'' ; but we find sev- 
 eral who so much abuse this notion', that they place the whole 
 idea of honor' in a kind of brutal cour^ by which means we 
 
 a'ge; 
 have those among us who have called themselves men of hon 
 
 gib 
 or, that would have been a disgrace to a bet. 
 
 Note. — In future, the rising and falling of a note on a syllable will be 
 signified, when occasion shall require it, by a point placed over the syl- 
 lable, if it is to be raised a note, and by one placed under it if it is to 
 fall. A semitone will be denoted in like manner, by a comma. This 
 
PAUSES. 61 
 
 method will be adopted as every way sufficient for the purpose, while it 
 will prevent some loss of room on a page, and a bad appearance of the 
 print to the eye. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Pauses. 
 
 The grammatical pauses of a comma, semicolon, colon, and 
 period, together with the dash ( — ), and the marks of exclama- 
 tion and interrogation (!, ?), denote that a pause is to be made 
 after each, rather than the precise length of time that the voice 
 should stop. It is true, in general, that a comma denotes a shorter 
 pause than a semicolon ; a semicolon, than a colon ; and a co- 
 lon, than a period. Still, how long the voice should stop at 
 each, must be decided by circumstances, and the nature of the 
 case, and not by any one determinate rule. Here is room for 
 the exercise of judgment and good taste, which must be ac- 
 quired by reflection and experience. Cases may occur when a 
 longer pause ought to be made at a comma, than even at a pe- 
 riod ; and the same grammatical pause may occur a number of 
 times in immediate succession, requiring a different length of 
 time at each. 
 
 A rapid succession of ideas, urgency of manner in which a 
 thought is enforced, playfulness of mind, and familiarity in gen- 
 eral, will require shorter pauses than the opposites of all these. 
 When something is expressed which it is quite important for 
 the hearer to notice and retain, the pause should be protracted 
 long enough for that purpose. Many important thoughts must 
 be lost unless such an opportunity is given, and the hearer will 
 be little profited, or interested, in listening to a reader who hur- 
 ries him along from thought to thought, with no allowance of 
 time for distinguishing one from another. An emphatic expres- 
 sion before a stop requires a longer halt of the voice there, than 
 one which is not emphatic, for the obvious reason that such an 
 expression deserves due attention, for which an opportunity 
 must be afforded. Take the following example ; — When I was 
 a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as 
 a child ; but when I became a ma^n, I put away childish things. 
 Here it is easily seen that a longer pause is demanded after 
 
 6 
 
62 
 
 man, than at any of the preceding commas. So in this instance — 
 Virtue, not rolling suns', the mind matures ; a longer stop is 
 made after virtue, than after suns. Take another example. — 
 As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I re- 
 joice at it ; as he was valiant, I honor him ; but as he was am- 
 bitious', I slew' him. Here are several semicolons ; but a long- 
 er rest of the voice is evidently required at the last, than at 
 any which preceded it. 
 
 The marks of exclamation and interrogation are not inserted 
 in books, or in writing, for the purpose of showing how long a 
 pause must be made where they occur, but of drawing the at- 
 tention of the reader to the fact that an exclamation is made, in 
 the case of one, and a question put, in that of the other. Thus 
 they give notice how a passage is to be read, rather than show 
 how long a person should stop where they are inserted. Some- 
 times we stop no longer than the time commonly denoted by a 
 comma ; sometimes that of a semicolon ; sometimes that of a 
 period ; for they are thrown in where any of these grammatical 
 points might have been used in their stead, had there not been 
 a different object in employing them. When they make their 
 appearance, therefore, the reader should stop as long as the 
 sense requires, and no longer. 
 
 But pauses are often to be made where none are indicated by 
 artificial marks, and where the sense and judgment alone must 
 govern. These are required for convenience of utterance, for 
 greater harmony of the voice, and for giving distinctness to the 
 meaning ; and they are always most discernible in the reading 
 and speaking of those who excel in their elocution. Without 
 them it is almost impossible, at times, for a hearer to understand 
 distinctly the true meaning of what is uttered. Beginners, and 
 those who are rapid in their manner, are very prone to omit 
 these pauses ; so are any who do not themselves take pains to 
 understand well what they read. All who would acquit them- 
 selves well should be attentive to this matter, avoiding that hur- 
 ried, strait-onward manner which confounds all meaning, har- 
 mon} r , and convenience. A few short examples will serve to 
 illustrate what is intended by this sort of pauses, which are usu- 
 ally denominated rhetorical. 
 
 Without a friend' the world is but a wilderness. — It is wiser to 
 prevent a quarrel beforehand' than to revenge it afterwards. — 
 No one can fail to observe that correct reading would require 
 a short pause to be made after the word friend, in the first ex- 
 ample, and after the word beforehand, in the second. So obvi- 
 ous, indeed, is the pause, that many writers would place a com- 
 ma after those words, although the grammatical construction of 
 
PAUSES. 
 
 63 
 
 the sentences would not require them to be put there, but 
 would rather forbid it ; and it may be proper here to remark 
 that commas are often put in, especially in long sentences, or 
 where the nominative to a verb has several appendages to it, 
 when the connection of the words would demand none. This 
 seems to be done for the regulation of the voice, rather than to 
 point out the sense to the eye. 
 
 What a piece of work is man ! how noble in reason ! how 
 infinite in faculties ! in form and moving' how express 11 and ad- 
 mirable ! in action how like an ang'el ! in apprehension' how 
 like a God ! 
 
 In this example the rhetorical pause is quite apparent after 
 the words moving, action, and apprehension. An accurate 
 reader would also make a slight pause, but sufficient to be no- 
 ticed, after the words work, noble, infinite, and express, in order 
 to give more distinctness to the ideas, and a greater harmony 
 of expression. 
 
 If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, cha- 
 pels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' pala- 
 ces. — Here the like pause is discernible after the word do, 
 where it is first used, and a very slight one after cottages. So 
 evident is the first pause that some would insert a comma to 
 denote it, as in the preceding example, although the verb to do 
 serves as a nominative to the verb which follows, without the 
 intervention of any other word. In this case, however, a com- 
 ma would be improper, as unnecessary to mark either the sense, 
 or the pause. 
 
 Thankfulness and happiness imply each other. We must 
 be than v kful to be happy', and happy' to be thankful. — Here 
 quite a short pause is required after happiness, and a more dis- 
 tinct one after thankful, and the second happy. 
 
 It is a general rule that the rhetorical pause should be made 
 where one or more words are omitted in a sentence, to avoid re- 
 petition. — Example. He who tells a lie is not sensible how 
 great a task he undertakes ; for he must be forced to invent 
 twenty mo'' re to maintain that one. A pause is made after 
 more, his being omitted ; twenty more lies, is the meaning. — 
 Example. Newton was one of the best and wisest philosophers. 
 A pause is made after best : the meaning is, that Newton was 
 one of the best of philosophers, and one of the wisest philoso- 
 phers. — Again ; 
 
 Some place the bliss in action' ; some in ease ; 
 Thos'e call it pleasure ; and contentment these''. 
 
64 the reader's guide. 
 
 A pause will be noticed after some in the first line, and after 
 contentment in the second ; the omission, in the first instance, 
 is that of the words, 'place the bliss ; when supplied, the line 
 would read thus : Some place the bliss in action ; some place 
 the bliss in ease, or some place it in ease. In the second in- 
 stance, by supplying the omitted words, the passage would read ; 
 Those call it pleasure ; and these call it contentment. 
 
 Note. — In the example beginning with, " What a piece of 
 work is man !" it may be observed, that semicolons would take 
 the place of the exclamation marks, were the latter to be 
 omitted, and other ones substituted for them. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Interrogative Sentences. 
 
 Who has not felt a difficulty in reading interrogative sen- 
 tences with propriety 1 Who has not felt himself embarrassed 
 in deciding with what manner of voice he should close them ? 
 And whohas ever found himself greatly assisted by the instruction 
 which he has derived, on this point ; from teachers or from 
 books ? Very few, it is believed, can say that they have not 
 felt this difficulty and embarrassment, or that they have found 
 this assistance. Yet no difficulty of the kind is experienced in 
 conversation, or any sort of extemporaneous speaking, when 
 the instinctive feelings of men are their only guides. Every 
 bodv knows how to ask a question, when he asks it for himself; 
 but as soon as he meets with one in a book, all his natural in- 
 stincts, and all his natural sense of propriety, seem to forsake 
 him. Every interrogative sentence is read with nearly the 
 same up, or the same down of the voice, in a manner which is 
 both formal, and mechanical. 
 
 It would seem that there must be some general principles, 
 which deserve consideration, in regard to the manner in which 
 these sentences are to be read ; and nature itself would seem to 
 dictate, that they should be sufficiently comprehensive to meet 
 the various purposes which the asking of a question has in 
 view. The late Dr. Porter, in his Analysis of the principles of 
 rhetorical delivery, and in his Rhetorical Reader, has laid down 
 two general rules, to which he has made no exceptions, for the 
 
INTERROGATIVE SENTENCES. 65 
 
 reading and speaking of . interrogative sentences. Valuable as 
 those two treatises are in most respects, the author has miscon- 
 ceived the principles by which we are governed in asking ques- 
 tions, and made his rules relating to them so defective that it is 
 entirely impossible to put them in general practice without doing 
 violence to our natural feelings of propriety. The distinction 
 which he has made between direct and indirect questions, by 
 the former of which he intends those which admit of the answer 
 yes, or no, and by the latter those which do not admit of such 
 an answer, has no foundation in nature, and is inconsistent with 
 correct usage. The very first examples which he has given 
 under the former rule, for its illustration, ought not to be read in 
 the manner which the rule itself seems intended to point out, but 
 should be classed, rather, with the examples which are produced 
 under the latter. If an author of his acuteness and ability has 
 erred on this point, it cannot be a wonder that teachers at large 
 should be liable to mistakes, and should give instructions 
 on this head, which, to say the least, will be found imper- 
 fect. 
 
 Before proceeding to suggest rules which may be applied to 
 the reading of interrogative sentences, it will be proper to in- 
 quire into the character and object of interrogations in gen- 
 eral. 
 
 Questions are sometimes put directly, for the express purpose 
 of having somebody answer them, and with the wish and ex- 
 pectation that somebody will answer them ; as if a traveller 
 should inquire of one whom he meets, ' ; How many miles are 
 there to Hartford 1" It is furthermore evident that the wish, 
 desire, or expectation, of receiving an answer may vary greatly 
 in degree, producing a correspondent earnestness, and urgency 
 inputting a question ; and that all this will be intimated by the 
 modulation of the voice. Again, a question is sometimes asked 
 without any wish or intention of having it answered in words, 
 but in thought ; yet the intention clearly is that it will be an- 
 swered thus, and it is put with that design. A man is address- 
 ing an audience, all of whom are silent listeners ; he for the time 
 is the only speaker ; still he puts questions to them which it 
 is just as important that they should individually answer, in 
 thought, or in mind, as in other cases it would be that a person 
 should do it in words. The manner of such questions will re- 
 quire the same modifications, evidently, as were suited to the 
 case first supposed. Brutus is represented as saying, in his 
 speech to the Romans on the death of Cassar, Who is here so 
 rude that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak, for him have I 
 offended. Brutus could not have intended that any one should 
 6* 
 
66 the reader's guide. 
 
 speak out in words, to answer his question, even though he says, 
 speak, for him have I offended ; it was enough if his hearers re- 
 plied mentally. When he proceeds and inquires, Who is here 
 so vile that he will not love his country 1 If any, speak, for him 
 have I offended ; and then adds — I pause for a reply, he still is 
 not supposed to expect an audible answer. But allowing that 
 an audible answer had been expected, there would have been, 
 in either case, the same tones, the same modulation of voice. 
 
 To give force and emphasis to what he says, a speaker some- 
 times puts a question, and answers it himself. In this case he 
 expects, of course, that his question will be answered ; it is what 
 he intends, and what he had in view. His manner of speaking, 
 therefore, must, and will, imply such an expectation, as in the 
 former cases, and may admit of different degrees of earnestness. 
 
 But questions are, by no means, always put for the purpose 
 of being answered, either in words, or silently ; directly or in- 
 directly. Especially is this true, as we meet with them in 
 books, and in set, oral speeches. Much the greater part of 
 them are introduced for other purposes ; yet they have the 
 form and construction of interrogations, and might be answered 
 were there occasion. If the mere form and structure of 
 sentences denote that they are interrogative, there should surely 
 be something in the management of the living voice to indicate 
 the same. This, indeed, the latter is capable of doing by itself 
 alone, and often does, independently of any collocation of 
 words. An example of the kind may be seen in the quotation 
 from the dialogue between Hamlet and Horatio, page 35. 
 
 Among questions of the latter class are those which are 
 asked for the purpose of strongly affirming some truth which 
 the speaker himself takes care not to assert, but virtually com- 
 pels the hearer to do it by intimating the answer which must be 
 given, if one be given at all. It is an implied challenge to the 
 hearer to give an answer which would not establish the point at 
 which the question aims ; or in other words, the answer which 
 must be given compels him to perceive and admit the truth 
 which the propounder of the question meant to establish. Some- 
 times this mode of questioning amounts only to an indirect 
 way of calling some truth to mind ; sometimes it barely inti- 
 mates what he who uses it does not choose roundly to assert. — 
 " Canst thou by searching find out God ; or canst thou know 
 the Almighty unto perfection 1 " is equivalent to affirming with 
 emphasis, that one cannot so find out God, nor know him to per- 
 fection. The point, too, is so clear, that the putter of the ques- 
 tion does not care to wait for an answer. The thirty-seventh 
 chapter of the Book of Job, and the four which follow it, con- 
 
INTERROGATIVE SENTENCES. 
 
 67 
 
 tain a multitude of questions which he is challenged to answer 
 in any way which will not exalt the power and majesty of God, 
 and abase himself; yet in all of them silence is imposed on Job 
 to whom they are addressed, and any answer to them would 
 have been impertinent. — " Are you christians ? and by uphold- 
 ing duellists will you deluge the land with blood, and fill it with 
 widows and orphans 1" Here the speaker reminds his hearers 
 that they were christians, or ought to be ; and if they were, that 
 they ought not, as they themselves must acknowledge, to be 
 instrumental in deluging the land with blood, and filling it with 
 widows and orphans. 
 
 Questioning is much used in argumentation ; and when so 
 employed it may be exhibited in all the ways which have been 
 pointed out. Expostulation is a kind of address which employs 
 questions to a great extent, and with much effect. Entreaty 
 also very frequently admits them. In both, however, it is not 
 commonly expected that a reply will be made in return. " Turn 
 ye, turn ye, from your evil ways ; for why will ye die, O house 
 of Israel V may be taken as a specimen of either, according as 
 the passage may be associated with different considerations. — 
 "Now therefore I pray thee, let thy servant abide, instead of 
 the lad, a bondman to my lord, and let the lad go up with his 
 brethren. For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad be 
 not with me ? lest, peradventure, I see the evil that shall come 
 on my father." 
 
 It cannot be necessary to inquire further into the general na- 
 ture and uses of interrogations ; they are, in fact, too extensive 
 to be enumerated, even if it were practicable to do it, without a 
 prolixity disproportionate to a work of this kind. Enough has 
 been done to establish conclusively this fact — that every inter- 
 rogative sentence contains a question which, whether it be an- 
 swered directly, or not, admits an answer in some form, or oth- 
 er. Another truth would seem to be equally obvious — that 
 whenever a sentence is really an interrogative one, it should be 
 so read or spoken as to make the interrogation apparent to those 
 who hear it ; and that this cannot be done unless it be read or 
 spoken in some manner different from the reading and speaking 
 of a common sentence. Now, by an attentive consideration of 
 this subject, it will be seen that we generally close sentences, 
 which are not interrogative, with a cadence, as pointed out in 
 the chapter under that head. Emphasis may form some excep- 
 tions to this general principle, as it does to many others, but not 
 so often, it is believed, as might at first be supposed. In most 
 cases, where it might at first be thought that the voice is raised 
 a note or a semitone on the last syllable in a sentence, it will be 
 
68 
 
 found that the rising inflection alone is used, and sometimes 
 nothing more than the secondary falling one. But when the 
 voice is really raised a note or semitone on that syllable, there 
 may be, after all, a doubt produced in the minds of the hearers, 
 whether a question was not implied in what was said. The 
 general principle, therefore, in respect to a cadence, is not af- 
 fected by such exceptions. The general conclusion to which 
 we are brought, that the close of an interrogative sentence must 
 be different from a cadence, will be best expressed in the first of 
 the rules which will here follow. 
 
 Rule I. 
 
 In all kinds of interrogative sentences, the last syllable should 
 be raised, in reading or speaking, at least a note or semitone 
 higher than the one which precedes it ; or, what amounts to the 
 same thing, the penult syllable should be a note or semitone 
 lower than the last syllable. 
 
 If this rule is correct, it appears that the close of an interro- 
 gative sentence is a cadence inverted; and that, in this partic- 
 ular, there is an importaut distinction between such a sentence 
 and a common one, a disregard of which must be a confusion of 
 the two.* 
 
 Rule II. 
 
 When a question is asked in an earnest, spirited, or fearless 
 manner, or with a view to obtain an answer, the penult, and 
 sometimes the antepenult syllable, will be on or above the key 
 note of the sentence : the last syllable will, of course, be high- 
 er still. In some cases the voice will begin to rise still farther 
 back ; and there are times when it gradually rises from the 
 commencement of a sentence, especially if it be not a long one, 
 to its close. 
 
 Emphasis produced by contrast, or antithesis, may depress 
 the voice on a particular syllable or syllables, for the sake of 
 marking the thing contrasted with something else ; but still not 
 so as to change the relative position of the two last syllables 
 
 *In Dr Porter's rule, however, for reading such questions as cannot be an- 
 swered by yes, or no, there is no such distinction made, and we are taught to 
 read them as we should those which are not interrogative. Nor has he, in- 
 deed, made such a distinction any where else. All he has said is, that those 
 questions which can be answered by yes or no, are to have the rising inflection, 
 and those which cannot be so answered, are to have the falling ; yet he has not 
 even told us where these inflections are to be made, and has uniformly marked 
 only the long and the accented syllables nearest the close, though several short 
 ones might immediately follow them. Such imperfections, surely, ought not to 
 be perpetuated. 
 
 
INTERROGATORY SENTENCES. 69 
 
 with each other. A consideration of this, however, belongs to 
 the treating of emphasis, and the occurrence itself does not inter- 
 fere with the general rule. 
 
 Rule III. 
 
 The last syllable of an interrogative sentence should have 
 the rising slide ; and the same slide is required at every pause 
 in the sentence, whether the pause be grammatical or rhetori- 
 cal. 
 
 In some cases the secondary rising inflection may be used, 
 but not often. Here, again, the kind of emphasis before men- 
 tioned may sometimes invert the slide on any syllable but the 
 last ; but so instinctively inclined are we to turn the voice up- 
 ward in asking questions, that, even in the case of such empha- 
 sis, we invariably employ, I believe, the secondary falling in- 
 flection, and not the primary. 
 
 This rule is, in fact, no more than a particular application of 
 Rule I. in the chapter on inflections. When a question is ask- 
 ed, the thought or sentiment is, of course, carried forward from 
 the beginniug to the end of the sentence ; and the current of 
 the voice should correspond with that of the thought. It is the 
 rising slide which is mainly employed for this purpose ; yet 
 sometimes the secondary downward slide, if the upward turn at 
 its close is strongly marked, answers the same purpose ; but 
 this current of the voice is entirely interrupted by a cadence. 
 Yet how often is such a cadence used even by those who wish 
 to be accounted good readers, and speakers. 
 
 Rule IV. 
 
 When a question is asked in a vague and general manner, or 
 for the mere purpose of expressing a thought forcibly, without 
 the design of exacting an answer in form, or in a kind and gen- 
 tle manner, the last syllable may be on the key note, or be be- 
 low it, while the preceding syllables may take any arrangement 
 in the scale of the voice consistent with leaving the penult a 
 note or semitone lower than the last one. 
 
 To avoid all uncertainty of meaning with regard to the ri- 
 sing and falling of the voice, the same mode of expressing it, 
 will be pursued in the following examples under these rules, as 
 was adopted in the illustration of cadence. 
 
 Examples. 
 Who did this mis chie'f ? 
 
70 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 
 in 
 
 Are you all reac * * ' 
 Must I endureall this ' ? 
 
 Is thy servant a dog' that he should do thls 1Dg ' 
 
 i . t u rnu 
 
 Answer me direc'tly' ; did you'' make all inis 
 
 est ? 
 Can't I speak in jest without being taken m earn " — Now 
 
 read the same example in a complaining, or despairing tone. 
 CanVl speak m jest/ without being taken j n earnest' ? 
 
 And the king said unto her', what wilt thou', queen Est ner ' ? 
 and what is thy re^ uest ' • 
 
 And the king Ahasuerus answered and said unto Esther the 
 queen', who is neh , and where is ne that durst presume in his 
 heart to do so^ ? 
 
 Let me ask on what ground you mean to ' Do yo u 
 
 expect t0 P erSUa G " Do you hope to intimi date ? If to per suade ' 
 what are your me ans^ of persua 8 * 011 ' ? Every gentleman admits 
 the importance of this country. Think you the First Consul', 
 whose capaicious mind embraces the globe ^, is alone'' ignorant 
 of its vaJu6 1 Is he a child*, whom y°u may win by a rattle' to 
 
 comply with y our w ' q - "WiN y° u > hke] a nurse, sing him to 
 a lulla- D y ■ ^ y° u have no hope from a fondling attention and 
 
 soothing sounds, what } iaV e' y ou t0 offer [ n ex cnan g e 1 Have 
 you any thing to give'' which } ie will take ? £[ e wa nts power. 
 You have'' no power. He wants dominion. — You have'' no do- 
 minion ; — at least none that you can grant. He wants influence 
 in Europe. And have y 01 ' 1 any influence m Eu ro P e • 
 
 I will now introduce a few examples taken from Porter's 
 Rhetorical Reader, that any, who wish it, may have an oppor- 
 tunity of comparing his principles and method of notation with 
 those here adopted. They are taken from pages 33 and 34, 
 under rule VII, and from page 90, under exercise 7. 
 
 What, Tubero, did that naked sword of yours mean', in the 
 battle of Phar sa ^a ? At whose breast was its point'' aimed ? 
 
INTERROGATORY SENTENCES. 71 
 
 What was the meaning of your arms'', your spirit, your eyes* - , 
 your hands 1 ", your ardor of sou * • 
 
 f '\Who say the people that I am ^ 1 They answering said', John 
 the Baptist ; But some say Elias • an d others say that one of 
 the old prophets' is risen again. Where is boasting then' • I* 
 
 is excluded'. Who first seduced them to that fouP re vo ^^ 
 The infernal serpent. 
 
 The governor answered and said unto them, whether of the 
 twain will ye that I release'' un t ' you^? They said, Barabbas. 
 Pilate said unto them, what shall I do then with Jesus' wn ich is 
 called Christ 1 " ? They all say unto him', let him be crucified'. 
 And the governor said, Why^ ; what evil hath he done' ? But 
 they cried out the more'', saying', Let him be crucified. 
 
 Where now is the splendid robe of the con'su^e ? Where 
 are the brilliant torches' 1 1 Where are the applauses', and dan v - 
 ces',the feasts^ and entertain ments ' ? Where are the coronets and 
 the canop ies ? Where the huzzas of thecitY 'the compliments 
 of the cir' cus ' and the flattering acclamations of the speetat° rs •- 
 All these have perished. 
 
 It is proper to remark that persons of good taste may vary 
 somewhat in the particular modulation of the voice in certain 
 cases of interrogation, but yet without any violation of first 
 principles. Some would elevate the voice a note or semitone 
 more than others, or in like manner depress it, on a particular 
 word or syllable, when it could be done without destroying the 
 interrogative character of the sentence. Different apprehen- 
 sions of the meaning conveyed, and different states of feeling at 
 the time, may contribute to this variety. Even the same indi- 
 vidual, owing to the same causes, may have some diversity of 
 manner in his expression. No diversity, however, of this kind, 
 can vary the general principle respecting the relative position 
 of the penult, and last syllable. 
 
72 the reader's guide. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Emphasis. 
 
 Any mode of utterance which is calculated to draw the par- 
 ticular attention of the hearer to a thought, syllable, or part of 
 a sentence, is called emphasis. The usual definition, that em- 
 phasis is a particular stress of the voice laid on one or more 
 words in a sentence, is very incomplete. Emphasis often ex- 
 ists without any special stress of the voice ; a mere whisper may 
 sometimes give a word or phrase an emphasis which mere stress 
 could not do. There are other modes, also, of making lan- 
 guage emphatic, as I shall have occasion to show, and which 
 are inconsistent with the common definition. 
 
 Emphasis is a part of reading and speaking which deserves 
 special consideration. Without it our reading would be dull 
 and monotonous ; and many important thoughts of an author 
 would be lost, or not sufficiently heeded, for want of being 
 prominently brought into view. 
 
 But the omission of emphasis is not the only fault pertaining 
 to this head. The misplacing of it, that is, the putting of it on 
 words to which it does not belong, may have an equally bad ef- 
 fect. A wrong kind of emphasis, too, may operate as badly 
 as none at all, or one placed where it does not belong. 
 
 To tell where emphasis ought to be employed, or what kind 
 should be used, cannot be reduced to general rules. It is to be 
 employed whenever the sense requires it ; but who can tell 
 beforehand what this will be ? The most that can be done is to 
 point out the different kinds of emphasis, or modes in which it is 
 produced. To use these successfully, every person should well 
 understand what he reads or speaks, and endeavor to make the 
 feelings of the author his own. If a person cannot, or will not, 
 understand what sentiments and thoughts deserve a prominent 
 expression, technical rules can afford him no material assist- 
 ance. He may, however, be conscious that a passage is era. 
 phatical, but be in doubt what sort of emphasis would be best 
 adapted to give the right expression of thought ; or, that being 
 determined, how he shall express the emphasis itself so as to 
 give it the greatest effect. In these respects he may be assist- 
 ed by proper instruction ; and to this end what I have to say 
 under this head will be mainly directed. 
 
EMPHASIS. 73 
 
 I shall now exhibit various modes in which emphasis may be 
 expressed. 
 
 I. Emphasis may be expressed by giving intensity to the in- 
 flections. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 God thundereth marvelously with his voice ; great things he 
 doeth, which we cannot comprehend. — The word we has natu- 
 rally the rising inflection, and is here rendered emphatical by 
 making the inflection intensive. 
 
 Now the Egyptians are men, and not God ; and their horses 
 flesh', and not spirit. 
 
 When the Lord shall stretch out his hand, both he that help- 
 eth shall fall, and he that is helped shall fall down, and they all 
 shall fall together. All the words here marked have their in- 
 flections intensive, to make them emphatical. 
 
 The circumflex is generally intensive, and the words which 
 have it, emphatical ; but this is not ahaays the fact. 
 
 II. Emphasis is frequently formed by a change of inflections ; 
 that is, if a word without emphasis would have a particular 
 slide, it will have a different one if it becomes emphatical. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 But if thy brother is grieved with thy food, now walkest 
 thou not charitably. Destroy not him' with thy food p , for whom 
 Christ died. Were it not for the emphasis, the first food would 
 have the rising slide, and charitably the falling : so him would 
 have the falling, and the second food the rising inflection ; — 
 The word Christ would also have the rising slide. 
 
 Blame not before you have examined the truth ; understand' 
 first', and then' rebuke. The inflections on. first, then, and re- 
 buke, are inverted. 
 
 Be at peace with many ; nevertheless, have but one counsel ' 
 lor of a thousand. The slide is inverted on thousand. 
 
 Let reason go before every enterprise', and counsel before 
 action. The slide is inverted on action. 
 
 Some people will never learn any' thing, for this reason — 
 because they understand every thing too soon. The inversion 
 is on soon. 
 
?4 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 And when he is come, he will reprove the world of sin\ and 
 of righteousness', and of judgment : Of sin', because they be- 
 lieve not on me ; of righteousness', because I go to my Father, 
 and ye see me no more ; of judgment, because the prince of 
 this world is judged. Nearly all the inflections in this exam- 
 ple are inverted. 
 
 What new importance, then', does not the achievment acquire 
 to our minds, when we consider that it was the deed of our fa- 
 thers ; that this grand undertaking was accomplished on the spot 
 where we dwell ; that the mighty region they explored is our 
 native land ; that the unrivalled enterprise they displayed is 
 not merely a fact proposed to our admiration, but is the source 
 of our being ; that their cruel hardships are the spring of our 
 prosperity ; their amazing sufferings' the seed from which our'' 
 happiness has sprung ; that their weary banishment gave us'' a 
 home'' ; that to their'' separation from every thing which is dear 
 and pleasant in life, we owe all the comYorts, the bles'sings, the 
 privileges', which make our lot the envy of mankind. — Here 
 are many emphatical particulars brought together, most of 
 which depend, for their emphatical expression, on a change of 
 slides. Each member of the whole compound sentence consti- 
 utes, by itself, one emphatic thought or sentiment, and is ter- 
 minated by the falling slide ; whereas, without any particular 
 emphasis, it would have the rising. 
 
 III. Emphasis at the close of a sentence may be formed by 
 inverting the cadence. This mode of emphasis nearly resem- 
 bles one that is formed by inverting the falling slide, but is in 
 reality distinct from it, as will be perceived by comparing to- 
 gether what has been said with regard to the inflections, and the 
 elevation and depression of the voice to the amount of a tone or 
 semitone. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 Custom is the plague of wise men, and the idol of fools.* 
 All men think all men mortal but themselves. 
 Short lived as we are, yet our pleasures we see, 
 Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 
 
 * The notation mentioned page 41, is here resumed. 
 
EMPHASIS. 
 
 75 
 
 Juba. Alas' ! the story melts away my soul. 
 
 That best of fathers' ! — how shall I discharge 
 The gratitude and duty which I owe him T 
 
 Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart. 
 
 Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy^ directions' : — 
 
 Then', Syphax', chide me in severest terms', 
 Vent all thy pas'sion', and I'll stand its shock' 
 Calm and unruffled as a summer sea, 
 When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface. 
 
 Syph. Alas', my prince, I'd guide you to your safety. 
 Juba. I do believe thou wouldsf ; but tell me how'. 
 Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Cesar's foes. 
 Juba. My father scorn'd to do it'. 
 
 Syph. And therefore died 1 ". 
 
 Juba. Better to die ten thousand deaths', 
 
 Than wound my honor' — 
 Syph. Rather say% your love 1 '. 
 
 Juba. Syphax, I've promised to preserve my temper ; — 
 Why wilt^ thou urge me to confess a flame 
 I long have stifled', and would fain conceal ? 
 
 Syph. Believe me, prince, though hard' to con'quer love, 
 
 'Tis easy' to divert^ and break its force : 
 A'bsence might cure it', or a second' object' 
 Light up another flame, and put out this 1 *. 
 
 Juba. 'Tis not a set of features 1 ", or complexion^, 
 The tincture of the skin 1 ", that 'I admire 1 ". 
 
 Beauty soon grows familiar' to the lover', 
 Fades 1 " in his eye, and palls upon the sense. 
 
 IV. Emphasis is sometimes formed by raising the voice to a 
 higher, and sometimes to a lower note, than it would naturally 
 have without emphasis. 
 
 Shall the pagan slaves'" be masters, then', 
 Of the land which your fathers gave you ? 
 
 Shall the Infidel lord it o'er Christian men, 
 
 When your own good swords may save you ? 
 
76 the reader's guide. 
 
 Let him know there are hearts, however bowed 7 
 By the chains which he threw around them', 
 
 That will rise, like a spirit from pall and shroud, 
 
 And cry wo to the slaves who bound them. 
 
 Ah whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 
 Ah v ! what is that sound which now larums his ear ? 
 
 'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky ! 
 
 'Tis the crashing of thunders', the groan of the sphere. 
 
 He thunders, and all nature mourns. 
 
 Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, 
 And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 
 
 Thus heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er', 
 Depart in peace, resign', and sin x no more. 
 
 He frowns, and darkness veils the moon ; 
 
 The fainting sun grows dim at noon : 
 The pillars of heaven's starry roof 
 Tremble and start^ at his reproof. 
 
 It should be here noted that a distinction should be made be- 
 tween highness, and loudness of voice. Highness has reference 
 to the note on which the voice is placed in the scale ; loudness 
 regards the distance to which it can be heard. The voice may 
 be raised to a high note, and yet not be heard far ; that is, the 
 noise made by it be very little. 
 
 Low stands opposed to high : a low voice properly means one 
 that is on a low key ; yet the voice may be on a low note in the 
 scale, and make much noise. The low notes of an organ are 
 those which produce the strongest vibrations of air, and most 
 powerfully affect the ear. 
 
 We have no word which strictly denotes the opposite of 
 loud. Small is the opposite of large, and relates to quantity ; 
 soft is the opposite of hard ; smooth the opposite of harsh, rough. 
 For want of such a correlative, the term soft has been employ, 
 ed, to a great extent, to denote the opposite of loud, as well as 
 of high ; and hence has arisen considerable confusion in the use 
 of terms. Low, when united with note, key, pitch, or any oth-. 
 
EMPHASIS. 77 
 
 er word which relates to the scale of the voice, is opposed to 
 high ; as a low, or high note ; a low, or high pitch, and so on : 
 when we speak simply of the voice, without regardto this scale, 
 we often use the word low as the opposite of loud ; as he has a 
 loud voice, he has a low voice. We sometimes say that a per- 
 son reads in a low tone of voice ; but tone, in that connection, 
 does not refer to any particular place in the scale, but to the 
 small amount of voice that is uttered. 
 
 Quantity is always the how much of a thing ; as applied to 
 the voice, it denotes its abundance, or the contrary — the amount 
 issued ; — or the time taken up in pronouncing a syllable or 
 word. It is not, therefore, the same thing as loudness, and the 
 contrary, for which it is sometimes mistaken. There may be 
 a single emission of voice which shall be heard at a large dis- 
 tance, that is, which shall be quite loud ; yet in quantity, it 
 may be small. 
 
 These explanations are made in order to show more clearly 
 what pertains to emphasis in all its forms. 
 
 V. Emphasis is sometimes formed by a greater, and some- 
 times by a less loudness of voice than is natural, or than would 
 be used without it. 
 
 As high and loud often go together, I shall, in the following 
 examples, leave it to the reader to discriminate, occasionally, 
 between them ; so also between low, as it relates to the note on 
 which the voice is placed, and the amount of sound, merely, 
 which is produced. 
 
 Small capitals will be used to show that a syllable is loud ; 
 small type to show that it is low. 
 
 EXAMPLES. 
 
 Eternity' ! — thou pleasing' — dreadful thought. 
 
 I know not what idea that lord may entertain of God and na- 
 ture ; but I know that such abominable principles are equally 
 abhorrent to religion and humanity. What ! to attribute the 
 sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of the In- 
 dian scalping knife — to the cannibal savage torturing', murder- 
 ing', roasting', and eating' — literally', my lords', eating' the 
 mangled victims of his barbarous battles' ! 
 
 To turn forth into our settlements, among our connections, 
 friends, and relations, the merciless cannibal', thirsting for the 
 blood of man, woman, and child'' ! — to send forth the infidel 
 7* 
 
78 THE READER^ GUIDE, 
 
 savage — against whom' ? against your protestant brethren ; to 
 
 lay waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extir- 
 pate their race'' and name'', with these horrible hell-hounds'' of 
 savage warM — hell v -hounds\ I say 5 ', of savage war^. 
 
 These examples, as do several other preceding ones, with 
 those, too, which follow, illustrate various modes of emphasis, 
 besides the particular ones under which they fall. 
 
 Am I to renounce those habits now'' forever, — and at the 
 
 beck of whom' ? I should rather say of what' ? — half a minister, 
 half a monkey' — a 'prentice politician', and a master coxcomb. 
 
 Not inferior to this was the wisdom of him who resolved to 
 
 shear the wolf. What'', shear a wolf? Have you considered the 
 
 resistance, the difficulty', the danger', of the attempt' ? No, 
 
 says the madman', I have considered nothing but the right'. — 
 Man has a right 4, of dominion over the beasts of the forest' ; and 
 
 therefore I wili/ shear'' the wolf. 
 
 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. 
 
 Large was his bounty', and his soul sincere : 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
 He gave to mis'ry' all he had 4 " — a tear'' ; 
 
 He gained from heaven — 'twas all he wish'd' — a friend 7 . 
 
 Hush' ! be still ! do you not hear the sound of approaching 
 
 footsteps' 1 
 
 VI. Emphasis, is sometimes produced by a pause after the 
 emphatical word or phrase ; and it sometimes, but more rare- 
 ly, has a pause before it. 
 
 Emphasis, in general, has a pause following it, and such a 
 pause adds to its force. 
 
EMPHASIS. 79 
 
 I shall denote the emphatical pause by a perpendicular stroke 
 thus'. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 He did not strike the tyrant from hatred'' or ambition ; his 
 motives' were admitted to be good ; but was not the action', 
 nevertheless, bad'. 
 
 There are tears' for his love^ ; joy v ' for his fortune' ; honor' 
 for his valor' ; and death''' for his ambition. 
 
 Can parliament be so dead'' to their dignity and duty", as to 
 give their support to measures thus obtruded' and forced upon 
 them' ? Measures' which have reduced this late nourishing em- 
 pire to scorn and contempt. 
 
 In vain the noisy crowd', 
 Like billows fierce and loud', 
 Against thine empire rage and roar ; 
 In vain with angry spite' 
 The surly nations fight', 
 
 And dash' like waves' against the shore'' . 
 
 Let' floods and nations rage', 
 And all their power engage ; 
 
 Let' swelling tides assault the sky' ; 
 The terrors of thy frown' 
 
 Shall beat their madness down' ; 
 
 Thy throne' forever' stands secure. 
 
 Of all the faculties which are disordered in dreaming, that 
 which is called memory' seems as curiously and profoundly af- 
 fected as any. 
 
 VII. Emphasis is sometimes produced by prolonging the ut- 
 terance of a syllable, word, or phrase. 
 
 This kind of emphasis I shall denote by a horizontal line 
 placed over the emphatic word, or passage. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 Shame, shame, on all such cowards I 
 
 It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of 
 truth. — But yesterday, and England might have stood against 
 
80 the reader's guide. 
 
 the world. — Now' none so poor to do her reverence. — No man 
 
 more highly esteems and honors the English troops than I do. 
 I know their natures' and their valor. I know they can achieve 
 
 any thing but impossibilities'' ; and I know that the conquest of 
 English America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords', 
 
 you cannot conquer America. — If I were an American', as I 
 am an Englishman, while a foreign troop'' remained in my 
 country', I never would lay down my arms — never' — never' 
 
 Socrates' died like a philosopher' but Jesus Christ' like a 
 God. 
 
 Ye stubborn oaks' and stately pines', 
 
 Bend your high branches and adore : 
 Praise him, ye beasts, in different' strains ^ ; — 
 
 The lamb v ' must bleat', the lion' roar. 
 
 Birds'", ye must make his'' praise your theme ; 
 
 Nature demands a song from you^ : 
 While the dumb fish' that cut the stream' 
 
 Leap up', and mean''' his praises too. 
 
 Wide' as his vast dominion lies', 
 
 Make the Creator's name be known ; 
 Loud as his thunder 7 shout 1 " his praise, 
 And sound 1 " it lofty' as his throne. 
 
 Jehovah/ ! 'tis a glorious word 1 " ! 
 
 O may it dwell on every' tongue ^ ! 
 But saints who best have known the Lord', 
 
 Are bound to raise the noblest song 1 ". 
 
 It should be borne in mind that several of these modes of em- 
 phasis may be united in one word or phrase ; and that seldom 
 any one of them is used alone. Thus a pause will most gene- 
 rally accompany every other mode, as has been already ob- 
 served ; and the inversion of a slide or cadence may be united 
 with an elevation or depression of the voice : while a greater 
 intenseness given to a slide in order to make a word emphatical, 
 
EMPHASIS. 81 
 
 may be combined with the rising or falling of the voice, and 
 with a slower or more rapid movement of it. 
 
 The object of emphasis, as intimated first, is to gain the at- 
 tention of the hearer to some particular thought or sentiment, 
 that it may strike his mind with more force, or vividness, than 
 it would have done without some attempt of the kind. When 
 the general current, tone, or manner of the voice is suddenly in- 
 terrupted or varied, it is at once noticed by the hearer, and his 
 attention is turned to what is said. This interruption, or vari- 
 ation, becomes emphasis ; and we hence see why it is that em- 
 phasis so much consists in contrast ; — not contrast of thoughts, 
 merely, as some would have us believe, but contrast of manner 
 in expressing them. Thoughts may be, indeed, and often are, 
 contrasted with each other ; and they may be, and often are, 
 the foundation of emphasis, so that there would be no emphasis, 
 in such case, without the contrast ; but still this contrast of 
 thoughts is not emphasis, for the latter is a mode of utterance ; 
 nor does it always imply a contrast in the thoughts or things to 
 which it has reference, for these may be in themselves sufficient- 
 ly important to demand attention without a comparison with 
 other objects. 
 
 When a whole phrase is emphatical it is quite a common fault 
 with readers to emphasize only a single word, or a part of the 
 phrase. For example. 
 
 Rise'', kindling with the orient beam ; 
 Let Cafvary's hill' inspire the theme ! 
 
 Many would emphasize only the word Calvary in the last line; 
 thus, Let Calvary's' hill inspire the theme. This reading would 
 rather intimate that persons might possibly allow some other 
 hill to inspire the theme, and that they were cautioned against 
 it. The hill of Calvary, or Calvary's hill, is the prominent 
 thing held up to view, and all the words which convey that thing 
 to the mind should be made prominent together. Some might 
 read the passage thus ; — Let Calvary's hill* inspire the theme, 
 emphasizing the word hill. The latter reading would convey 
 an intimation that the theme might be inspired with something 
 belonging to Calvary besides its hill! 
 
 Is man possessed of talents adequate to the great occasion''. 
 Here great occasion, constitutes but one expression of that to 
 which adequate relates, and both words should therefore partake 
 of the emphasis in reading. Place now an emphasis on great 
 and no where else, and make the passage to be read thus ; — Is 
 man possessed of talents adequate to the great ^ occasion' ? The 
 
82 the reader's guide. 
 
 answer might be, yes, — adequate to the great occasion, but not 
 to the little one ! 
 
 Is this the man that made the earth to tremble ; that shook 
 kingdoms? Place the emphasis on man, and no other word, 
 and the question would be implied, or was it some one else 1 — 
 Emphasize made only, and the sense would be, is this the man 
 that made the earth to tremble, or did it tremble of itself? Em- 
 phasize tremble, and no other word ; the question would have 
 reference to the trembling of the earth, and nothing else. Pass 
 over all the first members of the sentence without emphasis, 
 and then emphasize shook, and nothing more, the intimation 
 would be that this man shook kingdoms and did nothing farther 
 to them. Now lay an emphasis on the two words shook king- 
 doms, exclusively, and it would be implied that the shaking of 
 kingdoms was his regular business. The fact is, all the words 
 in this passage refer to one complex idea, and this idea is a bold, 
 prominent, and striking one ; all the words, therefore, in the 
 passage, if we except the mere connectives, are emphatical, and 
 are to be so uttered. The passage is a taunting exultation over 
 the once haughty and tyrannical king of Babylon, beheld by the 
 prophet stripped of his power in the world of spirits, and re- 
 duced to a level with the meanest of those whom he had once 
 oppressed and despised. Here, too, the prophet indulges in sol- 
 emn irony over the prostrate monarch, by referring him back to 
 a condition so different from that in which he was now fixed. 
 Every thing in this reference should be appropriately emphatic. 
 The whole should be read with a slow movement of voice, and 
 with a solemn air. I have marked the passage for reading, as 
 follows. — Is thr s the man'' that made the earth to tremble' ; that 
 
 shook kingdoms' ? 
 
 The following rule may be deduced from the remarks on the 
 foregoing examples. 
 
 Rule. 
 
 All the words which are employed to express an idea, 
 thought, or thing which deserves particular notice, are to be 
 read emphatically, and not a part of them only. 
 
 What has been already said is sufficient to show that empha- 
 sis has a connection with the true meaning of a passage, and 
 greatly affects it. To show this more fully I will produce two 
 more examples the simplicity of which is calculated to command 
 our attention. 
 
EMPHASIS. 
 
 83 
 
 Will you ride my horse ? Here are hut five words, and the 
 question seems to be a very simple one. Let us see now in how 
 many ways the sense may be varied, by a variation of empha- 
 sis both in regard to its mode, and its position. First, lay the 
 emphasis on will, alone, by using the intensive rising slide. — 
 
 Will you ride my horse 1 This form intimates that your doing 
 so would give me pleasure, and at the same time I had doubted 
 whether you would wish to ride the animal. — Will'' you ride my 
 horse' ? The secondary downward slide is now placed on will, 
 the rest being as before ; this presses the question of your being 
 willing to ride. Next, circumflex the same word on a note 
 lower than the key. Will you ride my horse' 1 — Do it if you 
 
 think best, or, I think you will not, is implied, along with some 
 degree of scorn. In the next place lay the emphasis on you, 
 
 with the intensive upward slide, thus ; Will you ride my horse ? 
 I had not thought it, though I am glad if it is so, is the implica- 
 tion. With the downward intensive slide on you, thus — Will 
 you ride my horse' ? the meaning is, will you, or will somebody 
 else ride him. With the same word dropped below the key, and 
 
 circumflexed — Will y6u ride my horse' ? scorn and contempt 
 
 are expressed with an implied threat, that you will not ride the 
 horse. In the third place, take the word ride, and emphasize 
 that with the intensive upward slide above the key, thus ; Will 
 
 you ride my horse ? The question so put implies incredulity on 
 my part whether you will ride him or not, with the further inti- 
 mation that if you will, the act will be kindly accepted. Read 
 the same word with the intensive downward slide, thus ; Will 
 
 you ride my horse ? the further question is implied, or what will 
 you do with him ? will you carry him, or drive him, or what' ? 
 Read now the same word with the circumflex, and below the 
 
 key ; Will you ride my horse' ? why, I am surprised ! is impli- 
 ed in the question. In the fourth place, take the word my and 
 make the emphasis, first, with raising it above the key and giv- 
 ing it the upward intensive slide, thus ; Will you ride my' horse ? 
 an invitation to do so is intimated, with the hope that you wilt 
 ride him. Read the word with the intensive downward slide, as 
 
 — Will you ride my v horse ? no, might be the answer, but I will 
 
84 
 
 the horse of somebody else. Give, now, the word my the 
 
 A 
 
 circumflex, and under-key, thus ; Will you ride my horse ? that 
 
 is, will you presume to ride a horse that belongs to me ? In the 
 last place put the emphasis on the word horse, so as to have the 
 
 passage read thus ; Will you ride my horse ? with the inten- 
 sive upward slide as before. An invitation is now given you to 
 ride the horse, combined with a doubt whether you will. Put 
 the secondary downward slide on horse, and make it intensive, 
 thus ; Will you ride my horse'' ? or will you ride something else 
 
 belonging to me, would be implied. With the under-key and 
 circumflex, the question would stand thus ; Will you ride my 
 ho'rse'' 1 — I should not have thought it, would be the intimation. 
 
 Under the last example, in a sentence consisting of five wo^ds 
 only, we had fifteen modifications of sense expressed by fifteen 
 modifications and positions of emphasis. Thus far, however, 
 the emphasis was placed on a a single word, only, at a time ; 
 by including two or more words in the emphasis at one reading, 
 the number of modifications might be still increased. 
 
 I went by the middle road from Hartford to New-Haven. 
 Let this sentence be read without any emphasis on any part of 
 it, and the meaning would be, that I travelled on that road in 
 my way to New-Haven. Put an intensive downward slide on 
 the preposition by, and prolong its utterance ; thus, I went 
 by x the middle road from Hartford to New-Haven — the mean- 
 ing would be, that I did not travel on that road, but avoided 
 it. 
 
 From the two last examples we may learn how important it 
 is that we place the emphasis on the right word, or words, in 
 order to convey the proper meaning, and also that we place the 
 right emphasis on them. It has been a fault in books that treat 
 of emphasis that they have said little or nothing of the different 
 modes in which it may be expressed ; most of them, indeed, 
 have not even intimated that there is more than one mode, and 
 have left us to discover even tliat as well as we could. We 
 are now prepared, however, to see that the kind deserves as 
 much regard as the fact that any is required. We may select 
 the right word or phrase, yet by giving the emphasis the wrong 
 form, the meaning may be wholly perverted. 
 
 When the principal verb is accompanied by an auxiliary we 
 not unfrequently hear the emphasis laid on the auxiliary alone 
 
EMPHASIS. 85 
 
 and especially if several .words intervene between that and the 
 principal verb. For example ; 
 
 Can creatures to perfection find 
 The eternal uncreated mind. 
 
 But little emphasis is required at all in the first line ; yet 
 some, in attempting to make it, would read the line in this way, 
 
 Can creatures to perfection find, 
 
 laying a strong emphasis on can by means of dropping the 
 voice a note, and placing the secondary falling inflection inten- 
 sively on the same word. Now if an emphasis is used here at 
 all, it should be placed on find as well as can ; and, indeed, the 
 principal verb should be most strongly marked, if any distinc- 
 tion is made between them. 
 
 " Has the gentleman done ; has he completely done ?" Some 
 would emphasize has in the first member of this sentence, 
 whereas the stress should fall on done. 
 
 The general rule is, that the principal verb should receive 
 the emphasis when that comprises what is to be particularly 
 noticed ; the auxiliary should be emphasized when that refers 
 to the thing which is brought most prominently into view. — Ex- 
 ample. Can a man forget'' his friend' ? — he not only can'', but 
 
 often does 1 ", forget him. In the question, our attention, so far as 
 the verb is concerned, is turned to the forgetting of a friend ; 
 in the answer, to the possibility of the thing, and the actual 
 doing of it. 
 
 When a word is emphatical, and begins with an unaccented 
 or short syllable, some persons improperly accent or prolong 
 that syllable in order to form the emphasis. — Example. He 
 deserves to be treated with utter contempt ; — for contempt'. — 
 He was the more determined in his way — for more determined. 
 — Salvation ! O salvation !* for salvation ! O salvation, without 
 an accent on the first syllable.— Such a mode of emphasizing is 
 very inelegant and improper. 
 
 In certain cases, for the sake of contrast, when the contrast 
 could not be otherwise well marked, it is admissible to accent or 
 lengthen out an unaccented, or short syllable. — Example. He 
 resolves — and re-resolves — then dies a fool. — To do, and to 
 un v -do, is the too common business of men. — It is one thing to 
 persuade, another to dis'suade. — The ground was preoccupied 
 
 * Heber's hymn. 
 
 8 
 
86 
 
 already. In the last example, the contrast is not marked di- 
 rectly, but indirectly — the time of occupying the ground was 
 previous to another subsequent time, or a subsequent act. — The 
 phrase just used, not marked directly, but indirectly, is another 
 example in point. 
 
 Some readers and speakers, especially those of an ardent 
 temperament, are very prone to anticipate an emphasis ; that 
 is, to lay it on words to which it does not belong, before they 
 come to those to which it does belong. The fault very fre- 
 quently occurs when a passage is to be read and spoken in a 
 louder tone of voice. The effect is very bad, and the proper 
 object of emphasis is lost. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 You will again be restored to your fire sides and homes ; 
 and your fellow citizens, pointing you out, shall say, " There 
 goes one who belonged to the army of Italy." — It would be com- 
 mon, but wrong, to elevate the voice on the phrase, pointing 
 you out, shall say ; and still worse to elevate it on, fellow citi- 
 zens ; or farther back yet. 
 
 I would say to the inhabitants, wake from your false securi- 
 ty. — It is very usual to elevate the voice as much on the words, 
 I would say to the inhabitants, as on the following ones ; yet the 
 former express a simple narration, telling us the fact, merely, 
 that the speaker would say something ; in what follows we have 
 him saying it, The words wake from your false security, de- 
 mand an emphatic utterance, with a rise of tone ; but surely 
 the words previous can require no such thing. 
 
 He woke to hear his sentry's shriek, 
 
 To arms'- ! they come^ ! the Greek r ! the Greek h ! 
 
 Nine times out of ten, when this passage is spoken, if not 
 read, we shall hear the first line pronounced as loud, high, and 
 full, as the second ; although the first is the mere narration of 
 the writer, and the second expresses the actual shriek of the 
 terrified Turkish sentry.* Such mistakes indicate either much 
 inattention to the rules of propriety, or a want of correct taste 
 and judgment. 
 
 The last fault which I shall name is, that of making too many 
 words emphatical. Having been once told that they must be 
 careful to read with emphasis, and that the want of emphasis is 
 
 * The quotation is from Marco Bozzaris, by Halleck. 
 
EMPHASIS. 87 
 
 a great defect, many seem determined to avail themselves of 
 the privilege, and to emphasize almost every thing. The con- 
 sequence is, they read in a strong, stiff, and artificial manner, 
 without any real emphasis at all, because they sound all their 
 words alike ; whereas emphasis makes a distinction according 
 to the different impressions which should be made on the hearer. 
 Monotony of every kind is inconsistent with emphasis ; while 
 the latter is that which, more than any other thing perhaps, 
 contributes to an agreeable variety of manner. 
 
PART III. 
 
 PROSODY. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CONSIDERED, GENERALLY, A PART OF GRAMMAR. QUANTITY. 
 
 POETICAL FEET. — DIFFERENT KINDS OF VERSE. 
 
 In order to treat understandingly the proper method of read- 
 ing poetry, it seems necessary to pay some attention to the laws 
 of versification. Poetry, in contradistinction from prose, has 
 its peculiar structure of language, and arrangement of sounds ; 
 and without some knowledge of these, it is difficult to compre- 
 hend how a person can give it the proper expression in reading 
 and speaking. 
 
 Prosody has always been considered a part of grammar, 
 and has been defined, " That part of grammar which treats of 
 the quantity of syllables, of accent, and the laws of versifica- 
 tion." I shall not stop to consider whether it is strictly proper 
 to call prosody a part of grammar, (which, by the way, may 
 well be questioned,) but considering it a matter which belongs, 
 unquestionably, to elocution, I shall here give it a brief notice. 
 I do this, not only because the whole subject of prosody is in- 
 timately connected with elocution, that is, with reading and 
 speaking with propriety, but because it is becoming fashionable 
 to exclude it from grammars, without allowing it a place, by 
 way of amends, in any other elementary treatise for the in- 
 struction of youth.* 
 
 Quantity, in this connection, denotes the time which is taken 
 up in pronouncing a syllable. — A syllable is either long or 
 short. A long syllable requires twice the amount of time in 
 the pronunciation, which a short one does. So, at least, we 
 are told by prosodists ; but it may be doubted whether there is 
 
 * Very few graduates from our colleges have any knowledge of prosody 
 worth naming ; generally none at all. 
 
 
PROSODY, 89 
 
 always this exact proportion between them. A long syllable, 
 however, when contrasted with a short one, always requires 
 a sensibly longer time than the latter, and whatever may be the 
 true proportion between the two when standing together, or near 
 each other, it is certain that long syllables are not always of 
 equal length, nor short syllables of equal shortness. Some syl- 
 lables are very long, when compared even with other long 
 ones, and some very short in comparison with other short ones. 
 
 In languages which have not our mode of accentuation, a syl- 
 lable is long or short according to the time which is taken up in 
 pronouncing the vowel or dipthong which it contains. Thus a 
 syllable which contains a long vowel is long ; a syllable which 
 contains only a short vowel is short. In our language the vow- 
 el in an accented syllable is always short, yet in consequence of 
 the smarter and firmer percussion of the organs in uttering the 
 final consonant,* and the detention of them longer in the requi- 
 site position for giving the sound, as much time is consumed, in 
 the whole, in pronouncing an accented syllable, as a long one ; 
 so that in poetry, where the measurement of time is important, 
 these two syllables rank together in quantity. A long syllable, 
 in poetry, therefore, must either be accented, or have a long 
 vowel ; and an accented syllable will always be long, as to 
 quantity, while its vowel will be short. An unaccented sylla- 
 ble may be either short, or long, as the vowel which it contains 
 is one or the other. A short syllable, then, is one which is 
 neither accented, nor has a long vowel ; that is, a short sylla- 
 ble contains a short vowel, and has no accent. 
 
 It will be seen here that I differ materially in describing the 
 quantity of syllables from writers in general, who make accent- 
 ed and long to imply the same thing. Thus in the syllable late 
 they teach us that a is accented ; in let, they say that the syl- 
 lable instead of the vowel, is short, and that the t is accented ; 
 some, however, say, contrary to all truth, that a monosyllable is 
 never accented ; and yet all will teach us that late, and let, 
 have the same power in poetic measure. This inconsistency 
 arises from ascribing accent, indiscriminately, to both vowels 
 and consonants, and not perceiving that a syllable may be long 
 while the vowel which it contains may be short, as is the case 
 in all syllables which are accented, f 
 
 * See what has already been said on the subject of accent, page 24. 
 
 t Murray says that, "A vowel or syllable is long, when the accent is on the 
 vowel ;" and that " A syllable is short, when the accent is on the consonant;" 
 in the word " bonnet" he makes both syllables equal in quantity, by calling 
 them both short ! so too in hunger ! — He says, too, that " mate" and " note" 
 " should be pronounced as slowly again as met and not /" See his large Gram- 
 max, under Prosody. 
 
 8* 
 
90 the reader's guide. 
 
 A poetical foot is a combination of a certain number of sylla- 
 bles, so arranged as to produce harmony of sounds in regular 
 measures. All poetical feet consist of either two syllables, or 
 of three syllables. A long syllable is usually marked thus — , 
 a short syllable thus u ; over each. 
 
 Feet of two syllables are Feet of three syllables are 
 
 A Trochee - o A Dactyl - o « 
 
 An Iambus ^ - An Amphibrach u - u 
 
 A Spondee — An Anapest u o - 
 
 A Pyrrhic u u A Tribrach o o o 
 
 The marks annexed to each foot denote the number of sylla- 
 bles, and the quantity of them respectively. A trochee has one 
 long and one short syllable ; an iambus one short and one long, 
 and so on. 
 
 Of all these feet the iambus is most used ; after that, the tro- 
 chee and anapest. The spondee and pyrrhic are used but oc- 
 casionally, and as substitutes for other feet, either from inatten- 
 tion, or for the sake of variety, and euphony ; we have no spe- 
 cies of verse made up entirely of either. The dactylic rneas* 
 ure, that is, a measure consisting of pure dactyls, very seldom 
 occurs. The anapestic verse is of frequent occurrence, and 
 forms one of our most pleasing varieties. We have no real use 
 for the amphibrach, and tribrach, in our versification. 
 
 Verse properly means a number of poetical feet, or syllables, 
 contained in one line. It is named from the Latin verb verto, 
 signifying to turn, by which is denoted, that having completed 
 a line, we turn back to begin another. It is sometimes used to 
 denote the same thing as stanza, which signifies a regular num- 
 ber of lines, after" which there comes a pause, when the 
 same number of similar lines is repeated, or a new series 
 is introduced, differing from the former both in number and 
 measure. Every collection of psalms or hymns furnishes ex- 
 amples of the kind. As verse properly denotes a single line, 
 or turn in the measure, this division of a poem would be better 
 expressed by the word stanza, than verse. 
 
 Different kinds of Iambic verse. 
 
 I. The shortest form of iambic verse, or measure, consists of 
 one iambus with an additional short syllable ; as 
 
 Dividing o - ; u 
 
 Confiding. 
 
 Astounded. 
 
 Confounded. 
 This species of verse, though usually ranked under iambic 
 
 \ 
 
PROSODY. 91 
 
 measure, properly consists of a single amphibrach. It recurs 
 only in single stanzas, or parts of stanzas, and never in poems 
 of any length. 
 
 II. The second form of iambic verse consists of two iambic 
 feet, and, like the first, is found only in short stanzas. 
 
 Unheard, unknown, 
 He makes his moan. 
 
 With ravish'd ears, 
 The monarch hears. 
 
 To this form a short syllable is sometimes, though very sel- 
 dom, added ; but in such a case the verse, strictly speaking, 
 would consist of one iambus and one amphibrach, thus, 
 
 With what commotion 
 Is heav'd the ocean. 
 
 III. The third form consists of three iambic feet ; to which 
 sometimes is added one long syllable ; but this latter verse 
 might also be divided into two iambuses, and one amphibrach. 
 
 No burning heats by day 
 Nor blasts of evening air, 
 Shall take my health away, 
 If God be with me there. 
 
 Salvation ! O Salvation ! 
 The joyful news proclaim, 
 Till earth's remotest nation 
 Has learn'd Messiah's name. 
 
 This measure sometimes admits a spondee, or trochee, for the 
 first foot, as, 
 
 Thou sun with dazzling rays, 
 And moon that rul'st the night, 
 Shine to your Maker's praise, 
 With stars of twinkling light. 
 
 Before proceeding further it may be well to mention that we 
 have many monosyllables which are usually long in prose, but 
 by poetic custom may be either long, or short, in poetry. 
 Among prepositions and other particles, pronouns, and auxiliary 
 parts of verbs, examples are frequent. On the other hand, 
 some words, which in prose are usually short, in poetry are oc- 
 casionally made long ; examples of which, out of the same 
 classes of words, are quite common. Emphasis is a frequent 
 cause of a change from short to long. A similar change is 
 
92 the reader's guide. 
 
 sometimes made in the quantity of a syllable in polysyllabic* 
 words. An accented syllable may be accented so slightly at 
 to be short. For example, let is an accented syllable, but is 
 short in this verse, 
 
 Let all the heathen writers join ; and long in the following. 
 
 And let them speed their flight. 
 
 IV. The fourth kind of iambic measure, consists of four feet. 
 
 With dying hand above his head, 
 He shook the fragment of his blade. 
 
 This kind of measure admits a spondee or trochee, instead o- 
 an iambus, for every foot except the last. It is seldom that 
 more than two or three lines of pure iambuses follow each other 
 in succession ; and it is not uncommon to find a number of lines, 
 one after another, all of which admit the other feet. As, 
 
 How deep yon azure dyes the sky, 
 When orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 
 While through their ranks in silver pride, 
 The nether crescent seems to glide. 
 
 Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away, 
 And mingle with the blaze of day. 
 
 The second foot in the last line may be read either as an 
 iambus, or pyrrhic. 
 
 V. The fifth species has five iambuses ; but a trochee or 
 iambus, and sometimes a pyrrhic, may be substituted for an 
 iambus in any place but the last ; the last admits only a spon- 
 dee, or pyrrhic, and neither of them but seldom. We some- 
 times find an additional short syllable at the end of a line ; but 
 this addition is generally considered a blemish, though some po- 
 ets appear to have been fond of it. This measure constitutes 
 our heroic verse ; English epic poetry allows no other. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 Thy forests, Windsor, and thy green retreats, 
 At once the monarch's and the Muses' seats, 
 Invite my lays. Be present sylvan Maids! 
 Unlock your springs, and open all your shades. 
 
 Note. — The first foot in the first line may be read either as aniambua 
 or spondee ; the third as a pyrrhic, and the fourth as a spondee ; but I 
 have marked the line with the regular feet, as preferable. 
 
 * Polysyllable is a word of several syllables. 
 
PROSODY. 93 
 
 Variations. 
 
 Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring 
 What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing. 
 
 In that soft season when descending show'rs 
 Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs. 
 
 Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise. 
 
 Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps arise. 
 
 Should Fate command me to the farthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes. 
 
 Oft in unfeeling hearts the shaft is spent ; 
 Tho' strong th' example, weak the punishment. 
 
 This termination of a line, however, is not to be imitated. 
 
 And fruits and blossoms blush'd 
 
 In social sweetness on the selfsame bough. 
 Behold yon wretch by impious passion driven, 
 Believes and trembles while he scoffs at heaven. 
 
 This last measure, with an additional syllable, is more ad- 
 missible in a chorus at the end of a stanza, than elsewhere ; for 
 example, 
 
 Then join the saints ; wake ev'ry cheerful passion ; 
 
 When Christ returns, he comes for your salvation. 
 
 This kind of iambic measure occasionally admits, besides the 
 trochee and pyrrhic, an anapest. Anapests may also be inter- 
 spersed with iambuses in other measures of iambic verse. 
 When this is done judiciously, and not too often, it adds to the 
 variety and beauty of the whole. Variety is in itself a beauty, 
 provided there is no sacrifice of harmoniousness ; and to this 
 great scope is given by the number of changes which can be 
 made on so many different feet. 
 
 Examples of anapest intermixed with iambuses. 
 
 Iambic measure of two feet. 
 
 Its glittering spires 
 To catch the fires. 
 
 Three feet. 
 
 By these our fathers' host 
 Was led to victory first. 
 
94 the reader's guide. 
 
 Four feet. 
 He laid aside his radiant crown. 
 I burn thy glorious face to see. 
 
 When'er their suffering years are run, 
 Spring forth to greet the glittering sun. 
 
 Five feet. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn. 
 
 To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, 
 And odorous myrtles to the noisome weed. 
 
 In the last quoted line, the second foot is an anapest, and the 
 third a pyrrhic. Few lines can be produced more melodious. 
 
 In most of the foregoing examples it has been customary to 
 leave out a short syllable in such words as glittering, victory, 
 and to note the omission by an apostrophe ; thus, glittering, vie- 
 fry. This contraction, if observed in reading, would reduce 
 the foot to an iambus. In some of the examples, however, this 
 contraction cannot be made with propriety in the reading,- — as 
 in the words radiant, and glorious : the dropping of the i in 
 either word would appear uncouth. In the words glittering, 
 thundering, suffering, the i could indeed be dropped without pro- 
 ducing harshness ; but by retaining the vowel, and the full num- 
 ber of syllables, the sound is more full and harmonious. In all 
 such words as have two or more short syllables in succession, 
 it is better, in general, to preserve the full number in the pro- 
 nunciation, and make a foot of three syllables, than of two. 
 When two or three short syllables come together, one of them, 
 at least, is very short, so much so, that the quantity of three is 
 about the same as that of two in ordinary cases ; and the quan- 
 tity of two, as that of one. 
 
 When the article the comes before a vowel it is most common- 
 ly written and printed with the vowel cut off; but it ought gene- 
 rally to be preserved in pronunciation, though it should be made 
 very short. In the phrase, " rise the expected morn," quoted 
 above, the article could not be incorporated, by apocope,* with 
 the following syllable without producing a sound both unpleas- 
 ant and difficult to be uttered. It would, in most cases, be bet- 
 ter to write and print the word in full, as well as to pronounce 
 it in full. In like manner the preposition to occasionally suf- 
 fers an apocope ; as, t' attend, for to attend ; but this practice 
 is more objectionable than the former. So the particle though, 
 being first deprived of gh so as to be written iho\ is made to suf- 
 
 * Apocope, the omission of the last letter or syllable in a word. 
 
PROSODY. 95 
 
 fer an apocope of the o before another word beginning with a 
 vowel ; as, tfc oft for ihd > oft ; a species of contraction no more 
 to be favored than the former. 
 
 VI. The sixth form of iambic measure consists of six feet ; 
 this is usually called the Alexandrine line, or measure, and is 
 always used singly, and at the close of a paragraph, or subject. 
 It ought never to be used with frequency ; but if introduced with 
 judgment, it sometimes gives dignity and emphasis, as well as 
 variety. 
 
 Example. 
 
 The Greeks behold, they tremble, and they fly : 
 
 The shore is heap'd with dead, and tumult rends the sky. 
 
 The brazen hinges fly, the walls resound ; 
 
 Heaven trembles, roar the mountains, thunders all the ground. 
 
 VII. The seventh form of iambic verse contains seven iam- 
 bic feet. 
 
 Example. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
 
 Of wasting winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and 
 
 sere. 
 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead ; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
 
 This form of iambic measure is very uncommon ; instead of 
 it, alternate lines of four and three feet are employed. The 
 above lines might have been written in this manner : — 
 
 The melancholy days are come, 
 
 The saddest of the year, 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
 
 And meadows brown and sere. 
 
 Trochaic verse. 
 
 Our shortest trochaic verse has one trochee, with a long syl- 
 lable. 
 
 Example. 
 
 Dreadful gleams, 
 Dismal screams. 
 
96 the reader's guide. 
 
 II. The second form of trochaic verse has two feet ; thus ; 
 
 Rich the treasure, 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 
 A long syllable is sometimes added ; but neither this, nor the 
 preceding form, is much used ; both being too brief to be con- 
 sistent with much dignity. 
 
 III. The third species of trochaic verse has three trochees ; 
 or three trochees with an additional long syllable. As, 
 
 Or where Hebrus wanders, 
 Rolling in meanders. 
 
 Little inmate, full of mirth, 
 Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
 Whereso'er be thine abode, 
 Always harbinger of good. 
 
 The first form, without the additional syllable, is seldom used; 
 the other is often met with. 
 
 IV. The fourth trochaic measure contains four trochees ; as 
 in the following alternate lines. 
 
 Fly abroad thou mighty gospel, 
 Win and conquer, never cease ; 
 May thy lasting wide dominions, 
 Multiply and still increase. 
 This form may admit an additional long syllable, but very 
 rarely. 
 
 V. The fifth species of trochaic verse has five trochees ; the 
 form, however, is very uncommon. 
 
 VI. The sixth form of this verse contains six feet ; but this and 
 the preceding form is so unusual, that I shall give no examples. 
 
 Anapestic verse. 
 
 I. The first and simplest form of this verse has two anapes- 
 tic feet, to which another short syllable is sometimes added. As, 
 
 'Tis but fair to believe 
 That too many deceive. 
 From the centre all round it. 
 
 II. The second species contains three anapests ; thus, 
 
 ye woods spread your branches apace ; 
 To your deepest recesses I fly ; 
 
 1 would hide with the beasts of the chace ; 
 I would vanish from every eye. 
 
PROSODY. 97 
 
 III. The third species of anapestic verse has four feet ; thus, 
 
 From the hall of our fathers in anguish we fled, 
 Nor again will its marble re-echo our tread, 
 For the breath of the Siroc has blasted our name, 
 And the frown of Jehovah has crush 'd us in shame. 
 
 This form admits a short additional syllable at the end of a 
 line, as, 
 
 His robe was the whirlwind, his voice was the thunder, 
 And earth, at his footstep, was riven asunder. 
 
 In this example, however, the first foot in each line is an 
 iambus; and whatever may be the length of the anapestic 
 measure, it is the common practice of poets to substitute, very 
 freely, the iambus or a spondee for an anapest in the first foot 
 of a verse, and occasionally in other places. This substitution 
 of an iambus or spondee for an anapest is never an addition to 
 the melody of this species of verse, but rather detracts from it. 
 If the poetry is designed only to be read, or spoken, the melody 
 is not so much impaired as when it is intended to be sung, un- 
 less the tune be especially adapted to the words, as is the case 
 in set pieces. Every tune, which is not a set one, is adapted to 
 a particular number of uniform feet, each of which has its ap- 
 propriate number of syllables ; hence, if it is designed for a cer- 
 tain number of anapests, and a shorter foot is substituted for 
 one of them, or for a certain number of iambuses or trochees, 
 and a longer foot is made to supply their place, there will not be 
 a corresponding number of notes in the tune. Again, if the 
 notes of a tune are designed for a trochee, and an iambus occurs 
 in its place, or if for an iambus, and a trochee should be substi- 
 tuted for it, the musical accent would fall on a wrong syllable. 
 
 Examples of a trochee or iambus, substituted for an anapest, 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 From the centre all round to the sea 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 But the sound of a. church going bell 
 
 These valleys and rocks never* heard ; 
 Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Nor smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 
 
 *The word never in this place is an example of shortening an accented sylla- 
 ble in poetry, for the sake of the measure. The accent, in fact, is destroyed, 
 and the vowel remains short. This is done by what is called poetic license. 
 
 9 
 
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending, 
 And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ; 
 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles* and roses are blending? 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. 
 
 We occasionally meet with poems which have an iambus or 
 spondee regularly for the first foot in each line, or verse, with 
 an anapest in the other places, instead of using one or the other 
 indiscriminately. This regularity is better adapted to music, 
 than this interchange of feet. 
 
 Poems containing dactyls alone are extremely rare. I shall 
 give but a single specimen ; in which, however, after three dac- 
 tyls, the line closes with a long syllable, or with a trochee. 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
 Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ; 
 Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
 Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. 
 
 We have no poems which consist entirely, or principally, of 
 amphibrachs, or tribrachs, nor of pyrrhics. It would be impos- 
 sible, indeed, to construct a poem which should consist only of 
 Short syllables. The only use to which these feet are ever put, 
 is to substitute them, occasionally, for others, for the sake of 
 variety, or to give expression; — or, what is more frequently 
 the fact, from the carelessness and bad taste of authors. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Different kinds of poems. — Rules for reading poetry- 
 Pauses ; Cesural pauses. 
 
 Epic, or as it is sometimes called, heroic poetry, is a contin- 
 ued narration of important events, given in regular order ac- 
 cording to certain general rules. If the subject of the narration 
 should be destitute of dignity and importance, the poem which 
 should describe it, would not be called heroic ; nor, according 
 to general usage, would it be called epic ; although the latter 
 word merely signifies narrative, or something relating to a story. 
 
 * A long syllable shortened by poetic license. 
 
PROSODY. 99 
 
 The term, as it is universally employed, has a technical mean- 
 ing. 
 
 An epic poem consists of lines, or verses, each of which con- 
 tains five iambic feet. Other feet are occasionally substituted, 
 in the manner already pointed out, but the number of feet in a 
 line is not thereby varied. This substitution of one foot for an- 
 other, if managed with skill, produces an agreeable variety, and 
 oftentimes adds to the melody of the verse; but if not skilfully 
 introduced, it is quite a blemish. The Alexandrine verse, of 
 six iambic feet, as mentioned under the sixth form, is sometimes 
 substituted for one of the regular length. 
 
 A poem of this kind may consist of either rhyme, or blank 
 verse. Rhyme is a correspondence of sound in the termination 
 of two or more successive lines : that is, the same sound, though 
 a different word is employed, occurs at the end of these lines ; 
 sometimes, however, the sound is repeated in alternate lines, or 
 after an interval of several lines. In blank verse there is no 
 rhyme ; — this species of verse is very seldom used except in 
 lines which contain five feet, and in epic poetry. 
 
 Example of blank verse. 
 
 Come, gentle Spring, etherial mildness, come, 
 And, from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, 
 While music wakes around, veil'd in a show'/ 
 Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend. 
 
 Examples of rhymes. 
 
 Honor and shame from no condition rise ; 
 Act well your part, there all the honor lies. 
 
 Remote from cities liv'd a swain', 
 Unvex'd with all the cares of gain. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man' 
 
 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door', 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span^ ; — 
 
 O give relief, and heav'n will bless your store. 
 
 How many now are dead to me 
 
 That live to others yet ! 
 How many are alive to me 
 Who crumble in their graves, nor see 
 That sick'ning, sinking look which we 
 
 Till dead, can ne'er forget. 
 
 Milton's Paradise Lost is a specimen of an epic poem in blank 
 
100 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 verse ; Pope's translation of Homer's Iliad, is an epic poem in 
 rhyme. 
 
 Notwithstanding the technical use of the word epic, we have 
 several poems of considerable length — long enough, indeed, for 
 epic poems — in iambic measure of four feet. The Lady of the 
 Lake, by Scott, is an example, among others, of a poem of this 
 description. This measure, however, is not so well adapted to 
 grave and dignified subjects as that of five feet, it being too 
 lively, and rapid. It can, however, be applied to the most sol- 
 emn subjects, under certain circumstances, without diminishing,. 
 in the least, their proper gravity and dignity ; — witness Par- 
 nell's " Night piece on Death," and very many hymns for pub- 
 lic worship. 
 
 Lyric poems, anciently, were those which were composed to 
 be sung with the lyre or harp ; in modern times, however, all 
 those which are adapted to music, whether to be sung with in- 
 struments, or not, go under that general name. Those which 
 are designed for public worship, are usually called psalms or 
 hymns. An ode is a short poem proper to be sung, although 
 such may not have been its actual design, and is the most gen- 
 eric name given to poems of this kind ; but unless accompanied 
 with some qualifying word, as sacred songs, songs of Zion, ele- 
 giac songs, it is usually taken to denote such brief poems as are 
 adapted to music, and are not of a religious character. Were 
 I to hear one person ask another to sing a song, I should not ex- 
 pect a psalm, nor hymn. A ballad, according to modern usage, 
 is a short poem designed to be sung, but of a low and somewhat 
 vulgar character ; originally, it was applied to such short po- 
 ems as are adapted to solemn purposes. A sonnet anciently 
 denoted a short poem of a peculiar structure, of a given length; 
 but is now used to denote a very short poem, which would admit 
 of being sung, but which was not written with that express de- 
 sign. 
 
 All these poems, whether called lyrics, odes, psalms, hymns, 
 songs, ballads, or sonnets, or any other name of a similar im- 
 port, admit the various kinds of verse which have been descri- 
 bed, with a great variety of combinations. Examples of these 
 will be given and noticed in the poetical lessons hereafter, and 
 need not, therefore, be inserted here. 
 
 In the shorter poems of modern times we find a greater dis- 
 regard for any one pure species of verse than among those 
 which were written in the days of Pope, Parnell, and Gray, and 
 in the times which immediately followed. In those days the 
 best authors paid a strict regard to the purity of their verse, 
 never substituting for the regular feet any which would not con- 
 
PROSODY. 101 
 
 tribute to its melody ; nor did they endeavor to form new and 
 unusual combinations of feet for the purpose of either novelty 
 or oddity, sacrificing to these all melodiousness of verse and 
 sound. In modern times an effort seems to have been made to 
 jumble together all sorts of poetical feet, which it would puzzle 
 the most experienced prosodist to scan,* without the best re- 
 gard to melody. The poetry of Mrs. Hemans, not to mention 
 others, is prolific of these irregularities. There is much of her 
 poetry which no one must expect to read according to any known 
 rules of prosody, or so as to produce any melody to the ear. 
 To show that I do not mistake, I will here introduce two or 
 three short samples from her Poetical Works. 
 
 In the rich rose, whose bloom I lov'd so well, 
 In the dim brooding violet of the dell, 
 Set deep that thought. 
 
 If in the two last lines here quoted there is either poetry, mel- 
 ody, or sense, I have not been able to discover them. 
 
 Go in thy glory o'er the ancient sea, 
 
 Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 
 
 Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be — 
 Fare thee well, bark, farewell. 
 
 The first three lines are sufficiently destitute of melody, and 
 evince a determination to use poetic license, as it regards quan- 
 tity, very much at random ; but the last line is altogether intol- 
 erable. The following extract exhibits a curious jumble of po- 
 etic feet, though with less violation of melody than before. 
 
 All, all, our own shall the forests be, 
 
 As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 
 
 None shall say, " hither, no farther pass !" 
 
 We will track each step through the wavy grass ! 
 
 We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 
 
 And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night. 
 
 Where there is such a jumble of feet in unexpected succes- 
 sion, it is impossible to read the poetry so as to make the sound 
 pleasant to the ear. Let any one compare poetry of this irreg- 
 ular structure with the specimens before given, and he cannot 
 fail to perceive, at once, a very striking contrast. 
 
 Rules for reading poetry. 
 
 The same rules which govern us in reading prose, are, in 
 general, applicable to the reading of poetry. The inflections 
 
 * To divide and read a line according to its true number of feet. 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 of the voice are the same ; there are the same cadences, and* 
 the same modes of closing interrogative sentences; and empha- 
 sis is the same thing in both. 
 
 All the pauses which are used in prose, belong also to poetry; 
 and some are altogether peculiar to the latter, and may be call- 
 ed poetical pauses* The former of these need no further con- 
 sideration. 
 
 The first poetical pause which I shall notice, is a mere sus- 
 pension of the voice at the end of every line, whether required 
 by the sense or not, or whether any be marked or not. When 
 the voice comes to the end of the line,, it is to be continued 
 there, for a very short space, at the same elevation as it would 
 have if no stop were made. This pause is required to show the 
 proper length of the verse, or line, and to distinguish this species 
 of writing from prose. Without it blank verse, in a mukitude 
 of instances, could not be distinguished from prose, but would 
 be mistaken for what is called prose run mad; nor could rhyme 
 be any better discerned except by a mere jingle of sounds, 
 which, in fact, would be seldom noticed as belonging to versifi- 
 cation. 
 
 Examples. 
 
 O Death, all eloquent, you only prove 
 
 What dust we dote on when 'tis man we love. 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 The crested basilisk, and speckled snake. 
 
 No sun shall smite thy head by day ; 
 Nor the pale moon with sickly ray' 
 Shall blast thy couch ; no baleful star' 
 Dart his malignant fire so far. 
 
 God is the tower' 
 To which I fly ; 
 His grace is nigh' 
 In every hour. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father/ these' 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring' 
 Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
 
 The last passage, if read without the poetical pause, might as 
 well be written thus, in the manner of prose. " These, as they 
 change, Almighty Father/ these are but the varied God. The 
 
PROSODY.- 103' 
 
 rolling year is- full of thee,. Forth in the pleasing Spring thy 
 beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. If read as last written, 
 few hearers would take the passage to be poetry, but a species 
 of poetical prose. Some r however,- choose to read in this man- 
 ner, and authors are not wanting who teach us so to do. They 
 seem to imagine that if a pause is made, the sense will be inter- 
 rupted and lost ; and so it would, if the pause were made with 
 the intensive downward slide, or a cadence ; but the sense is 
 always carried forward when the voice is not dropped, but 
 merely suspended, during the stop ; in such case the attention 
 of the hearer is kept awake, and waiting, for the contusion of 
 what is begun. This principle is applicable to pauses of sus- 
 pension, both in poetry and prose. 
 
 The pause which gives to the recital of poetry its chief melo- 
 dy and grace, is the cesura : and it is for these purposes, and 
 not at all to give the sense, that the cesural pause is employed. 
 Its object is to denote the pauses which melody requires, inde- 
 pendent of metrical feet, and the grammatical meaning of words. 
 The cesura, however, may coincide with a grammatical pause, 
 and when it does, the melody is better promoted than when the 
 two are separated. It may likewise coincide with the termina- 
 tion of a metrical foot ; — or it may fall in the middle of a foot. 
 It is considered as producing the most melody when it falls in 
 the middle of a line, or nearly so - In iambic verse of five feet, 
 it may fall at the end of the second or third foot, without detri- 
 ment to the melody, and it is admissible at the end of the first 
 foot, or even half foot from the beginning, and at the same dis- 
 tance from the end of a line. The cesura is used in every vari- 
 ety of verse, and a little practice will enable the learner to dis- 
 cover its true place. It may be remarked, that poetry, in 
 which the cesura is not quite apparent, has but little melody in 
 its composition. 
 
 Besides the full cesura, there is also what is called the demi- 
 cesura, which is a pause of the same kind, and of about half the 
 length of the first, and usually occurs between the full cesura 
 and the end of the lines. I shall now give a few examples from 
 different kinds of verse, marking the full cesura with a perpen- 
 dicular dash below the line, and the demi-cesura with a similar 
 one above it. 
 
 In adamantine chains, shall Death be bound, 
 And hell's grim tyrant, feel the eternal wound. 
 
 Deluding oft, the labors of the year' 
 The sultry south, collects a potent blast. 
 
104 the reader's guide. 
 
 And art thou then, Acasto's dear remains'", 
 She, whom my restless gratitude has sought' 
 So long in vain ? 
 
 Among the saints, that fill thy house 
 
 My offerings, shall be paid ; 
 There shall my zeal, perform the vows' 
 
 My soul, in anguish made. 
 
 Sing, to the Lord most high ; 
 Let every land, adore ; 
 With grateful voice, make known' 
 His goodness, and his power. 
 
 Let cheerful, songs' 
 
 Declare, his ways, 
 
 And let, his praise 
 
 Inspire, your tongues. 
 
 My fugitive years, are all hasting away, 
 
 And I' must myself, lie as lowly as they, 
 
 With a turf at my breast,, and a stone at my head, 
 
 Ere another such grove, rises up in its stead. 
 
 Lo, earth, receives him from the bending skies ; 
 Sink down,' ye mountains,, and ye vallies' rise. 
 
 Walk' in thy light,, and in thy temple' bend. 
 
 Sweet' to the world, and grateful' to the skies. 
 
 And startled' Nature, trembled' with the blast. 
 
 Soft' as the slumbers, of a saint' forgiv'n, 
 
 And mild' as opening beams, of promis'd' heav'n. 
 
 Thy throne,' O God,, forever stands ; 
 Grace, is the scepter' in thy hands. 
 
 Happy infant,, early bless'd', 
 Rest,, in peaceful slumber,' rest. 
 
 It is necessary that both the cesura, and demi-cesura, should 
 be distinctly marked in the reading of poetry, if a person would 
 read it with due grace and effect ; yet how few are there who 
 even know that therei s any such thing. 
 
 By making the cesura fall on different places in a line, the 
 irksomeness of uniformity in pauses is avoided. Were we al- 
 ways to meet with a pause after the same foot in a line, the con- 
 tinual repetition would grow tiresome, and make poetry worse 
 than prose. A little attention will show us that by means of 
 a full, and a demi-cesura, by using sometimes only one in a 
 
PROSODY* 105 
 
 line, and sometimes two, and three, and by placing them after 
 different feet, and parts of feet, a great variety can be effected 
 in sound and melody. 
 
 Another source of variety in our versification is the use of 
 both long, and accented syllables. It has already been seen 
 that both these syllables have, in our language, an equal quan- 
 tity in the structure of metrical feet. By this means, much 
 more life, energy, and variety, can be infused into English verse 
 than can be done in those languages which are destitute of this 
 sort of accent. Here follow some examples of lines containing 
 none but pure long syllables, and pure accented ones, and of 
 lines in which both are intermixed. 
 
 Syllables with the vowel long. 
 
 And truth propos'd to reas'nors wise as they. 
 
 Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all. 
 
 Syllables accented. 
 
 The mon'arch thus' ; the reV'rend Nes'tor then* 
 
 If in' your breasts' or love or pit'y dwell'. 
 
 Alternate. 
 
 The muse forgot, and thou be 1'ovM' no more. 
 
 Two accented ; three long. 
 
 By for'eign hands' thy dying eyes were clos'd'. 
 
 Lines of the first description, having all long, or all accented 
 syllables in their feet, are rarely met with. The two kinds are 
 usually blended in the same verse, in different proportions. 
 
 Note. — In the accented syllables the vowels are marked with an ac- 
 cent over the succeeding consonant. 
 
 Quite a common fault in the reading of poetry is this; — when 
 a word ends in a consonant, and the next one begins with a 
 vowel, to detach the consonant from the word to which it be- 
 longs, and join it to the next, as though it formed the com- 
 mencement of the succeeding syllable. The following lines* 
 
 Loud as his thunder shout his praise, 
 And sound it lofty as his throne, 
 are frequently read thus ; 
 
 Lou das his thunder shout his praise, 
 
 And soun dit lofty as his throne. Again,, 
 
106 THE READERS GUIDE. 
 
 Let clouds, and winds, and waves agree, as if 
 Let cloud, sand wind, sand wave sagree. Again, 
 
 Of our inferior clay ; as if 
 
 O fou rinferior clay. or rather, as pronounced, 
 
 O uou inferior clay. 
 
 This fault likewise occurs in reading prose, but not, perhaps, 
 as frequently. It is one which should be cautiously avoided, as 
 it may be by the continual habit of distinct articulation, and the 
 clear and full enunciation of the final consonant of every word, 
 and syllable. 
 
LESSON I. 
 
 THE LITTLE ORPHAN GIRL. 
 
 On a dark cold night', in the middle of November', as Mr, 
 Hardy was traveling in a stage coach from London to Norwich/ 
 he was roused from a sound sleep at the end of a stage, by the 
 coachman's opening the dcor of the carriage, and begging leave 
 to look for a parcel which was in the box under Mr. Hardy's 
 seat. The opening of the door admitted a violent gust of wind 
 and rain', which was very unpleasant to the feelings of the 
 sleeping passengers', and roused them to a consciousness of the 
 situation of those who were on the outside of the vehicle. " I 
 hope, coachman', you have a good thick coat on, to guard you 
 
 against the cold and wet','' said Mr. Hardy. " I have a very 
 good one, sir," replied the man ; " but 1 have lent it to a poor 
 little girl that we have on the top 1 * ; for my heart bled for her', 
 poor thing', she had so little clothing to keep her warm." 
 
 " A child' exposed on the outside of the coach' on such a 
 night as this !" exclaimed Mr. Hardy' ; "lam sure it would 
 be very wrong in us to let her stay there. Do let us have her 
 in immediately' ; it is quite shocking to think of her being in 
 
 such a situation." 
 
 " Oh no," cried a gentleman opposite ; " we can do nothing 
 with her, it is quite out of the question. The coach is already 
 full', and she will be so wet', that we might as well be on the 
 
 outside ourselves as sit near her. Besides, she is a poor child', 
 in charge of the master of a workhouse, and one does not 
 know what she may have about her." 
 
 " Why as to that sir'," replied the coachman', " I believe 
 she is as clean as any child needs to be, though she is rather 
 delicate looking', poor things ; but she is a fine little creature, 
 and deserves better fare than she is likely L to get where she is 
 $oing." 
 
108 the reader's guide. 
 
 " Let her come in, at any rate," said Mr. Hardy ; " for poor' 
 or rich\ she is equally sensible of cold ; and no one, I am sure, 
 who has a child of his own', can bear the idea of her being so 
 exposed ; and as to her being wet^, I will wrap her in my 
 plaid^, and take her on my knee^, so that no one can feel any 
 inconvenience from it. " 
 
 This silenced the gentleman's objections' ; and the rest of 
 the company agreeing to it, the coachman was desired to bring 
 the child hr% which he gladly did'; and the dry plaid being 
 rolled about her', Mr. Hardy took her on his knee, and putting 
 his arm around her waist', clasped her, with benevolence and 
 self-satisfaction', to his breast. " I am afraid you are very 
 cold\ my poor little girl'," said he. 
 
 " I was very cold indeed till the coachman was so good to 
 me as to let me have his coat," replied she, in a very sweet 
 and cheerful voice ; " but you have made me warmer stillV 
 she added ; and', as she spoke, she laid her head against the 
 breast of her benevolent friend', and was asleep in a few mi- 
 nutes. 
 
 " The coachman showed a great deal of concern for her," 
 said one of the passengers ; " I could hardly have expected so 
 much feeling in the driver of a stage coach." 
 
 " I believe there is much more humanity among the lower 
 
 classes of people than is generally supposed "replied Mr. Har v - 
 dy ; " for we seldom meet with one who is deaf to the appeals 
 of childhood' or helplessness." 
 
 His companion was too sleepy to dispute the point', and the 
 whole party soon sunk into the same state of torpor' from which 
 this little incident had roused them', and from which they were 
 only occasionally disturbed by the changing of horses', or the 
 coachmens 7 applications for their usual fee, till the full dawn of 
 day induced them to shake off their drowsiness. 
 
 When Mr. Hardy awoke, he found that his little companion 
 was still in a sound sleep', and he thought, with satisfaction, of 
 the comfortable rest which he had procured for her', with only 
 a very little inconvenience to himself. He was glad, too, that 
 he had interested himself for her', before he saw her' ; for, had 
 he seen the prepossessing face which he then beheld', he might 
 have suspected that his interference had been prompted by her 
 
 beauty', as much as occasioned by her distress 1 *. She appear- 
 ed to be about five years old', of a fair complexion', and 
 regular features ; but Mr. Hardy was particularly interested 
 with her sensible and expressive countenance, which in- 
 
THE LITTLE ORPHAN GIRL. 109 
 
 dicated extreme sweetness of disposition. "What a pity," 
 thought he, as he looked at her', " that so promising a little 
 creature should be confined to the charity of a poor house, and 
 there reared in vice and ignorance !" 
 
 As these thoughts passed across his mind', the little girl 
 awoke 1 ', and looked around her', as if at a loss to know where 
 she was : but at the next moment' seeming to recollect herself, 
 
 and looking in Mr. Hardy's face, she returned his kindness by 
 a smile of satisfaction. " Have you had a good sleep', my 
 dear' V asked he kindly. " Yes\ sir', I have been sleeping 
 very soundly', and I thought I was at home." 
 " Where is your home^ V asked Mr. Hardy. 
 
 " I call where my aunt Jane used to live, my home." 
 " And where did your aunt Jane live V 
 
 " I do not know what they called the place ; but it was at 
 the end of a long lane, and there was a pretty garden before 
 the house. It was such a nice place, I am sure you would 
 like it', if you saw it." 
 
 " Do you not know the name'' of the place ?" 
 " No, sir', I do not know what they call it', on'ly' that it was 
 aunt Jane's house, and it was near the large town they call Ips- 
 wich', where my father lived', and where there were a great 
 many ships and a large river." 
 
 Surprised at the easy and proper manner in which this little 
 girl', who bore marks of nothing but the greatest poverty', ex- 
 pressed herself, Mr. Hardy's curiosity was greatly excited', 
 and feeling much interested respecting her', he asked her 
 name. 
 
 " My aunt Jane used to call me Fanny Edwin'," replied 
 she ; " but my new mother told me I must say my name is 
 
 Peggy Short v , but I do not like that" name." 
 
 "Why did she tell you to call yourself by that' name?" 
 
 asked Mr. Hardy. 
 
 " I cannot tell sir', for she used to call me Fanny herself, till 
 she took me to the large town that we came to yesterday' ; and 
 
 then she called me Peggy', and said I must call myself so." 
 
 " Where is your aunt Jane now 1 And your new'' mother,' 
 as you call her', where is she gone^ ?" 
 
 10 
 
110 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 " My aunt Jane^, sir', went away a long time since' ; she 
 said she was forced to go to a lady who was ill 1 ", that had been 
 very kind to her', but she would come back to me soon, and 
 then I should live with her again ; and that I must love her till 
 she came back ; and I have loved her' all this time very dear- 
 ly ; but she has never come again." As the child said this% 
 
 her little heart swelled', and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Where did you go when she left you V inquired Mr. Har- 
 dy. " I went to live with my father' ; for I had a new r mother, 
 my aunt Jane said', who would take care of me. But my 
 father went away in a ship', and my new mother said he was 
 drowned in the sea 11 , and would never come back again ; and 
 then she was not very kind to me ; not so very kind as my aunt 
 
 Jane used to be ; for my aunt Jane never beat me, but used to 
 take me upon her knee, and tell me pretty stories', and teach 
 me the way to read them myself, and to sew r , that I might 
 learn to be a useful woman' ; and used to kiss me, and say she 
 loved me very dearly', when I was a good girl." 
 
 " And I hope you were aPways a good girl'," said Mr. Har- 
 dy, patting her cheek. A confused blush covered the face of 
 his little companion, as he said this. 
 
 " No, sir', 5 ' said she, " I was not always good ; for once I 
 told a story', and my aunt Jane did not love me for a great 
 many days', and I was very unhappy." 
 
 " That was indeed naughty' ; but you will never tell an'other 
 story', I trust'." 
 
 " I hope not," said the child, modestly ; and Mr. Hardy, de- 
 sirous of knowing something more of her history, asked her 
 again, what had become of her mother'. " 1 do not know 
 where she has gone to ; but I am afraid she has lost herself, 
 for when we got to the large town, she told me to sit down 
 upon a door step till she came back to me ; and I sat a very 
 long time, till it was quite dark, and I was very cold and hun- 
 gry, and she never came to me, and I could not help crying ; 
 so the lady heard me that lived in the house, and came to me, 
 and asked me what was the matter ; and when I told her', she 
 took me into the kitchen', and gave me something to eat, and 
 was very kind to me." 
 
 At this simple narrative, the passengers were all much af- 
 fected ; and even the gentleman who had, at first', opposed her 
 coming into the coach', rubbed his hand across his eyes', and 
 said', "Poor thing', — poor thing';" while Mr. Hardy pressed 
 
THE WAY TO BEAR PAIN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 her more closely towards him, and rejoiced that Providence 
 had enabled him to provide his own daughter with every indul- 
 gence that affection could desire. 
 
 Note. — Children use the rising inflection more than adults. 
 
 LESSON II. 
 
 THE WAY TO BEAR PAIN. 
 
 We should learn to endure patiently the common afflictions 
 of life. By exercising fortitude and submission', we can great- 
 ly alleviate the evils we cannot avoid. 
 
 Every body has to bear pain' ; now let us see how James 
 submits to the toothache. Perhaps there is no harder pain to 
 bear', because we are thinking constantly of the sure, speedy', 
 though very unpleasant', remedy. When we complain, our 
 
 friends say, " Well, why don't you have the tooth extracted' ?"* 
 James has suffered three days with the tooth-ache. He has 
 remained at home three days from school, and submitted pa- 
 tiently to the usual remedies for this disease. — Sometimes the 
 pain has been very severe, but he has not allowed himself to 
 
 shed one tear', or', for one moment', to lose his self-command. 
 At length his father and mother advise him to have the tooth 
 extracted. Poor James dreads the operation' as much as any 
 one. He considers the subject for some hours', and then re- 
 solves to submit to it manfully. He slips quietly out of the 
 house, and directs his steps towardsf the dentist's. His voice 
 falters a little, as he inquires if the doctor is at home. " Yes'," 
 is the reply', and James summons all his courage. " Sir'," he 
 
 says pleasantly', " can you extract a tooth for me this after- 
 noon' ?" Arrangements are soon made, and James seats him- 
 self in the great arm-chair. It is all over in a moment', and 
 he is on the way home. How light is his step* 1 , and how hap- 
 py his heart' ! He knows that he has done his duty', and ex- 
 ercised a becoming degree of fortitude. How surprised is his 
 
 * This mark : denotes that the syllable over which it is placed, is raised a 
 aote higher than is denoted by a simple point. 
 
 | Pronounced as one syllable, toirds ; or, t6rds ; see page 16. 
 
112 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 mother to hear that the troublesome tooth is actually gone, and 
 how approvingly his father smiles upon him ! 
 
 George has been suffering with the same complaint', but as 
 yet he cannot be induced to apply to a dentist for relief He is 
 fretful and peevish. He complains of every application', and 
 of every proposed remedy he says', " it will do no good, and it 
 is of no use to try it." 
 
 He is finally hired to have his tooth out, and he goes with 
 his father to the dentist's. As soon as George finds himself in 
 the presence of the doctor', he begins to cry. He declares 
 that he can not and whT not have the tooth out', and that the 
 operation will kill him. His father threatens', and the doctor 
 flatters', but all to no effec f . At length he is compelled to open 
 his mouth. His father holds his head and hands firmly, and the 
 doctor succeeds', in spite of George's efforts to the contrary', 
 to place the instrument properly on the tooth ; — and now he 
 screams loud enough to disturb the whole neighborhood. 
 
 Who does not admire James's 1 " superior fortitude and cou- 
 rage ? 
 
 A restless, discontented spirit, is a serious injury to a sick 
 person. It always retards recovery. The effect of medicine 
 is often counteracted by this disposition. 
 
 It is always necessary to use self-control in sickness. There 
 was a boy who suffered much with weak eyes ; his friends 
 thought he would have recovered much sooner, if he could 
 have been induced to give up cry'ing' ; but the boy had not self- 
 command enough to do this. On every occasion when he was 
 vexed or disappointed', he would be found in tears. This al- 
 ways had the effect to increase the inflammation', and no doubt 
 prolonged his sufferings. 
 
 The design of sickness is', not to call into exercise wicked 
 and wrong feelings', but the op'posite of these, patience', forti- 
 tude', and submission. 
 
 So with fatigue ; when it is excessive, it is certainly painful ; 
 but pain is in no way diminished by constant complaints. Who 
 can sympathize deeply with the boy^, who, when a little tired', 
 is constantly talking about it', and making it an excuse for neg- 
 lecting duty' ? Some persons are always annoying their 
 friends with a recital of their hardships and fatigues. True 
 benevolence would rather wish to conceaP that' which could 
 in no way be remedied by exposure. 
 
 Boys often complain bitterly' of cold weather'. To be sure, 
 it is bad enough to have one's fingers ache, and ears tingle ; 
 

 AN EXAMPLE. 113 
 
 but it makes a bad matter worse h , when a boy whines and cries 
 about it. 
 
 William is an example of manliness in this respect. When 
 the hour for school arrives', he quietly collects his books', but- 
 tons on his great coat', puts on his mittens', and courageously 
 makes his way through the snow' without a murmur' or com- 
 plaint. When he is in school', he pursues his studies in spite of 
 the chilling atmosphere, and soon forgets that it is a cold Decem- 
 ber morning. He is acquiring habits of self-control in his 
 youth', which will prove a blessing to him as long as he lives. 
 
 LESSON III. 
 
 AN EXAMPLE. 
 
 When John awoke in the morning', he saw that the light was 
 coming in at the win'dows, and he knew accordingly' that he 
 ought to get up. His brother Roger was sleeping in the same 
 bed. It was a trundle bed, so low that he could easily get out 
 and in. He lay thinking for a few minutes' — happy in heart', 
 and grateful that God had kept him through another night. 
 He saw, too, a beautiful star out of the window. It was the 
 last star, — all the others had gone out in the light of morning. 
 
 While he lay thus', he began to grow sleepy again ;* but just 
 then he heard a bell ringing below'', at the foot of the stairs ; — 
 for this was a very regular family', and the father always rang 
 a bell at a certain hour of the morning', when the fires were 
 
 made, for the boys to get up. When John heard the bell' he 
 began to dress himself, calling at the same time, "Roger', Ro- 
 ger." 
 
 Roger began soon to move ; he turned over', half opened 
 
 his eyes and said', " What do you want^ ?" 
 
 " It is time to get up," said John ; " the bell has rung'." 
 Roger said nothing, — but he looked displeased and fretful, — 
 and presently John saw that he was going to sleep again. 
 
 John then took a long feather which he pulled out of the pil- 
 low', and began playfully to tickle his brother's nose. This 
 
 * Again ; this word should be pronounced as if spelt, agen ; the last sylla- 
 ble is too often pronounced as though it had a long vowel, like a in name. 
 
 10* 
 
114 THE READER^ GTTTOE. 
 
 waked him up', — he rubbed his face, opened his eyes*, and 
 when he saw John laughing', and with the feather in his hand', 
 he looked very cross, and said, "Be still." Then he turned 
 over', and half covered his face with the pillow. 
 
 At first John began to feel a little an'gry ; but very soon he 
 reflected that he ought not to be so'. He thought that he ought 
 not to do any thing which would trouble his brother ; so he 
 came to the bedside and leaned over him', and said', " Roger', 
 I am very sorry I tickled you with that feather', if you do not 
 like it'; I was only at play''. But it is really time for you to 
 
 get up." 
 
 Roger still looked displeased, though when he heard John 
 speaking so pleasantly', he was a little ashamed of his own 
 conduct. He knew that he ought not to lie in bed any longer ; 
 — but he had no love, no fear of God in his heart, and so did 
 not care much about doing wrong. He therefore lay still un- 
 til John was nearly dressed. He, however', gradually grew 
 good natured', and being a little ashamed of his ill-humor', be- 
 gan to talk very pleasantly with his brother. 
 
 Now the father of these two boys had taught them to kneel 
 down, every morning, by the bedside as soon as they were 
 dressed', and each to say a prayer ; but this morning', when 
 John was dressed and ready for this% Roger was still lying in 
 bed. 
 
 Roger proposed, therefore, that they should say their pray- 
 ers then'', while he was lying stilF, and accordingly John 
 kneeled down' and repeated his prayer. While saying it', he 
 thought what he was saying. He knew that God" heard him', 
 
 and he really desired the blessings' that he asked. But Roger' 
 
 was all the time thinking of something else. 
 
 Roger said his prayer too ; but his saying it' was a mere 
 form. In the pi^er was a petition that God would forgive 
 his sins ; but Roger did not feel that he had committed any, nor 
 that he needed any forgiveness. While we must believe that 
 John's prayer was heard', we are forced to suppose that God 
 could pay no regard to Roger's', except to be displeased at its 
 being offered in so heartless a manner. 
 
 After the prayers were over, Roger leaped out of bed and 
 began to dress himself in earnest. He was afraid that he 
 should not be down in season. — John went to the door to go 
 down stairs. — 
 
 " Waif for m$ s , — can't you ?" said Roger. 
 
 John stood a moment' with his hand upon the door. He 
 
AN EXAMPLES 115? 
 
 wanted to wait for his brother', hut he did not like to be late. 
 He did not know exactly what he ought to do. 
 
 While he was thus hesitating', he heard the second bell ring 
 below. It was to call the family together for prayers. 
 
 "'I must go," said he, " the second bell is ringing." 
 
 " Oh' wait a minute," said Roger', hurrying on his clothes, 
 " I shall be ready very soon." 
 
 Roger knew that his brother ought not to wait', but he thought 
 that he should eppear less to blame if they both went down to- 
 gether. — John' hesitated a moment. 
 
 "I must do my duty," thought he. He then said aloud to 
 Roger, " I would wait for you, but father says we must always 
 be down when the second bell rings', and I must go." 
 
 Roger was vexed and angry. He said some fretful words to 
 him in reply, — but John shut the door gently and walked down 
 stairs. He bid his father and mother good morning', and then 
 sitting down by the side of the fire, in his low chair', he took 
 little Lucy, his sister', up in his lap', and began to show her the 
 pictures in a picture book. When he came into the room', 
 Lucy was troubling her mother', who was setting the table, 
 and John thought that by amusing her^ he could help his mo- 
 ther. He wanted to do all the good he could. 
 
 When they were all ready for prayers', his father asked him 
 where Roger was'. 
 
 " He was not quite ready when I came down," said John. 
 
 " You may go and see if he is ready now," said his father. 
 
 John opened the door and began to go up stairs ; and when 
 he had gone about half way up', he met his brother coming 
 down". 
 
 " They are all ready for us'," said John', and stood back in 
 a corner, made by a turn in the stairway to let his brother pass. 
 Roger brushed rudely by', and scowled upon him, looking 
 much displeased still. John said' nothing, but he was very 
 sorry to see it. He was sorry for two reasons, — because he was 
 grieved to have his brother feel angry with him, and because he 
 knew that the scowling, an'gry expression in Roger's face in- 
 dicated a very wicked state of heart. As he followed him 
 down the stairs he secretly prayed to God to forgive his brother, 
 and make him good and happy again. 
 
 Now there was a little rocking chair,, with a green cushion 
 and mahogany arms', which their uncle had given these two 
 boys', and they were accustomed to take turns in sitting in it at 
 morning prayers. Roger being the oldest, always sat nearest 
 his father, and John next ; and in the morning when the room 
 
116 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 was arranged', the rocking chair was placed, one day, for Ro- 
 ger', and the next, for John. 
 
 It happened this morning that it was John's' turn, and the 
 rocking chair was placed for him\ As he came into the room', 
 sorry that Roger felt as he did', and wanting to do something 
 to soothe and quiet his mind', he happened to see the rocking 
 chair' and thought he would let Roger sit in it that v morning, 
 though it was not his' turn. So while Roger was standing by 
 the fire, warming himself, John went behind him, and changed 
 the chair. 
 
 Roger turned round just as he had done it', and, for an in- 
 stant', he thought that it was his v turn' to have the chair'', and 
 that John' was taking it away' from him. In a moment', before 
 he had time to see how it was^, he cried out, " Let' alone'' that 
 chair'." 
 
 But at the very instant the words were spoken', he saw how 
 it was ; for John was that moment' sitting down in the other 
 chair', and looking up at his brother' with a good humored 
 smile. 
 
 Roger took his seat in the rocking chair', and his father be- 
 gan to read. John paid attention to the reading', but Roger 
 was not at rest', and began to feel ashamed of his bad conduct. 
 His heart was touched, too, by the forbearance of his brother. 
 He felt guilty and ashamed', but that was all. He did not feel 
 penitent. That is, he did not think that such feelings as he had 
 had', and such things as he had done that morning', were great 
 sins against God. He did not think about God at all. He 
 only felt guilty' and ashamed' ; — but at length, while his father 
 was reading', his thoughts were gradually turned to other 
 things ; and when', after prayers', they sat down to breakfast', 
 he had nearly forgotten what had happened ; yet there was in 
 his heart that constant uneasiness and suffering', which all boys 
 feel who live in sin. 
 
 Thus you see, these two boys lived and acted very differ- 
 ently. John tried to do as he ought, — to please his Savior', to 
 whom he had given himself away. Roger went on doing as he 
 liked to do, — thinking nothing about God, and scarcely know- 
 ing any thing about the Savior. 
 
 When it was time to go to school', John was ready ; but Ro- 
 ger could not find his things. John's cap and books', and 
 satchel', were all in their place ; but Roger's were scattered 
 about', he did not know where. With John's aid', however', 
 he soon found every thing but his geography and maps ; and 
 those, he said, he put on the shelf in their place, and that John 
 or Lucy must have taken them away. 
 
AN EXAMPLE* 117 
 
 John said he did not recollect taking them away. 
 
 (t Weir, what could have become of them then , if you, or 
 
 somebody', did not take them away' ?" said Roger. 
 
 " Why, perhaps," said John mildly', " you may be mistaken 
 about putting them there." 
 
 I tell you, I am not mistaken', I am sure\ I put them there ; 
 and I believe you have carried them off', and hid them, just to 
 plague me. 
 
 " 1 have not carried them off'," said John', " and you ought 
 not to say'' I have." 
 
 In fact John began to be out of patience with his brother, on 
 account of his injustice in charging him', without any evidence, 
 with having carried away his books ; and they went on talking 
 about it', until a good many unkind words had passed on both' 
 sides. At last, as they were looking for the third time in the 
 secretary', John suddenly stopped and said', — " You left them 
 out behind the house, last night." 
 
 Roger hesitated and thought' a minute. There was a little 
 hill behind the house, where the boys were accustomed to slide 
 for half an hour after school, — and there Roger had laid down 
 his books", and when he came in' he forgot to bring them. The 
 boys went out there, and found the atlas with the geography 
 safe upon the top of a post. 
 
 They walked along to school silently. Both were thinking 
 of the dispute which they had got into', and Roger was 
 ashamed, — but John' was pen'itent. Roger' was trying to for- 
 get' it, — and to think of something else, — but John' prayed to 
 God' to forgive him for all the unkind words he had spoken', 
 and for the impatient spirit he had manifested. He determined, 
 too', to confess his fault to Roger, — and in the recess at school 
 that day', he wrote a little note to his brother', saying' that he 
 was sorry for the unkind words he had spoken to him', and pro- 
 mising to try never to do so again. 
 
 Then he felt relieved and happy again. His sin was brought 
 out', — confessed' and forgiven. But Roger's was only covered 
 up', concealed' and gradually forgotten. But God^ did not for- 
 get it. It went into the book of account. 
 
 Thus, always' when John' did wrong', he confessed his sins- 
 ful'ly', and prayed for their forgiveness. He did not wish to 
 conceal any thing', but as he tried all the time to please God, 
 so when he failed' he always sought mercy and forgiveness, 
 through the Savior who died for his sins. He improved his 
 time faithfully', and made himself as useful as possible to all 
 around him. 
 
118 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 In school John was diligent and patient. His desk' was al- 
 ways in good order', and his books neat. In fact he wished to 
 do his duty in every thing. Sometimes he would feel tired', 
 and begin to wish that it was time for school to be over, — but 
 then he would soon reflect that his Savior was near him', and 
 would be pleased to have him persevere in doing his duty', even 
 if it was not very pleasant to him. At such a time he would 
 take out the books which he begun to put away', and take hold 
 of his studies again in good eanfest ; and then he would find 
 that his time passed much more rapidly and pleasantly' than 
 when he was idly wishing for school to be over. 
 
 John, always attentive to the wants' and to the happiness of 
 others, found a great many ways to be useful ; and he found 
 that by endeavoring to do good to others', he enjoyed a great 
 deal of pure and solid happiness himself. He found, by ex- 
 periment, that the more he contended against his sins, the 
 easier it was to overcome them. The more he was in the 
 habit of being kind', and faithful', and obedient', the more easy', 
 and natural it was for him to be so. The more he became 
 acquainted with God', too', the more he loved him', and the 
 pleasanter it was' to obey him. At last he grew up to be a 
 man, and to be useful and happy in the world. 
 
 LESSON IV. 
 
 MISS TROUBLESOME. 
 
 Jane Wilson was one of the most nois}^, troublesome girls' I 
 ever met with in my life. Where Jane was', there could be no 
 quiet. I was paying a visit at her aunt's, when she came to 
 pass a vacation there with her cousin. She was then ten 
 years old. The first I knew of her being in the house, was 
 
 one forenoon', just before dinner', as I was resting myself upon 
 the sofa* in the parlor', after a long walk. 1 heard some one 
 coming down stairs as if she was trying to see how much noise 
 she could possibly make. " There is Miss Wilson," thought I, 
 " and of course an end of all peace for the present;" for though 
 I had never seen her before, I had heard of her from various 
 sources. She came into the room where I was sitting to look 
 
 * Sofa, o being long, and not soffa. 
 
MISS TROUBLESOME. 119 
 
 for her cousin^, and passed through into the breakfast-room \ 
 leaving both doors open', though it was very cold. Her cousin 
 was not there, and I heard her calling with a very loud voice, 
 "Lucy', Lucy'." 1 had no sooner shut the doors', and retaken 
 my seat', when she returned ; and, slamming the door after her 
 with great violence, she seated herself at the window to watch her 
 cousin's return ; for Lucy had not yet come from school. Af- 
 ter waiting a few minutes', she went to Lucy's neatly arranged 
 book. shelf to look for something to read ; but while there', she 
 heard her cousin's voice ^ and throwing the book she had in her 
 hand upon the table', she ran into the entry. 
 
 In the afternoon the children all went out to play ; for there 
 was a warm, sunny yard, adjoining the house. There were 
 Jane and Lucy', who was about a year younger', George and 
 William', little brothers of Lucy', one six' and the other four' 
 years old. They had not been there long when we heard a 
 loud screaming', so that we thought some dreadful accident 
 must have happened to one of the children. All the family 
 ran to the door to see what could be the matter', and there was 
 Jane laughing heartily to see how she had frightened poor little 
 William', by putting a spider on him', and saying it would bite 
 him. Lucy knew that common house spiders never bite, and 
 she had brushed it away, and was trying to quiet her brother ; but 
 he still feared that the spider was on him. His mother took 
 him into the house, and again left the children to themselves. 
 
 Presently Jane burst into the parlor, " Oh ! aunt'," said she, 
 " see what I have done'." 
 
 "What is the matter now 1 " V said her aunt. 
 " Oh ! I have torn my new frock by an ugly nail, in the 
 fence." 
 
 " But how could you do that h ?" 
 
 " I was only climbing over into the garden, and did not see 
 the nail." 
 
 " Climb'ing' over the fence'' ! I do not think that is a very 
 pretty play for a little girl. I hope this will teach you a good 
 lesson. Lucy will help you to change your dress', and perhaps 
 you will like to take a walk together." 
 
 Away went the two little girls', Jane walking in her usual 
 manner', for it really seemed as if she did not know how to 
 move lightly. 
 
 When they returned' it was time for tea. In the evening' 
 Lucy took her books', and went away' to learn her lesson for 
 the next day. She first gave her cousin a pencil and paper to 
 draw, and some pretty pic'ture book's to look at. A bright fire 
 
120 the reader's guide. 
 
 blazed upon the hearth' ; the astral lamp was lighted' ; the 
 room looked pleasantly', and I thought, "Now how happy- 
 might we be if Miss Troublesome were not here." — She 
 
 scratched a little with the pencil', turned over a few leaves of 
 the books', saying ten times in the course of a quarter of an 
 hour, " I wonder when Lucy will have finished her lessons ! 
 Aunt', do you think she has almost learnt them' ?" Then she 
 said she wanted some work. Her aunt gave her a little apron 
 to hem for her doll. She worked on this ten' minutes', dropped 
 her needle three times, kept breaking her thread' and getting 
 out of patience with it', and completely prevented my having 
 any quiet conversation with her aunt. At last', her cousin re- 
 turned, and eight o'clock soon earned when it was time for them 
 to go to bed. The next day I left the house to make a visit 
 to another of my friends', determining not to return' till Miss 
 Jane's vacation was over. 
 
 Now if you see any thing in your character which resem- 
 bles Jane's', I advise you to set about correcting it as soon as 
 possible. Depend upon' it', you will never be beloved as long 
 as you resemble her' in any of the respects I have mentioned. 
 All who knew her cousin Lucy', loved to have her' with them', 
 because she was mild' and amiable, and considerate, in respect 
 to the rights and enjoyments of others. 
 
 LESSON V. 
 
 THE GOOSE AND THE COLT. 
 
 A young colt that was scampering about the fields', and en- 
 joying himself very much', met a poor goose which had been 
 lately stripped of her leathers' to supply the wants of her mas- 
 ter. The colt', instead of pitying her condition', only laughed 
 at the figure she made'', and snorting with contempt', turned 
 away', waved his tail', kicked up his heels', and bounded off' 
 into the fields. 
 
 Now it happened that soon after this', the colt's master 
 thought it best to catch this same colt', put a rope around his 
 neck', and cut off his ears' and tail. Having done this^, he 
 turned him into the field', where, after a few days', he chanced 
 to meet the goose. " Aha !" says the old bird', " so you have 
 
 lost your ears and tail' I see ! whose turn is it to laugh now' ? 
 
THE FOREST TEEES. 121 
 
 Look at me. You see that nature is supplying me with new 
 feathers', to take the place of those I lost' ; but who will restore 
 to jou v your ears and tail' ?" 
 
 This story may show us the folly of laughing at the misfor- 
 tunes of those whom we may chance to meet in life ; and we 
 may rest assured', that whoever turns others into ridicule, will 
 be treated in the same way', if ever he becomes unfortunate. 
 
 LESSON VI. 
 
 THE FOREST TREES 
 
 In a fine forest of trees of various kinds', there were several 
 which were holding a conversation upon their particular beau- 
 ty', use, strength', size, and other qualifications. Some boasted 
 of one thing', some of another. 
 
 One of the tallest and finest trees, said proudly', " Which of 
 you, my friends', is so tall and straight as F am' ? F am the 
 
 stateliest tree in the forest." Another said', " Which of you 
 is as strong as F am' ? I have stood in the storm for years', 
 
 and no beast has been able to bend or break me down. F am 
 the strongest tree in the forest." 
 
 A third said", " Which of you is so graceful' as F am'? My 
 
 branches all wave in the breeze in the most elegant manner. 
 F am the most graceful tree in the forest." Another said, 
 " You may all boast of your size, strength' and elegance', but 
 when winter has stripped you of your verdure, how naked and 
 ■desolate you appear', while F am clothed in everlasting green'! 
 F am the on'ly tree worth looking at. F am the bright'est' and 
 most unfading' tree in the forest'." 
 
 While these vain trees were thus talking', each trying to ap- 
 pear better than the others', the owner of the forest came, with 
 his wood-cutter', to mark some trees which he meant to have 
 cut down. The tall', the strong', the graceful', and the ever- 
 green' tree, were alF selected', and in another hour', were laid 
 low by the axe, and cut up for use. 
 
 Thus you see how vain it is to boast of any qualifications we 
 possess', as', like these boastful trees', we have not the power 
 to ensure their continuance. 
 11 
 
122 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON VII. 
 
 THE, FROG AND HIS NEIGHBORS. 
 
 A frog', which had made his dwelling in a bank of earth near 
 an old hedge, was one day very much alarmed by hearing a 
 man say' who was working not far off', that he was going to 
 remove the hedge, and dig down the bank', in a day or two. 
 
 The frog instantly set to work', and removed his habitation 
 to another ditch hard by, for he was afraid that the laborer 
 would destroy his house'', and that he should lose his life. He 
 also told all his neighbors of the man's intention', and warned 
 
 them of their danger ; but they only laugh'ed at him', and 
 called him a silly old croaker. 
 
 The next day', as the frog found that the man had already 
 begun his work', he went again to his neighbors', and told them 
 of their peril. " Do you not see," said he, " that the hedge 
 is already pulled down', and that the bank cannot long v re- 
 
 main I 
 
 " Mind your own* affairs'," said the uncivil frogs', and we 
 will mind ours." We have time enough' before us. We, 
 
 surely', know as well as you, when it is necessary to leave our 
 homes. We are very happy and comfortable here'', and will 
 not go till it is time." 
 
 Notwithstanding the insults and ingratitude he met with', this 
 wise and kind-hearted frog', seeing the dwellings of his friends 
 on the verge of destruction', went again to expostulate with 
 them', and told them that, if they did not all remove immedi- 
 ately', they would certainly lose their lives. " Well, well, we 
 will remove to-morrow'," said the frogs. 
 
 To-morrow came'', but the lazy frogs had not removed'' ; and 
 they were all killed or wounded', and their dwellings destroyed. 
 The frog' that had warned his neighbors', was all the time safe 
 and snug in his house. He lamented the fate of his friends', 
 but confessed that those who put off till to-morrow' what ought 
 to be done to-day', can expect no better fortune. 
 
 Let this fable teach us alP never to procrastinate, or put off, 
 till another time, that which should be done now. To-mor- 
 row may never come ; and if it does', if we are too idle to do 
 our duty to-day', it is likely we shall be too idle to do it to- 
 morrow. 
 
THE COUNTRYMAN AND HIS, PIG. 123 
 
 LESSON VIII. 
 
 THE COUNTRYMAN AND HIS PIG. 
 
 A countryman one day wished to take his pig" to market. 
 But when lie tried to drive him one way', he would go the other, 
 and seemed obstinately bent on going every way but the right'. 
 If the man wanted him to turn to the right 1 ", he insisted upon 
 going to the left'' ; and if he tried to drive him to the left* - , he 
 was sure to turn to the right*". 
 
 At length", the countryman being tired', and out of patience, 
 tied a string to one of the pig's hind legs', and attempted to 
 guide him with the whip x as if he were a horse ; but this would 
 not do ; for grunter kicked and squealed', ran for\vard and 
 then backward', and persisted in attempting to return to his 
 
 st > r * 
 
 " So, then ," said the driver', " you will not go on', and do 
 
 as I want you to do. Well, well, we will see who shall be 
 master', you or I'." So saying', he took a strong rope out of 
 his pocket', seized the squealing animal by the legs', and, tying 
 them fast together', threw him on the back of his horse, be- 
 tween two bags of grain. 
 
 In vain did the angry creature struggle and squeal ; he could 
 not get away', nor loosen the cord about his legs. He now re- 
 pented of his ob'stinacy ; for the cord v hurt him', and the mo- 
 tion of the horse made him ache all over. But the countryman 
 
 did not mind this', but hurried on his horse, to make up for the 
 time that had been lost. 
 
 " O, my dear master, 5 ' said the uneasy pig', " do pray let me 
 get down. I am not accustomed to riding. I know nothing' 
 about it', and shall certainly break my neck. Besides that, 
 the string hurts my legs sadly', and I feel bruised all over. Do*" 
 let me get down this'' once." 
 
 " That you shall not," said the countryman'. " You would 
 not walk v to please me, and so you shall ride. You'' have had 
 your way long enough'; now v T must have mine." So say- 
 ing/ he jolted the squealing pig all the way to market. 
 
 My little readers may learn from this story never to be ob- 
 stinate ; for, if they are so, they must expect to be treated 
 roughly by those who would 1 ", doubtless', prefer to treat them 
 with tenderness. It is much better to be obedient', than to cry 
 and resist", like the foolish pig. 
 
124 THE READER^ GUIDE. 
 
 LESSON IX. 
 
 THE COCK AND THE FOX. 
 
 A young cock, that was sitting upon the branch of a tree, 
 crowed so loud that a fox'' which chanced to be passing byy 
 
 heard' him. So up' he trots', and says', " How do you do' my 
 dear friend' 1 I have not seen you for an age." 
 
 " Thank you for your politeness', sir'," said the cock ; " I 
 
 am as well as usual." " I am delighted' to hear it'," said the 
 fox ; pray come down from that high perch', that I may see you 
 closer', and admire your beautiful feathers'." 
 
 " No'', I am much obliged to you," said the cock : "that will 
 not do' ; for I have heard my old father say', that a fox h is 
 very fond of the flesh of a cock', and will eat him whenever he 
 gets a chance. So, if you please^, sir', I will stay where I 
 am. 
 
 " Pshaw', pshaw', child'," said the sly thief; give me leave 
 
 to tell you, that your old sire is an old fooP, and does not speak 
 a word of truth ; for I know' that all the beasts and birds are 
 now at peace ; therefore you need not mind that'', but fly down 
 and see me." 
 
 " Is this all true V said the cock. " I am very glad to hear 
 it', I am sure." And saying this', he stretched out his neck 
 as far as he could', as if he saw something a great way off. 
 
 What do you see, my dear friend', that you look out so ear- 
 nestly' ?" said the fox. " O nothing at all'," said the cock', only 
 a pack of hounds'' that seem to be running a race. It is a fine 
 sight. Look, look', they are coming this way." 
 
 " Dear me," said the fox' ; coming' this' way' ! Then it is 
 
 high time for me to be gone !" " Gone !" said the cock' ; 
 " why should you go' 1 What danger can there be to a fox h in 
 meeting hounds^ in time of peace ?" 
 
 " Yes," cried the fox', " all you say is true ; but it is ten to 
 one that these vile curs had not yet heard h of the peace ; there- 
 fore I must run as fast as I can to get out of the way." 
 
 This story shows us' that when a known enemy wishes to 
 seem a friend', there is most cause for us to keep out of his 
 reach ; and also that shame is likely to follow from falsehood. 
 
TIT FOR TAT. 125 
 
 LESSON X. 
 
 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 A little chimney-sweeper was v , one afternoon', sitting upon 
 the steps of a door', resting' himself, after his morning's work. 
 He had a large piece of bread and butter in his hand, which the 
 cook of the house had kindly given him', and which he intend- 
 ed to eat for his supper. 
 
 When he was quite rested, he began to eat. He found the 
 bread and butter very sweet and good ; and, as he was hun- 
 gry', he enjoyed it very much. So he ate as fast as he could', 
 now and then humming a tune. 
 
 Not far from him, on the steps of another door', lay a dog 
 quietly asleep in the sun. The sweep called out to him, and 
 said', " Come here, sir', come here'," whistling, and beckoning 
 to him at the same time. 
 
 The dog', hearing himself called h , and seeing that the boy 
 was eating^, got up', shook' himself, wagged' his tail', and ad- 
 vanced towards the boy', in the hopes that he would give him 
 a piece of the bread and butter. The mischievous boy held 
 out the bread to the dog', which instantly stretched out his nose 
 to take it But the young rogue, instead of giving the dog any 
 of his supper', hastily drew back his hand 1 ', and struck him a 
 severe blow on the nose, which made the poor creature run 
 howling away*", while the cruel little sweep' laughed most hear- 
 tily at the trick he had played. 
 
 A gentleman who was sitting at a window on the opposite 
 side of the street/, saw' this action', and determined to punish' 
 the wicked boy. So opening the street door', he beckoned to 
 the sweep to come over', showing him a sixpence' which he held 
 in his hand. 
 
 " Would you like to have this sixpence, my boy' '?" said the 
 gentleman', "It will buy you a better supper than you have got 
 there''." " 0', yes' sir', if you please, with many thanks'," 
 said the little sweep', eagerly stretching out his hand for the 
 prize. 
 
 But just as he was going to take the money', the gentleman 
 hit him so smart a rap on his knuckles with a cane which he 
 held behind him', that the boy drew back his hand' screaming 
 with pain. 
 
 " What did you do that for' ?" sai d he, sobbing', and rubbing 
 his knuckles', " I did not ask' for the sixpence." "Why did 
 
 11* 
 
126 the. reader's guide. 
 
 you hurt the poor.dog just now' ?" said the gentleman. " He 
 did not ask you^ for your bread and butter'. I only serve you, 
 as you served him^. Let this' teach you that dogs' can feel' as 
 well as boys', and learn" to behave more kindly towards- dumb 
 
 animals' in future." 
 
 LESSON XL 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S DOG, 
 
 James Hogg', the Ettrick Shepherd', had a dog named Sir- 
 rah', which was for many years his sole companion. " He 
 was," quoth the shepherd', " beyond all comparison', the best 
 dog I ever saw." He was of a surly', unsocial' temper', dis- 
 daining all flattery', and refused to be caressed ; but his atten- 
 tion to his master's commands and interests', will never be 
 equalled by any of the canine race. The first time that I saw 
 him, a drover was leading him in a rope ; he was hungry and 
 lean', and far from being a beautiful' cur', for he was all over 
 black' and had a grim face, striped with dark brown. The 
 man had bought him of a boy for three shillings', some where 
 on the border, and doubtless had fed him very ill on his journey. 
 I thought I discovered a sort of sullen intelligence in his face, 
 notwithstanding his dejected and forlorn situation ; so I gave 
 the drover a guinea for him', and appropriated him to myself. 
 He was scarcely then a year old', and knew so little of herd- 
 ing that he had never turned sheep in his life ; but as soon as he 
 discovered that it was his duty to do so, and that it obliged me, 
 he would try every way deliberately, till he found what I want- 
 ed him to do ; and when once I made him to understand, he 
 never forgot nor mistook again." About seven hundred lambs', 
 which were once under his care at weaning time, broke up at 
 midnight, and scampered off in three divisions across the hills, in 
 spite of all that the shepherd and his assistant lad could do to 
 keep them together. " Sirrah," cried the shepherd in great af- 
 fliction', " my man', they're a' awa" *. The night was so dark 
 
 that he did not see Sirrah' ; but the faithful animal had heard 
 his master's words, and without more ado he set off in quest of 
 the recreant flock. Meanwhile the shepherd and his compan- 
 
 * Scottish dialect, for all away. 
 
FETER THE GREAT". 127 
 
 ion spent the whole night in scouring the hills v ; but of neither 
 the lambs' nor Sirrah", could they ohtain the slightest trace. 
 "It was the most extraordinary circumstance," says the shep- 
 herd', " that had ever occurred in the annals of the pastoral 
 life. We had nothing for it, (day having dawned,) but to re- 
 turn to our master', and inform him that we had lost his whole 
 flock of lambs', and knew not what was become of one of them. 
 On our way home, however', we discovered a body of lambs at 
 the bottom of a deep ravine,* called the Flesh Cleach, and the 
 indefatigable Sirrah standing in front of them', looking around 
 for some relief, but still standing to his charge. The sun was- 
 then up' ; and', when we first came in view of them', we con- 
 cluded that it was one of the divisions of the lambs which Sir- 
 rah had been unable to manage until he came to that command- 
 ing situation. But what was our astonishment', when we dis- 
 covered that not one'' of the whole flock was wanting ! How 
 he had got all the divisions collected in the dark', is beyond 
 comprehension. The charge was left entirely to himself, from 
 midnight until the rising of the sun' ; and if all the shepherds- 
 in the country had been there to assist him', they could not 
 have effected it with greater propriety." 
 
 LESSON XII. 
 
 PETER THE GREAT. 
 
 One day as the Czar was returning from hunting', he hap- 
 pened to loiter behind the rest of the company', to enjoy the cool 
 air' ; when looking around', he observed a boy standing on the 
 top bar of a stile ^ looking earnestly about him' ; upon which 
 he rode briskly up, and accosted him with', " Well', my boy', 
 what are you looking for', ?" " An't please your honor'," said 
 the boy', " I'm looking out for the king'." " Oh," said the em- 
 peror, "if you get up behind me, I'll show you him." The 
 boy then mounted' ; and as they were riding along', the Czar 
 said', "You will know which is the emperor', by seeing the rest 
 take off their hats to him." Soon after the emperor came up 
 to the party', who, much surprised at seeing him so attended', 
 immediately saluted him' ; when the Czar', turning round his 
 
 * Pronounced raveen : when spelt without a final e, pronounced rav'-en. 
 
128 the reader's guide. 
 
 head', said', " Now do you see who's the king' ?" " WhyV' 
 replied the boy' archly', "it is one of us' two, but I'm sure I 
 
 don't know which b , for we've both got our hats on." 
 
 LESSON XIII. 
 
 FOR THE GOOD OF TRADE. 
 
 The late well known Sandy Wood', surgeon in Edinburgh, 
 was walking through the streets of that city during the time of 
 an illumination', when he observed a young rascal', not above 
 twelve years of age, breaking every window he could reach h , 
 with as much industry' as if he had been doing the most com- 
 mendable action in the world. Enraged at this mischievous 
 disposition', Sandy seized him by the collar', and asked him 
 what he meant by thus destroying honest people's windows' ? 
 
 "Why it's all for the good of traded" replied the young urchin; 
 
 " I am a glazier'". " All for the good of trade, is'' it' ?" said 
 Sandy', raising his cane, and breaking the boy's head' ; " there, 
 then', that's' for the good of my' trade ; I' am a surgeon'." 
 
 LESSON XIV. 
 
 THE APE AND THE BEAVER. 
 
 A pert Ape, one day by chance, made a visit to the habita- 
 tions of the Beavers', who were all hard at work in their seve- 
 ral apartments' ; and addressing one of those industrious ani- 
 mals', which was busily employed in building a curious house 
 for himself and his family', he began to make his impertinent 
 and silly observations on the most trivial things that occurred', 
 until the Beaver', finding that he could not go on with his work', 
 while interrupted by this insignificant intruder', thus sharply re- 
 proved him: "Pray leave me," said he, "to my labor ; go 
 and pay your visits to such only as are idle like yourself : at 
 least, you should not take up the time of those to whom time is 
 
THE MASSACRE OF SCIO. I2£ 
 
 precious', and who make use of every moment to some good 
 purpose ; thus' reducing 11 them to a level with yourself". 
 
 APPLICATION. 
 
 Bad habits are as infectious* 1 as the plague. The idle make 
 those idle with whom they associate. The vicious libertine de- 
 bauches or corrupts the innocent mind until it becomes as de- 
 praved as its teacher' ; the quarrelsome create broils wherever 
 they intrude ; gamesters' make gamesters' ; and thieves' make 
 thieves'. There is a tendency in nature to cause every thing, 
 where it is possible, to produce its likeness. 
 
 LESSON XV. 
 
 THE MASSACRE OF SCIO. 
 
 Scio is a most lovely island', in the Grecian Archipelago. 
 Its climate is delightful* - , its soil fertile, producing the most de- 
 licious fruits' and fragrant flowers. Its capital', named also 
 Scio, is handsome and well-built, and its vicinity ornamented 
 with the villas and gardens of many wealthy merchants', who 
 once resided here in great splendor and luxury. Alas' ! how 
 has the scene been changed. They who once enjoyed all the 
 luxuries that wealth could purchase, or this delightful climate 
 furnish' — who were happy in the bosom of their families', and 
 surrounded with every thing that could make life desirable — 
 have either been cruelly slaughtered', or become wretched 
 slaves', or miserable outcasts', wandering without a home or 
 without the means of subsistence. A heart of sensibility must 
 bleed at a recital of the horrors witnessed by this once happy 
 island' ; horrors', from which it will take many years to recov- 
 er', and which will remain on record as another lamentable 
 proof of the depravity of man', and of the savage nature of civil 
 war'. 
 
 So fearful were the inhabitants of Scio of losing' the gratifi- 
 cations they enjoyed', and so effeminate had luxury rendered 
 these wealthy islanders, that liberty' had no charms for them' ; 
 and the calls of their fellow-countrymen to join them in the glo- 
 rious struggle for freedom', were disregarded'. Indeed', so 
 ably had they managed to avoid every appearance of disaffec- 
 
 * Skeeo, or See-o' 
 
130 THE 
 
 tion to their masters', the Turks', that the Ottoman fleet never 
 molested them', till 1 ", on one unfortunate occasion', a tumultuary 
 rabble joined the forces of a Greek leader, who landed with a 
 small party of troops', besieged the citadel', and put the Turk- 
 ish garrison and inhabitants to the sword. 
 
 Scarcely was this tragedy completed', when the Ottoman 
 fleet entered the harbor', and the Greek troops', unable to cope 
 with so formidable an armament', fled and left the island to its 
 fate. Although the principal inhabitants had taken no part in 
 the outrage, they were aware of their danger', and instantly re- 
 paired on board' the ship of the Captain Pacha, * making the 
 most solemn protestations of their innocence, and of their fidelity 
 to the Porte, f They were received with great civility', and 
 their fears quieted' by the Admiral's expressing himself ready 
 to forget all that had passed', and ordering coffee and other re- 
 freshments. 
 
 They being thus lulled into a fatal security', the Pacha land- 
 ed his troops', consisting of about six thousand men', without op- 
 position. Immediately the work of death began' — no distinc- 
 tion was made — the innocent' were confounded with the guilty' 
 in one indiscriminate slaughter', and the Turks when weary 
 with their sanguinary work', would coolly sheath their bloody 
 sabres', sit beneath the shades of the stately trees', take their 
 pipes and coffee, converse with the utmost indifference, or take 
 a nap', and then rise refreshed' and renew their horrid employ- 
 ment' ! No attention was paid to the most earnest protestations 
 of innocence nor supplications for mercy. Neither the silver 
 hairs of age, nor the blooming cheeks of beauty', wrought com- 
 passion in the hearts of the barbarous foe. Shrieks' of agony' 
 and shouts' of exultation' were mingled in horrid dissonance. 
 On every side were seen trembling fugitives pursued by the fe- 
 rocious murderers', who stabbed children in the arms of their 
 mothers', cut down with their remorseless weapons the aged 
 sire and the hapless youth', vainly endeavoring to ward off the 
 blow' each from the other' — while the exulting monsters tri- 
 umphantly exhibited the heads' of their victims' dripping with 
 gore ! 
 
 Nor, when the shades of night', and the weariness of the as- 
 sassins', gave a short respite to the wretched Sciots', was the 
 scene less appalling. Bloody corpses were scattered over the 
 velvet lawns' ; among the orange groves', and in the most mag- 
 nificent apartments', as well as in the lowly cottages' ; and the 
 plaintive lament of heart-broken relatives over the bodies of the 
 
 * Pronounced, Pashaw. A Turkish Governor or Commander. 
 
 f Emperor of Turkey ; often called the Ottoman Porte ; the final e is silent. 
 
DOGS AND A LION. 131 
 
 slain', and the shuddering cry of despair uttered by those who 
 knew that inevitable death awaited them at the return of day', 
 were as distressing and heart-sickening as the tumult and ago- 
 nizing shrieks that accompanied the scene of blood and carnage. 
 Daily was the butchering renewed', whilst any victims remain- 
 ed. Some had the good fortune to escape beyond the barrier 
 of the rocky mountains', or into the boats and vessels that were 
 off their coast. But their fate was little to be envied' — without 
 a home', without friends', almost without food', many perished 
 from fatigue and famine, while the survivors', bereft of every 
 thing they held most dear', suffered the miseries of present pri- 
 vation', and the agonies arising from the recollections of what 
 they once were. Twenty thousand are computed to have per- 
 ished in this massacre. 
 
 When will the happy time arrive", that men^, instead of glo- 
 rying in the destruction of their fellow creatures', shall heartily 
 join in promoting each other's felicity' ; when there shall be no 
 national antipathies', no religious differences' ; but all shall 
 unite in the worship of one God, and in kind offices to one 
 another. 
 
 LESSON XVI. 
 
 DOGS AND A LION. 
 
 James Stow', in his Annals', has an account of a battle be- 
 tween three mastiffs and a lion in the presence of James the 
 First', and his son' Prince Henry. " One of the dogs being put 
 into the den, was soon disabled by the lion', which took him by 
 the head and neck', and. dragged him about. Another dog was 
 then let loose, and served in the same manner' ; but the third 
 being put in', immediately seized the lion by the lip', and held 
 him for a considerable time' ; till being severely torn by his 
 claws', the dog was obliged to quit his hold' ; and the lion', 
 greatly exhausted by the conflict', refused to renew the engage- 
 ment' ; but taking a sudden leap over the dogs', fled into the 
 interior part of his den'. Two of the dogs soon died of their 
 wounds' ; the third survived', and was taken great care of by 
 the prince, who said, " he that had fought with the king of 
 beasts', should never after fight with an inferior creature." 
 
132 
 
 LESSON XVII. 
 
 SYMPTOMS OF IMPOSTURE. 
 
 Among the marvellous stories related of Mahomet and his fol» 
 lowers', one is 1 ", that he was conveyed on a mysterious animal 
 from Mecca to Jerusalem', and from thence ascended the seven 
 heavens', conversed with patriarchs and angels', and approach- 
 ed within two bow shots of the throne of the Almighty' ; then 
 descended to Jerusalem', and returned to Mecca, all in the tenth 
 part of a night'. Another is 1 ', that the moon', at Mahomet's 
 command', left the sky 1 ', performed seven revolutions round the 
 temple of Mecca, saluted him in the Arabic language, entered 
 at the collar of his shirt', and issued forth through his sleeve. 
 A third is*', that he saw angels in heaven', whose heads were 
 so large that it would take a bird a thousand years' to fly from 
 one ear to the other ! ! ! 
 
 LESSON XVIII. 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER OF ARGENTON.* 
 
 Towards the close of the last century', about the year 1789, 
 there occurred in France one of the most singular political con- 
 vulsions of which history has any record. The lower orders 
 of the nation', headed by some individuals of influence, rose in 
 arms against their sovereign', and after a long series of atroci- 
 ties', succeeded in dethroning and beheading king Louis the 
 Sixteenth', and in completely overturning the power of the no- 
 bles', and destroying the institutions of the state. 
 
 Of these scenes of horror, one of the most active agents was 
 a man named Robespierre.f who having raised himself to a sit- 
 uation of power amongst the disaffected', ruled his country with 
 despotic tyranny' ; and during his temporary elevation', either 
 the secret denunciation of an envious rival', or the false charges 
 preferred by an open enemy', were sufficient to condemn inno- 
 cence and virtue to a violent death. Any individual who was 
 known', during the Reign of Terror', (as that period of the 
 
 * Pronounced Agen'ton ; g as in age. 
 t Ro bes peer, pronounced. 
 
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER OF ARGENTON. 133 
 
 French Revolution has been termed',) to afford the slightest 
 commiseration or assistance to the proscribed victims of tyran- 
 ny', was almost certain to lose his life, as the penalty of his in- 
 judicious compassion' ; and owing to this circumstance, fear 
 seemed to suppress every generous feeling of the heart', and to 
 stifle every sentiment of humanity', in the bosoms of the greater 
 part of the unhappy inhabitants of France. 
 
 There lived about this time, in one of the northern counties 
 of the kingdom',* a miller in easy circumstances', whose name 
 was Maturing and who, so far from participating in the alarm 
 and dread', which seemed to freeze the charity of his country- 
 men', sought every opportunity of conferring acts of kindness 
 on the unfortunate people who were flying from their homes', to 
 avoid the horrors of prison or of death. 
 
 During this period', no suspicion had ever attached to him'' ; 
 and in the opinion of his neighbors', he passed for an excellent 
 'patriot ', as the term was then understood. He contrived', how- 
 ever', to conceal his real feelings under an air of gaiety' ; and 
 on many occasions', in order to avoid suspicion', he had even 
 received into his mill the officers of the tyrant', and entertained 
 them hospitably. 
 
 Toinett',f his daughter 7 , a little girl only ten years of age, 
 was his only confidant§ and companion. She was the deposi- 
 tory of his secrets' ; and possessing a great deal of prudence, 
 together with an appearance of childish innocence, she was par- 
 ticularly useful to her father', in aiding his efforts to deceive the 
 cruel agents of Robespierre ; and she shared in all his rejoic- 
 ings', when they had the good fortune to rescue any innocent 
 sufferer from their snares. 
 
 One evening' Toinette had gone down to a fountain at some 
 distance from the mill', in order to bring home fresh water for 
 supper', when her father should return from labor. She filled 
 her pitcher^ and placing it on the ground', by the side of the 
 well', she seated herself on a mossy bank', under the shade of a 
 beach tree, which grew above it. The sun was just setting' : — 
 there was not the slightest noise to disturb the calm silence 
 which reigned around her ; and leaning her head on her arm^, 
 she began to reflect on some melancholy tales of recent suffer- 
 ing', which her father had been relating to her that morning. 
 She had not remained in this position more than a few moments', 
 
 * The department des Deux Sev'res. 
 
 t Maturin ; u long. 
 
 X Oi as in boil ; nette, pronounced nett, accented. 
 
 § Confident, would be better. 
 
 12 
 
134 THE READER S GUIDE. 
 
 when she fancied that she heard the voice of some one in 
 tress 11 , apparently' very near her. She started' at an incident 
 so unusual' ; and listening for a moment', heard distinctly a 
 
 low, faint moan', which seemed to issue from a hovel not far 
 
 i . i 
 
 from the well'. It had formerly been a comfortable cottage ; 
 but having been destroyed by fire about a year before', little 
 more than the four walls' and a part of the roof were now re- 
 maining. 
 
 She arose instantly', and proceeding towards the ruined hut', 
 was about to enter the door'', when she perceived the figure of 
 a man' stretched on the ground', wasted' and pale, and appa- 
 rently' in the last struggle of death. She drew near to him 
 wthout hesitation', attempted to raise his head', and asked him 
 some questions in a voice of pity. The unfortunate man fixed 
 his eyes intently on the little girl'', and said in a low voice, 
 
 " Give me some bread' ; I am perishing from hunger'." 
 
 ( ( i t ii i ii 
 
 At these words', the tears came into the eyes of Toinette : she 
 knew not what to do ; she had no bread with her', — and from 
 the exhausted state of the poor sufferer', she feared to leave'' 
 him to procure any', lest on her return', she should find that he 
 had breathed his last. For a few moments' she hesitated what 
 to do, — whether to go, or remain' where she was ; at length 1 ", 
 thinking she had better leave him', and fetch some food', than 
 stay' with him', and perhaps see him expire before her eyes', 
 she gently laid his head on the floor 1 ", and had proceeded a few 
 steps from the door of the hut on her way home, when she re- 
 membered that she had a pear and some chestnuts in her pock- 
 et. The recollection of these treasures no sooner flashed on 
 her mind', than she ran back'', and placing the head of the poor 
 man upon her knee 1 ", she put a small piece of the pear in his 
 mouth. He had been so long without food', that it was with 
 some difficulty he swallowed the first morsel ; but by degrees 
 he seemed to revive'', and by the time he had finished the fruit', 
 he was so far recovered as to be able to answer the questions of 
 the little girl. 
 
 " Tell me," said Toinette, " how long you have been in this 
 horrible place 1 for your clothes are all ragged', and you can- 
 not have been shaved for many weeks. But you shall come 
 with me to my home ; it is not far distant', and my father is 
 kind to all who are in distress' ; and when you are weir, he 
 will give you employment in our mill 1 ", and every day', you 
 shall have abundance to eat 1 ", and a comfortable bed to sleep' 
 on' at night. 
 
135 
 
 "Alas' ! my child','' replied Monsieur Passot' * (for that was 
 the name of the unhappy man',) " it is impossible for me to 
 take advantage of the offer which you are so kind as to make 
 me. I am unfortunately obliged to fly 1 ', and to conceal myself, 
 far from the haunts of my fellow creatures ; but I should rather 
 prefer to perish here'', than to end my days on a scaffold. I 
 can only thank you for your kindness'', but I cannot accept of 
 it v ; fetch me a little bread' — it is all that I ask' ; and promise me 
 faithfully that you will not mention' even to your father', your 
 having seen me." 
 
 Toinette did all in her power to persuade Monsieur Passot to 
 alter his determination', and to confide in her father' ; but find- 
 ing that she could not succeed', she promised to keep his secret 
 inviolable ; and " do not think," said she, " that I will abandon 
 you here without assistance. Oh, no v ! I will procure you 
 something to eat v , now'', and will find the means to return to 
 you every day 1 ', and to bring you some bread. No one shall 
 know of your existence ; and for myself, I will die rather than 
 
 betray you." 
 
 When she had gone^, Monsieur Passot found himself much 
 more composed and tranquil : he was thankful for the interest 
 which Toinette had taken in his welfare, and he considered it 
 as an especial interference of Providence, to preserve his life. 
 He could now 1 " keep himself concealed as long he chose, since 
 his little friend had undertaken to provide him with food ; and 
 he hoped to be enabled by this means to elude his enemies', till 
 his name should be forgotten/, or a new order of things in 
 France would permit his return to his home and his family. 
 
 In a few minutes Toinette was again by his side', with some 
 bread, and a little cup of milk', from which the poor sufferer 
 eagerly drank', and seemed much refreshed. Toinette would 
 have been very glad to learn the particulars of Monsieur Pas- 
 sot's escape ; but fearing that her father would miss her', and 
 inquire the cause of her absence, she took a reluctant leave of 
 her protege ; j* and hastening to the well', she took up her pitch- 
 er, and returned to the mill', rejoicing in having had it in her 
 power thus to save the life of a fellow creature. 
 
 The little girl', faithful to her promise, continued to supply 
 her pensioner', at stated periods', with bread'', to which she oc- 
 casionally added' some vegetables or cheese. Monsieur Passot 
 took great pleasure in her intelligent and child-like conversa- 
 
 * Munseer, nearly ; Passo. Monsieur signifies, Mister, or Master. 
 f Protege, a French word ; one who is protected. G, as in age, and 
 the final e sounded. 
 
136 the reader's guide. 
 
 tion ; and on her part' Toinette was so pleased with her friend', 
 that she was never in a hurry to leave him and return to the 
 mill. At the same time, she was grieved to see that he had no 
 other covering or shelter than the wretched hovel where he lay, 
 and which was in fact more fit to be the retreat of a wild beast' 
 than that of a human being. In vain she renewed', from time to 
 time', her entreaties that he would confide in the protection of 
 her father', and remove to the mill ; he was too generous to en- 
 danger', by his presence, the safety of honest Maturin' ; and 
 preferred enduring all the horrors of his present situation', 
 from a conviction that to their kindness he was chiefly indebted 
 for concealment and security. 
 
 One morning', when Toinette and he were deeply engaged in 
 conversation', they were alarmed by the approach of a third 
 person', who suddenly started from amongst the trees', and 
 struck them with terror by his presence. Toinette, however', 
 soon recovered her confidence when she recognised her father ; 
 and turning to Monsieur Passot', she entreated him not to sus- 
 pect her' of having told Maturin of his living in the forest. — 
 " Ask himself," said the little girl eagerly', " and he will assure* 
 you that I have not." 
 
 Her father', thus appealed t6, replied', " It is very true, my 
 child', that you never have ; but how could you suppose that I 
 could be so blind as not to observe your frequent absence, or 
 that I should not feel uneasy when I was at home alone ^, whilst 
 you have been here chatting with Monsieur. The quantities of 
 breads too, which you have been in the habit of carrying off', 
 have excited my suspicions ; but 1 *, Toinette, how could you 
 think of permitting this gentleman to remain here so long in the 
 midst of so much mis'ery' ? Had you told me of his being here? 
 I would at once have found him an equally safe 1 ", and more com- 
 modious ^ retreat." 
 
 " My good Sir'," interrupted Monsieur Passot with great emo- 
 tion', " it was not the fault of this dear child 1 *, for I have uni- 
 formly resisted her entreaties to take me to your home, through 
 my fear of bringing you into difficulty or danger. I have suf- 
 fered so much 1 *, that I would not willingly bring another into 
 similar trouble." 
 
 "If that' be all your fear'," replied the miller', with a smile, 
 " you may set your mind at rest. I shall run no risks ; and 
 even if I should'', I have at most* , but one life to lose, and that 
 
 I shall gladly endanger to serve my suffering fellow creatures. 
 
 No v : you must not stay here*. This evening', at dusk', Toi- 
 
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER OF ARGENTON. 137 
 
 nette shall, come for you. A few days ago I was obliged to 
 dismiss my assistant', who was an idle fellow ; you shall take 
 his place, and do his work, when you are able ; but we will 
 first rid you of this long beard', which would make you look 
 more like a Capuchin friar', than a miller's man ; and having 
 arrayed you in one of my dresses', all suspicion will be lulled', 
 and by the assistance of Providence, all will go on securely and 
 well. But I must leave you now', — farewell", Monsieur', for 
 the present', and at night-fair I shall expect to see you at my 
 mill." 
 
 So saying', Maturin took the hand of his daughter', and both 
 went away together", leaving the heart of xMonsieur Passot 
 swelling with gratitude to heaven', and to them' as the agents of 
 its bounty. 
 
 At night Toinette arrived', according to promise', at the for- 
 est. She was delighted at the thought of her friend being no 
 longer exposed to the inclemency of the weather', and deprived 
 of the necessaries of life. They left the ruined cottage togeth- 
 er', traversed the paths of the wood in silence, and at last arri- 
 ved', without having been seen', at the mill. Here Monsieur 
 Passot was immediately shaved', and being dressed in a suit of 
 the miller's clothes', obtained the new name of " Nicholas'," and 
 took his seat at the table between Maturin' and his daughter. 
 A few glasses of good wine recruited his spirits', and he had 
 soon the pleasure of stretching his weary limbs on a comforta- 
 ble bed', after lying for six weeks exposed to the dew', and the 
 rain', upon the cold damp floor of the ruined cottage. 
 
 During the few succeeding days', wholesome and plentiful 
 food', and above alF, the tranquillity of his mind', served to re- 
 cruit the strength of the stranger ; and one morning he inform- 
 ed his good host of his previous adventures', and his melancholy 
 story. He had been denounced 1 ', he said', and condemned to 
 death/, without being permitted to speak', or being even asked 
 for a defence', by the revolutionary committee of the town of 
 Bressuiere',* where he resided. A friend who knew his dan- 
 ger', and to whom he had once shown a trifling kindness', gave 
 him information of his impending fate', in time to permit him to 
 make his escape', under the disguise of a beggar. During his 
 flight' he traversed each night the high-roads of the Depart- 
 ment', and during the day', lay concealed in the woods among 
 the lonely hills', where he happened to find himself. By these 
 means he had reached the forest near the mill', and had hid him- 
 self in the ruins where Toinette first discovered him. "But 
 
 * Pronounced, Bress-weer. 
 
 12* 
 
138 the reader's guide. 
 
 even here''," continued he', " I should soon have perished from 
 cold and exhaustion', had it not been for the arrival of your dear 
 child ; since the terror of falling into the hands of my enemies' 
 seldom permitted me to go beyond the walls of my retreat 1 ', and 
 I was fast sinking under the pains of hunger', when Toinette 
 came in time to render me assistance', and to save my life." 
 
 One morning soon after this conversation had taken place', 
 Toinette came running in', out of breath', to say that four sol- 
 diers', armed with sabres and muskets', and of a very ferocious 
 appearance', were approaching the mill from the high road. 
 
 Monsieur Passot eagerly inquired where he could hide him- 
 self. 
 
 " That would be impossible," said Maturin', " for if they 
 search the milF, as it is likely they will', they would be sure to 
 find you', and your fate would be inevitable. You must now 
 put a bold face on the matter'; summon up all your hardihood', 
 and leave it to me to deceive them." 
 
 Two minutes after', the soldiers entered the mill. " Good 
 morrow', citizen'," said they', striking Maturin on the shoulder', 
 " here we are', four worthy fellows', sadly fatigued with follow, 
 ing an aristocrat',* (the name given by the revolutionists to 
 those who supported the party of the government and the nobili- 
 ty',) who has unfortunately eluded our pursuit. Come'', what 
 can you give us to eat ?" 
 
 " The best in my house, to be sure'," replied the miller. " Go, 
 Toinette', put a clean napkin on the table, fetch down that piece 
 of ham' which was left from yesterday's dinner' ; and you'', 
 Nicholas', off' to the cellar', and bring up four bottles of the pri- 
 
 mest Burgundy' for these worthy citizens : quick', blockhead' !" 
 he added, pushing him rudely by the shoulder' ; and Monsieur 
 Passot hastened to do as he was directed. It took some minutes 
 to perform his errand', and on his re-appearance with the wine', 
 Maturin again seemed very angry with Nicholas for presuming 
 to make them wait so long. He appeared', in fact', ready to 
 strike him', and in such a passion', that the soldiers interfered 
 to appease him', and observed' that Nicholas seemed really an 
 honest sort of a fellow', though somewhat too much of a simple- 
 ton. 
 
 The miller seated himself at table beside them' ; pressed 
 them again and again to do honor to his provisions', and supplied 
 
 * Aristocrat denoted at that time in France one who favored a regular 
 government of king, nobles, and representatives; or even any govern.*, 
 ment in opposition to the misrule of usurpers. 
 
139 
 
 them plentifully with wine ; and then inquired what was passing 
 in the world', or what news they were charged with. 
 
 " War," said they', "goes on against all who oppose the pro- 
 gress of the Revolution. The prisons are still overflowing with 
 criminals', in spite of the daily execution of thousands', and we 
 are at this moment in pursuit of one of the most decided aristo- 
 crats inJFrance, — a man called Pas'sot', who lived at Bressuiere 
 and was condemned by the tribunal ; some traitor gave notice 
 of his sentence, and he escaped from the city' ; but we know 
 that he is at this moment not far distant from the spot where we 
 sit', and we are in hope of soon having him in our custody. — 
 There are five hundred crowns proclaimed as a reward for him', 
 which we are determined to earn if possible." They then asked 
 for another bottle of wine, and when they had finished it', they 
 prepared searching the mill. To this proceeding' the miller 
 offered no resistance ; but^, on the contrary', ordered Nicholas 
 to go for the keys, and to throw open all the doors in the 
 house. 
 
 When this was done, Toinette took the hand of her father', 
 and accompanied him through the mill ; every door was opened', 
 and the soldiers', having inspected every corner', were about to 
 retire, when one of them recollected that they had not searched 
 the cellar', where*', he said', a dozen of traitors might be con- 
 cealed. Nicholas was accordingly again summoned', and the 
 cellar was visited in due form. On coming up' they expressed 
 themselves perfectly satisfied ; they then drank another glass 
 of wine to the health of Robespierre', and departed well pleased 
 with the reception they had met with from the miller', his daugh- 
 ter', and the stupid Nicholas. 
 
 Maturin, however', began to fear that he could not long con- 
 tinue to shelter Monsieur Passot with equal security. He knew 
 that such visits as this 1 ' would be frequent ; and in some of 
 them he might be surprised' and discovered. He according- 
 ly pretended that he was going a journey of fifty leagues into 
 the country', and obtained a passport for himself and his ser- 
 vant. He set off in a few days' ; and the miller conducted 
 his friend in safety to the house of one of his brothers', who 
 lived at some distance from Bressuiere', and leaving him under 
 his protection', returned home to Toinette. 
 
 Here Monsieur Passot lived securely' till the termination of 
 the Revolution' ; when it was not difficult for him to prove his 
 innocence', and reclaim his property. 
 
 In his prosperity, however', he did not forget his former ben- 
 efactors. He returned to visit Maturin the miller', and justly 
 regarding Toinette as the preserver of his life', he undertook 
 
140 
 
 to have her educated at one of the best schools in Paris' ; 
 supplied her with masters of every description', and finally', 
 on the sudden death of her father', adopted her as his own 
 child, and took upon himself the charge of establishing her in 
 the world. 
 
LESSON XIX. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet, and three feet, alternately. 
 
 Morn on her rosy couch awoke', 
 
 Enchantment led the hour', 
 And mirth and music drank the dews' 
 
 That freshen'd Beauty's flower ; 
 Then from her bower of deep delight' 
 
 I heard a young girl sing, 
 " Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 
 
 For 'tis a holy thing." 
 
 The sun in noon-day heat rose high', 
 And on, with heaving breast', 
 
 I saw a weary pilgrim toil' 
 Unpitied and unblest ; 
 
 Yet still in trembling measures flow'd' 
 Forth from a broken string', 
 
 " Oh\ speak no ill of poetry', 
 For 'tis a holy thing." 
 
 'Twas night\ and Death the curtains drew' 
 
 'Mid agony severe, 
 While there a willing spirit went' 
 
 Home to a glorious sphere ; 
 Yet still it sigh'd', even when was spread' 
 
 The waiting Angel's wing', 
 " Oh, speak no ill of poetry', 
 
 For 'tis a holy thing." 
 
142 
 
 LESSON XX. 
 
 ATJRELIA AND THE SPIDER. A FABLE. 
 
 Iambic, four feet. 
 
 The muslin torn^, from tears of grief 
 In vain Aurelia sought relief; 
 In sighs and plaints she pass'd the day v ; 
 The tatter'd frock neglected lay' : 
 5. While busied at the weaving trade', 
 A spider heard the sighing maid', 
 And kindly stopping in a trice, 
 Thus offer'd', gratis', her advice : — 
 Turn', little girl', behold in me' 
 
 10. A stimulus to industry' ; 
 
 Compare your woes', my dear', with mine, 
 Then tell' me who should most repine : 
 This morning', ere you'd left your room', 
 The chambermaid's remorseless broom' 
 
 15. In one sad moment that' destroyed', 
 
 To build which', thousands were employ'd ! 
 The shock was great ; but as my life' 
 I saved in the relentless strife', 
 I knew lamenting was in vain', 
 
 20. So patient went to work again. 
 By constant work', a day or more' 
 My little mansion will restore' : 
 And if each tear which you have shed' 
 Had been a needle-full of thread 1 ", 
 
 25. If every sigh of sad despair' 
 
 Had been a stitch of proper care^, 
 Closed would have been the luckless rent', 
 Nor thus the day have been misspent." 
 
THE PAPER KITE. 143 
 
 LESSON XXI. 
 
 THE PAPER KITE. A FABLE. 
 
 Iambic ; four feet, with a short syllable sometimes added. 
 
 Once on a time a paper Kite' 
 Was mounted to a wondrous height' ; 
 Where, giddy with its elevation', 
 It thus expressed self-admiration' : — 
 
 5. " See how yon crowds of gazing people' 
 
 Admire my flight above the steeple' ; 
 
 How would they wonder', if they knew^ 
 
 All that a Kite', like me 1 ", could do' ? 
 
 Were I but free^, I'd take a flight', 
 10. And pierce the clouds beyond their sight' : 
 
 But', ah x ! like a poor prisoner bound', 
 
 My string confines me near the ground' ; 
 
 I'd brave the eagle's towering wing*', 
 
 Might I but fly without a string'." 
 15. It tugged and pulled', while thus it spoke', 
 
 To break the string' ; — at last it broke' ! 
 
 Deprived at once of all its stay' 
 
 In vain it tried to soar away' ; 
 
 Unable its own weight to bear', 
 20- It fluttered downward through the air' ; 
 
 Unable its own course to guide', 
 
 The winds soon plunged it in the tide'. 
 
 Oh' ! foolish Kite, thou had'st no wing', 
 
 How could'st thou fly without a string' ? 
 25. My heart replied', " O Lord', I see 
 
 How much the Kite resembles me ! 
 
 Forgetful' that by thee I standi 
 
 Impatient of thy ruling hand', 
 
 How oft I've wished to break the lines' 
 30. Thy wisdom for my lot assigns' ! 
 
 How oft indulged a vain desire 
 
 For something more^, or something higher' ! 
 
 And but for grace and love divine, 
 
 A fall' thus dreadful' had been mine." 
 
144 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON XXII. 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 Anapestic ; first foot often an iambus, or spondee. First, 
 third, and fourth lines have four feet each ; the second and fifth 
 have three each. 
 
 1 . My good little fellow', don't throw your ball there ; 
 
 You'll break neighbor's windows', I know'' ; 
 
 On the end of the house there is room', and to spare : 
 Go round'', you can have a delightful game there ^, 
 
 Without fearing for where you may throw. . 
 
 2. Harry thought he might safely continue his play N , 
 
 With a little more care than before : 
 So forgetful of all that his father could say', 
 As soon as he saw he was out of the way', 
 
 He resolved to have fifty throws more. 
 
 Already as far as to forty he rose, 
 
 And no mischief had happened at all' ; 
 One more, and one more, he successfully throws' ; 
 But when% as he thought', just arrived at the close, 
 
 In' popped his unfortunate ball. 
 
 3. Poor Harry stood frightened', and turning about', 
 
 Was gazing at what he had done ; 
 As the ball had popped in, so neighbor popped out\ 
 
 And with a good horsewhip' he beat him about', 
 Till Henry repented his fun. 
 
 4. When little folks think they know better than great h , 
 
 And what is forbidden them do 1 * ; 
 We must always expect to see, sooner or late, 
 That such wise little fools' have a similar fate — 
 
 And that one of the fifty goes through. 
 
THE SPIDER AND HIS "WIFE. 145 
 
 LESSON XXIII. 
 
 THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 Same measure as Lesson 22. 
 
 5. In a little dark crack half a yard from the ground', 
 
 An honest old spider resided : 
 So pleasant and snug', and convenient t'was found', 
 That his friends came to see it from many miles round' ; 
 
 It seemed for his pleasure provided. 
 
 Of the cares, and fatigues, and distresses of life, 
 
 This spider was thoroughly tired' : 
 So leaving those scenes of contention and strife, 
 His children all settled', he came with his wife, 
 
 To live in this cranny retired. 
 
 6. He thought that the little his wife would consume, 
 
 'Twould be easy for him'' to provide her ; 
 Forgetting he lived in a gentleman's room', 
 Where came every morning' a maid and a broom' — 
 
 Those pitiless foes to a spider. 
 
 7. For when', as sometimes it would chance to befall', 
 
 Just when his neat web was completed', 
 Brush' — came the great broom down the side of the wall', 
 
 And, perhaps, carried with it web', spider', and all', 
 He thought himself cruelly treated. 
 
 8. One day'', when their cup-board was empty and dry', 
 
 His wife, Mrs. Hairy leg Spinner', 
 Said to him, " Dear', go to the cobweb', and try', 
 If you can't find the leg*", or the wing of a fly', 
 
 As a bit of a relish for dinner. 
 
 9. Directly he went his long search to resume ; 
 
 For nothing he ever denied her' ; 
 Alas' ! little guessing his terrible doom' ; 
 Just then'' came the genileman into his room', 
 
 And saw the unfortunate spider. 
 13 
 
146 the reader's guide. 
 
 10. So while the poor fellow', in search of his pelf, 
 
 In the cobwebs continued to linger', 
 The gentleman reached a long cane from the shelf, 
 For certain good reasons best known to himself , 
 
 Preferring his stick * to his finger. 
 
 11. Then presently poking him down to the floor', 
 
 Not stopping at all to consider', 
 With one horrid crush the whole business was o'er' 
 The poor little spider was heard of no more 1 ', 
 
 To the lasting distress of his widow ! 
 
 LESSON XXIV. 
 poor donkey's epitaph. 
 
 Iambic. First and third lines contain four feet ; the second 
 and fourth, three feet. Trochees and spondees sometimes sub 
 stituted. 
 
 1. Down in this ditch poor Donkey lies', 
 
 Who jogged with many a load ; 
 And till the day death closed his eyes', 
 Browsed up and down the road. 
 
 2. No shelter had he for his head', 
 
 Whatever winds might blow v ; 
 A neighboring common was his bed', 
 Though dressed in sheets of snow. 
 
 3. In this green ditch he often strayed', 
 
 To nip the dainty grass' ; 
 And friendly invitations brayed' 
 To some more hungry ass. 
 
 4. Each market-day he jogged along' 
 
 Beneath the gardener's load'', 
 And brayed out many a Donkey's song' 
 To friends upon the road. 
 
A CHAFFINCH AND HIS MATE. 147 
 
 5. A tuft of grass', a thistle green', 
 
 Or cabbage leaf so sweet', 
 Were all the dainties he was seen' 
 For twenty years to eat. 
 
 6. And as for sport ^ — the sober soul' 
 
 Was such a steady Jack 1 ', 
 He only now and then would roll' 
 Heels upwards' on his back. 
 
 7. But all his sport', and dainties too, 
 
 And labors' now are o'er' ; 
 Last night so bleak a tempest blew', 
 He could withstand no more. 
 
 8. He felt his feeble limbs benumbed', 
 
 His blood was freezing slow' ; 
 And presently he tumbled plump v , 
 Stone dead upon the snow. 
 
 9. Poor Don v key v ! travellers passing by', 
 Thy cold remains shall see ; 
 And t'would be well', if all who die 
 
 Had worked as hard as thee.* 
 
 LESSON XXV. 
 
 A TALE. — A CHAFFINCH AND HIS MATE. 
 
 Iambic, same as last lesson. 
 
 1. In Scotland's realms, where trees are few', 
 
 Nor even shrubs abound, 
 But where, however bleak their view', 
 Some better things are found' ; 
 
 2. For husband there^, and wife 1 * may boast' 
 
 Their union undenl'd' ; 
 And false ones are as rare, almost', 
 As hedge rows in the wild ; 
 
 * Bad grammar ; — should be thou. 
 
148 the reader's guide. 
 
 3. In Scotland's realm', forlorn and bare, 
 
 This v hist'ry chanc'd of late'' — 
 This hist'ry' of a wedded pair^, 
 A Chaffinch and his Mate. 
 
 4. The spring drew near', each felt a breast' 
 
 With genial instinct filled' ; 
 
 They paired', and only wish'd a nest 1 ', 
 But found not where to build. 
 
 5. The heaths uncover'd', and the moors', 
 
 Except with snow and sleet', 
 Sea-beaten rocks' and naked shores', 
 Could yield them no retreat. 
 
 6. Long time a breeding place they sought', 
 
 Till both grew vex'd and tir'd' ; 
 At length a ship', arriving, brought' 
 The good so long desired. 
 
 7. A ship v ! Could such a restless thing' 
 
 Afford them place to rest 1 ' ? 
 
 Or was the merchant charged to bring' 
 The homeless birds a nest' ? 
 
 8. Hush ! — Silent^ hearers profit most' ! 
 
 This racer of the sea' 
 Prov'd kinder to them than the coast' ; 
 It serv'd them with a tree. 
 
 9. But such', a tree ! 'twas shaven deal' ; — 
 
 The tree they call a mast', 
 And had a hollow with a wheel', 
 Through which the tackle pass'd. 
 
 10. Within that cavity aloft' 
 
 Their roofless home they fixt' ; 
 Formed with materials neat and soft', 
 Bents', wool', and feathers' mix't. 
 
 11. Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor* 
 
 With russet specks bedight' ;•— 
 
THE CHAFFINCH AND HIS MATE. 149 
 
 The vessel weighs' — forsakes the shore, 
 And lessens to the sight. 
 
 12. The mother bird is gone to sea, 
 
 As she had chang'd her kind' ; 
 But goes the mate ? Far wiser he* 
 Is doubtless left behind'. 
 
 13. No' ! — Soon as from the shore he saw' 
 
 The winged mansion move, 
 He flew to reach it', by a law' 
 Of never-failing love ! 
 
 14. Then perching at his consort's side, 
 
 Was briskly borne along' ; 
 The billows and the blasts defied', 
 And cheered her with a song. 
 
 15. The seaman', with sincere delight', 
 
 His feather'd shipmate eyes', 
 
 Scarce less exulting in the sight', 
 
 Than when he tows a prize. 
 
 16. For seamen' much believe in signs', 
 
 And from a chance so new', 
 Each' some approaching good divines ; 
 And may his hopes be true ! 
 
 17. Hail' ! honored land' ! a desert', where' 
 
 Not even birds' can hide ; 
 Yet parent of this loving pair', 
 Whom nothing could divide. 
 
 18. And ye, who rather than resign' 
 
 Your matrimonial plan', 
 Were not afraid to plough the brine', 
 In company with man. 
 
 19. To whose lean country', much disdain' 
 
 We English often show' ; 
 Yet from a richer' nothing gain' 
 But wantonness and wo. 
 
 20. Be it your fortune', year by year', 
 
 The same resource to prove ; 
 13* 
 
150 
 
 And may ye', sometimes landing hereV 
 Instruct us how to love ! 
 
 LESSON XXVI. 
 
 THE FOX AND THE CROW. 
 
 J st, 2d, 4th and 5th lines have an iambus, and one anapest in 
 each ; the 3d and 6th lines are anapestic. 
 
 1. The fox and the crow', 
 In prose 1 ", I well know', 
 
 Many good little girls can rehearse ; 
 
 Perhaps it will tell' 
 
 Pretty nearly as well', 
 If we try the same fable in verse''. 
 
 2. In a dairy a crow^ 
 Having ventured to go, 
 
 Some food for her young ones to seek', 
 Flew up in the trees', 
 With a fine piece of cheese', 
 
 Which she joyfully held in her beak. 
 
 3. A fox' j that lived nigh', 
 To the tree saw her fly', 
 
 And to share in the prize made a vow ! 
 
 For having just dined', 
 
 He for cheese felt inclined'' ; 
 So he went and sat under the bough. 
 
 4. She t was cun^ning', he knew** ; 
 But so was he^j too', 
 
 And with flatt'ry/ adapted his plan ; 
 
 For he knew' if she'd speak', 
 
 It must fall from her beak x ; 
 S6, bowing politely', began' : 
 
THE FOX AND THE CROW. 151 
 
 5. " 'Tis a very fine day' ; 
 (Not a word did she say ;) 
 
 " The wind', I believe ma'm', is south ^ ; 
 
 A fine harvest for pease ;" 
 He then look'd^ at the cheese ; — 
 But the Crow' did'nt open her mouth. 
 
 6. Sly Reynard', not tired', 
 Her plumage admired' ; — 
 
 " How charm'ing ! how brilliant its hue ! 
 
 The voice must be fine' 
 
 Of a bird so divine' ; — 
 Ah' ! let' me just hear' it' — pray' do." 
 
 7. « Believe me', I long' 
 To hear a sweet songV 
 
 The silly crow foolishly tries'. 
 She scarce gave one squall, 
 
 When the cheese' she let falP, 
 And the fox', ran away with the prize. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 8. Ye innocent fair', 
 
 Of coxcombs beware', 
 To flattery never give ear ; 
 
 Try well each pretence, 
 
 And keep to plain sense, 
 And then ye have little to fear 
 
152 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 LESSON XXVII. 
 
 THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 
 
 Anapestic verse. 
 
 1. A Duck', who* had got such a habit of stuffing', 
 That all the day long she was panting and puffing', 
 And by every creature', who did her great crop see', 
 Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy', 
 
 2. One day, after eating a plentiful dinner', 
 
 With full twice as much as there should' have been in her' 
 While up to her eyes in the gutter a roking',f — 
 Was greatly alarmed, by the symptoms of choking. 
 
 5. Now there was an old fellow, much famed for discerning, 
 (A drake t who had taken a liking for learning',) 
 And high in repute with his feathery friends', 
 Was called Dr. Drake ;— for this doctor she sends. 
 
 4. In a hole of the dung hill' was Dr. Drake's shop', 
 Where he kept a few simples for curing the crop ; 
 Some gravel and pebbles, to help the digestion, 
 And certain famed plants of the Doctor's selection. 
 
 5. So taking a handful of comical things', 
 
 And brushing his topple' and pluming his wings', 
 And putting his feathers in apple-pie order', 
 Set out", to prescribe for the lady's disorder. 
 
 6. < Dear sir',' said the duck', with a delicate quack', 
 
 Just turning a little way round on her back', 
 And leaning her head on a stone in the yard', — 
 1 My case^, Dr. Drake', is exceedingly hard. 
 
 7. I feel so distended with whkP, and opprest', 
 
 So squeamish and faint', — such a load at my chest' ; 
 
 * It is improper to apply the pronoun who to irrational creatures » 
 instead of it, that, or which, should be used ; though it is admissible in a 
 ease like this if any where. 
 
 f A provincial, or low word;— not to be used. 
 
 
THE JACK DAW. 153 
 
 And day after day, I assure you it is v hard', 
 
 To suffer with patience' these pains in my gizzard.' 
 
 8. < Give me leave t , said the doctor', ' with medical look',' 
 As her flabby cold paw in his fingers he took ; — 
 
 'By the feel of your pulse' — your complaint', I've been 
 
 thinking', 
 Is caused by your habits of eating and drinking.' 
 
 9. ' O no, sir", believe me, ' the lady replied,' 
 
 (Alarmed for her stomach as well as her pride^,) 
 " I am sure ( it arises from nothing I eat^, 
 For I rather suspect I got wet in my feet." 
 
 10. " I've only been ro'king a bit in the gutter', 
 
 Where the cook had been pouring some cold melted butter', 
 And a slice of green cabbage, and scraps of cold meat, 
 Just a trifle or two — that I thought I could eat." 
 
 11. The doctor was just to his business proceeding', 
 By gentle emetics', a blister', and bleeding, 
 When all on a sudden she rolled on her side', — 
 Gave a horrible quac'kle — a struggle — and died ! 
 
 12. Her remains were interr'd in a neighboring swamp', 
 By her friends' with a great deal of funeral pomp ; 
 
 But I've heardj this v inscription her tombstone was put on', 
 Here lies Mrs. Duck, the notorious glutton.' 
 And all the young ducklings are brought by their friends', 
 To learn the disgrace in which gluttony ends. 
 
 LESSON XXVIII. 
 
 THE JACK DAW. 
 
 Iambic, with frequent use of trochees, and other short feet. 
 The third and sixth lines have three feet each ; the others, 
 four. 
 
 1. There is a bird, which', by his coat', 
 
 And by the harshness of his note' 
 
 Might be supposed a crow v ; 
 
154 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 A great frequenter of the church', 
 Where', bishop-like', he finds a perch', 
 And dormitory too. 
 
 2. Above the steeple shines a plate', 
 That turns, and turns, to indicate 
 
 From what point blows the weather'. 
 Look up^ — your brains begin to swim' ; 
 'Tis in the clouds — that' pleases him'' ; 
 
 He chooses it the rather'. 
 
 3. Fond of the speculative height', 
 Thither he wings his airy flight', 
 
 And thence securely sees' 
 The bustle and the raree show' 
 That occupy mankind below', 
 
 Secured and at his ease. 
 
 4. You think, no doubt', he sits and muses' 
 On future broken bones and bruises', 
 
 If he should chance to fall. 
 No ; not a single thought like that' 
 Employs his philosophic pate', 
 
 Or troubles it at ail. 
 
 5. He sees that this great roundabout' — 
 The world 1 ", with all its motley rout', 
 
 Church, army, physic, law', 
 Its customs, and its bus'nesses', 
 Is no concern at all of mV, 
 
 And says^ — what says he' ? — Caw\ 
 
 6. Thrice happy bird ' I, too, have seen' 
 Much of the vanities of men v ; 
 
 And, sick' of having seen them', 
 Would cheerfully these limbs resign' 
 For such a pair of wings as thine', 
 
 And such a head between them. 
 
A DESIRE TO PRAISE. 
 
 155 
 
 LESSON XXIX. 
 
 A DESIRE TO PRAISE. 
 
 Iambic, with changes to the trochaic measure ; — four feet ; 
 and three feet and a long syllable. 
 
 Propitious Son of God', to thee 
 
 With all my soul I bend my knee ; 
 
 My wish I send", my; want impart', 
 
 And dedicate my mind and heart. 
 5. For, as an absent parent's son', 
 
 Whose second year has only run', 
 
 When no protecting friend is near,' 
 
 Void of wit, and void of fear', Trochaic. 
 
 With things that hurt him fondly plays', 
 10. Or here' he falls', or there' he strays' ; — 
 
 So, should my soul's eternal guide' — 
 
 The sacred spirit', be denied', 
 
 Thy servant soon the loss would know, 
 
 And sink in sin, or run to woe. 
 15. O spirit'! bountifully kind', 
 
 Warm v , possess', and filF my mind ; Trochaic* 
 
 Disperse my sins with light divine', 
 
 And raise the flames of love with thine. 
 
 Before thy pleasures', rightly priz'd', 
 20. Let wealth and honor be despis'd', 
 
 And let the Father's glory be' 
 
 More dear than life itself to me. 
 
 Sing' of Jesus', Virgins', sing' Trochaic. 
 
 Him' your everlasting King ; " « 
 
 25. Sing' of Jesus', cheerful youth', — " " 
 
 Him' the God of love and truth ; " « 
 
 Write and raise a song divine', 
 Or come', and hear', and borrow mine. 
 Son^ eternal' ! — Word^ Supreme' — 
 30. Who made the universal frame' — 
 
 Heav'n, and all its shining sho"* 
 Earth', and all it holds below', 
 
 Iambic. 
 Trochaic. 
 
 Iambic. 
 Trochaic. 
 
 * Three feet, and one additional long syllable. 
 
156 
 
 THE READER S GUIDE, 
 
 Bow' with mercy, bow' thine ear', 
 With me sing thy praises here. 
 
 35. Son^ eternal !— ever blest', 
 
 Resting on the Father's breast', 
 Whose tender love for all provides', 
 Whose pow'r over all presides', 
 Bow' with pity', bow' thine ear', 
 
 40. While we sing thy praises here. 
 
 Trochaic. 
 
 Iambic. 
 Trochaic. 
 
 LESSON XXX. 
 
 ELM TREE-HiLL ; OR, DO NOT MEDDLE WITH WHAT DOES 
 NOT BELONG- TO YOU. 
 
 I love to tell a cheerful tale 
 
 In happy-hearted mood' ; 
 Come, read it with a willing mind', 
 
 For it may do thee good ! 
 
 About twenty years ago there lived a singular gentleman in 
 the old Hall among the Elm Trees. He was about threescore 
 years of age, very rich', and somewhat odd in many of his 
 habits', but for generosity and benevolence he had no equal. 
 
 No poor cottager stood in need of comforts which he was not 
 ready to supply ; no sick man or woman languished for want 
 of his assistance ; and not even a beg'gar', unless a known im- 
 postor', went empty-handed from the Hall. 
 
 The sick he sooth'd', the hungry fed', 
 
 Bade care and sorrow fly', 
 And loved to raise the downcast head' 
 
 Of friendless poverty. 
 
 Now it happened that the old gentleman wanted a boy to 
 wait upon him at table, and to attend him in different ways ', for 
 he was very fond of young people. But, much as he liked the 
 society of the young', he had a great aversion to that curiosity 
 in which many young people are apt to indulge. He used to 
 say' " The boy who will peep v into a drawer', will be tempted 
 to take something out of it' ; and he who will steal a penny' in 
 his youth' will steal a pound N in his manhood." 
 
 This disposition to repress evil', as well as to encourage good 
 conduct', formed a part of his character' ; for though of a cheer- 
 
ELM TREE HALL. 157 
 
 £ul temper', and not given to severity', he never would pass over 
 a fault till it was acknowledged and repented of. 
 
 No sooner was it known that the old gentleman was in want 
 of a servant', than twenty applications were made for the situa- 
 tion' ; but he determined not to engage any boy until he had in 
 some way ascertained that he did not possess a curious', prying 
 disposition. 
 
 It was Monday morning that seven lads', dressed in their 
 •Sunday clothes, with bright and happy faces', made their ap- 
 pearance at the Hair, each of them desirous to obtain the situa- 
 tion they applied for. Now the old gentleman, being of a sin- 
 gular disposition', had prepared a room in such a way that he 
 might easily know if any of the young people who applied to be 
 his servant were given to meddle unnecessarily with things 
 around them', or to peep into cupboards and drawers. He took 
 care that the lads', who were then at Elm Tree Hall', should be 
 shown into this room' one after another. 
 
 And first', James Turner was sent into the room', and told 
 that he would have to wait a little ; so James sat down on a 
 chair near the door. For some time he was very quiet', and 
 looked about him ; but there seemed to be so many curious 
 things in the room', that, at last', he got up to peep at them. 
 
 On the table was placed a dish cover', and James wanted sad- 
 ly to know what was under it', but he felt afraid of lifting it up. 
 Bad habits are strong things' ; and as James was of a curious 
 disposition', he could not withstand the temptation of taking one 
 peep ; so he lifted up the cover. 
 
 This turned out to be a sad affair' ; for under the dish cover 
 was a heap of very light feathers' ; part of the feathers', drawn 
 up by the current of air', flew about the room', and James', in 
 his fright', putting down the cover hastily', puffed the rest of 
 them off the table. 
 
 What was to be done' 1 James began to pick up the feath- 
 ers', one by one ; but the old gentleman', who was in the ad- 
 joining room', hearing a scuffle', and guessing the cause of it', 
 entered the room to the consternation of James Turner', who 
 was very soon dismissed', as a boy who had not principle 
 enough to resist even a slight temptation. 
 
 When the room was once more arranged', Thomas Hawker 
 was placed there until such time as he should be sent for. No 
 sooner was he left to himself, than his attention was attracted 
 by a plate of fine ripe cherries. Now Thomas was uncom- 
 monly fond of cherries*, and he thought that it would be impos- 
 sible to miss one cherry among so many. He looked' and 
 
 14 
 
158 the reader's guide. 
 
 longed', and longed' and looked', for some time*, and just as he 
 had got off his seat to take one', he heard', as he thought', a 
 foot coming to the door' ; but no, it was a false alarm. Taking 
 fresh courage, he went cautiously and took a very fine cherry', 
 for he was determined to take but one^, and put it into his 
 mouth. It was excellent' ; and then he persuaded himself that 
 he ran no great risk in taking another' ; this he did', and hasti- 
 ly popped it into his mouth. 
 
 Now the old gentleman had placed a few artificial' cherries 
 at the top of the others', filled with cayenne pepper' ; one of 
 these Thomas had unfortunately taken', and it made his mouth 
 smart and burn most intolerably. The old gentleman heard 
 him cough'mg', and knew very well' what was the matter. The 
 boy who would take what did not belong to him', if no more 
 than a cherry', was not the boy for him''. Thomas Hawker 
 was sent about his business without delay', with his mouth al- 
 most as hot as if he had put a burning coal into it. 
 
 William Parkes was next introduced into the room', and left 
 to himself; but he had not been there two minutes', before he 
 began to move from one place to another. He was of a bold', 
 resolute temper', but not overburdened with principle, for if he 
 could have opened every cupboard', closet', and drawer in the 
 house, without being found out', he would have done it directly. 
 Having looked round the room', he noticed a drawer to the ta- 
 ble h , and made up his mind to peep' therein' ; but no sooner did 
 he lay hold of the drawer knob' than he set a large bell a ring- 
 ing', which was concealed under the table. The old gentle- 
 man immediately answered the summons', and entered the 
 room. William was so startled by the sudden ringing of the 
 bell', that all his impudence could not support him' ; he looked 
 as though any one might knock him down with a feather. The 
 old gentleman asked him if he had rung the bell because he 
 wanted any thing' 1 William was much confused', and stam- 
 mered, and tried to excuse himself, but all to no purpose, for 
 it did not prevent him from being ordered off the premises. 
 
 Samuel Jones was then shown into the room by an old stew- 
 ard' ; and being of a cautious disposition', he touch'ed nothing', 
 but only looked at the things about him. At last' he saw that 
 a closet door was a little open', and thinking it would be impos- 
 sible for any one to know that he had opened it a little more, 
 he very cautiously opened it an inch farther', looking down at 
 the bottom of the door' that it might not catch against any thing 
 and make a noise. Now, had he looked at the top^, instead of 
 the bottom', it might have been better for him', for to the top of 
 the door was fastened a plug which rilled up the hole of a small 
 
ELM TREE HALL. 159 
 
 barrel of shot. He ventured to open the door anoth'er inch', 
 and then another, till the plug being pulled out of the barrel', 
 the leaden shot began to pour out at a strange rate ; at the bot- 
 tom of the closet was placed a tin pan', and the shot falling up- 
 on this pan' made such a clatter that Samuel was half frighten- 
 ed out of his senses. 
 
 The old gentleman soon came into the room to inquire what 
 was the matter', and there he found Samuel nearly as pale as a 
 sheet. Samuel was soon dismissed. 
 
 It now came to the turn of Harry Roberts to be put into the 
 room. The other boys had been sent to their homes by differ- 
 ent ways', and no one knew what the experience of the others 
 had been in the room of trial. 
 
 On the table stood a small round box with a screw top' to it v , 
 and Harry thinking that it contained something curious', could 
 not be easy without unscrewing the top*' ; but no sooner did he 
 do this'', than out bounced an artificial snake', full a yard long', 
 and fell upon his arm. He started back and uttered a scream', 
 which brought the old gentleman to his elbow. There stood 
 Harry with the bottom of the box in one hand', the top' in the 
 other', and the snake on the ground. " Come, come," said the 
 old gentleman', handing him out of the room', " one' snake is 
 quite enough to have in the house at a time ; therefore the soon- 
 er you are gone' the better' ;" with that he dismissed him' with- 
 out waiting a moment for his reply. 
 
 Roger Ball next entered the room', and being left alone, soon 
 began to amuse himself in looking at the curiosities around him. 
 
 Roger was not only curious and prying', but dishonest tod, 
 and observing that the key was left in the drawer of a book- 
 case, he stepped on tiptoe in that direction' ; but the moment 
 he touched the key' he fell flat on the floor. The key had a 
 wire fastened to it' which communicated with an electrical ma- 
 chine', and Harry received such a shock' as he was not likely 
 to forget'. No sooner did he sufficiently recover himself to 
 walk', than he was told to leave the house', and leave other peo- 
 ple to lock' and unlock' their own drawers. 
 
 The last boy was John Grove, and though he was left in the 
 room full twenty minutes', he never, during that time', stirred 
 from his chair. John had eyes in his head as well as the oth- 
 ers', but he had more integrity in his heart' ; neither the dish 
 cover', the cherries', the drawer knob', the closet door', the 
 round box', nor the key', tempted him to rise from his seat' ; 
 and the consequence was', that', in half an hour after', he was 
 engaged in the service of the old gentleman at Elm Tree Hall. 
 
 John Grove followed his good old master to his grave, and 
 
160 the reader's guide. 
 
 received a large legacy for his upright conduct in his service. 
 Read this', ye busy', meddling', peeping', pilfering' young peo- 
 ple', and imitate the example of John Grove. 
 
 LESSON XXXI. 
 
 THE BASKET OF TOOLS ; OR WE MUST ALL DO OUR PART. 
 
 A joiner's boy', going to his work', carried with him a basket 
 of tools' ; and as he walked rather quick, it occasioned some 
 little commotion among the sharp-edged instruments. The con- 
 sequent accidental rubs which took place as they encountered 
 each other' at length excited an irritation of spirit', and the in- 
 convenience of this unavoidable jostling soon proceeded to raise 
 a voluntary purpose to injure one another', under the pretence 
 of retaliation for the knocks', and scratches', and cuts' which 
 were inflicted from the deplorable circumstances in which they 
 were placed. 
 
 " Pray, brother', keep your teeth to yourself V said a Hatch- 
 et to a Saw.' At the same time bouncing up', he gave him a 
 pretty sharp cut on the handle^, which making him strike a 
 File with some violence that lay under him', forced its rough 
 side against the point of a Gimblet' ; and whilst itself felt the 
 hurt/ it drove the handle into the box of a Plane, which it 
 knocked out of its place' and stuck fist therein, 
 
 " What are you all about' ?" said the Plane ; " do you see 
 what a situation you have put me into ? What is to become 
 now of your" clumsy operations', if you are without the finish- 
 ing touch of my ability' ? What sort of work will you look like, 
 do you think' ?" 
 
 " I think'," said the Saw', " that we can do perfectly well with- 
 out your j insignificant help. What do you do towards the 
 forming of the things we are employed in' ? Whatever it be, V 
 
 am the most important' ; the length and breadth of all things 
 are determined by my' power', and each part made to suit the 
 other." 
 
 " You boast yourself too much'', Mr. Saw'," said the Hatch- 
 et. " Who chopped down the tree in the forest^, and lopped 
 off the superfluous branches 1 ', and prepared the trunks before 
 
 you could have a single plank'' to saw' ? Such' conceit' indeed' * 
 
THE BASKET OP TOOLS. 161 
 
 forgetting the one that goes before' and provides all for your 
 after works." 
 
 " Besides," said the File, " I think T have some right to talk 
 
 about what fits the joints' and smoothes the edges." 
 
 " You all forget us," said the little Gimblet and Pricker ; 
 " we are not to be despised 1 ', though we are little : we are ne- 
 cessary'. What sort of work would you make, do you think', 
 if you should begin to hammer or screw without our help to 
 prepare the way' ? Tell me now', you company of nails 1 ', what 
 splitting and tearing would happen', if you were driven in with- 
 out preparation ?" 
 
 " It is not we," answered the nails', " who split' and tear' the 
 
 wood' ; it is that clumsy headed hammer' that comes without 
 reason' or care, and knocks us on the head', and drives us in', 
 whether we will or not'." 
 
 Thus they talked in confusion and anger', each assuming 
 consequence to himself, or throwing blame on the other. 
 
 The Hammer made no reply', but snug down in the bottom 
 of the basket', kept himself quiet and listened to the affray.' 
 
 At length the boy reached the workshop', where the master 
 was waiting for him. 
 
 " What has made you so long in coming', boy' ? Did I not 
 tell you that you should make that box', and that you should 
 come in time ? You know it is wanted this evening' ; and if you 
 are idle you will make bungling work of it. Here, take that 
 bit of rough wood' ; it is a good tough bit of a tree which I 
 chopped down with my own hands in the Squire's park ; I 
 know it is a tough one', for if I had not had a good Hatchet', I 
 should never have got it down." 
 
 As the boy set down his basket to prepare for his work', and 
 all was still within', the company there had time to listen to 
 what was going forward in the shop' ; and the Hatchet felt no 
 small degree of self-complacence when he heard himself thus 
 unexpectedly acknowledged as a first instrument. 
 
 " Now' " continued the master', " take your Hatchet, and 
 first chop off these knobby lumps here." 
 
 " Did I not tell you," said the Hatchet', as the boy opened 
 his basket to take him out', "did I not tell you, that none of you 
 
 could do without me ?" 
 
 " A clumsy bit of goods it must need be'," said the Saw', " to 
 require your help'." 
 
 " Ay', indeed'," said the Plane', " as if I could not put all to 
 
 14* 
 
162 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 rights' and smooth away all the lumps which the Hatchet 
 leaves'", as well as the ragged roughness you will leave, Mr. 
 Saw." 
 
 By this time the Hatchet was in the boy's hand and applied 
 to its use ; sharply it cut', to show what it could do. 
 
 " Stay', stay'," said the master', " take that knob* off closer', 
 or else when you come to divide it across just there' you will 
 give your Savv^ double work' and yourself" too ; it is hard to 
 saw through a knot : besides,' as it must be planed on both, 
 sides', the Plane will jut against this knot'" and, it maybe', snip 
 the edge' ; it will be almost as bad as a nail head' !" 
 
 " Do you hear now 1 ", you Saw and Plane ? I will do my work 
 as I should do, not so much to do you good, as to show you what 
 I can' do!" 
 
 The block of wood was now pretty well trimmed', and the 
 boy', thinking that he might rest a little, threw down the Hatch- 
 et' and stood still. 
 
 " What are you idling for', boy' ? Did I not tell you that there 
 was no time to lose' 1 Will chopping with your Hatch'et' make 
 
 the box'? Quicken your motions', and take your Saw', and 
 saw it into six' slices like bits of plank'." 
 
 In a tone of sarcastic contempt', the Saw said', as the boy 
 took him out of the basket', — " Can cutting with your Hatchet' 
 
 make the box' ?" 
 
 Soon was the Saw put to its use, and slice after slice of the 
 plank was cut and laid in readiness. And the boy', now for- 
 ward to go on with his job', was beginning to see how he would 
 put it together. 
 
 " What are you doing', you jumbling lad' ? What sort of a 
 box', now, do you think it would be', if you made it up in this 1 " 
 rough 1 " form 1 " 1 Do you see how the Saw has torn and jagged 
 
 the board' ? Where is your Plane' ? Go to work' and plane 
 it as smooth as a looking glass." 
 
 The Plane was then taken', and as it begun to pass ove rthe 
 Saw's rough work', it seemed to whistle with delight'', and to 
 repeat', " Make it as smooth as a looking-glass." 
 
 " There," said the master', sliding his hand over the boards', 
 " that' is something like — now you may go on'. Measure your 
 boards for bottom', top', sides', and ends', and then divide them 
 with your Saw." 
 
 * Knob, generally, but incorrectly pronounced in conversation as if 
 spelled nub. 
 
THE BASKET OF TOOLS. 163 
 
 " Ah', ah', said the Saw', " will planing make the box' ?" 
 The parts were then divided', and the boy thinking that all 
 
 must be ready', expected to put it together. 
 
 " See, see, what is to become of these ragged edges' ? Do 
 
 you see how rough the Saw has left them' 1 will it suit the 
 
 smooth inside and outside to leave them so 1 * ? Take your File 
 
 and smooth these top edges well." 
 
 The File now rose into self consequence', as he was taken to 
 put on the finishing smoothing. 
 
 " Now then v , boy', begin to put together." 
 
 The boy began', and taking a long Nail and the Hammer', 
 was about to drive it in% when the master seized his arm to stop 
 him. 
 
 " Ott', ott', fellow' !* A pretty job you will make at last ! do 
 you not know that you will split the board all to pieces', if you 
 drive your Nails without making a way first with the Pricker' ? 
 Here," he continued', taking out the Pricker', " make a hole 
 here ; feel' that it goes through to the board which it is to join', 
 and then' drive the Nail." The boy did so', and all the nails 
 
 went in smoothly and easily' ; and he drove them to the head 
 without injuring the boards. 
 
 " Now then', how will you put on the lid^ ? Here, take this 
 pair of hinges and screw them to it'." The boy began to do as 
 he was bid. 
 
 " What are you doing now** ; will you split that board with 
 
 Screws r ? Take the Gimblet' pnd prepare the way with it'; 
 then put in the Screws', and take the Screw-driver and screw 
 them in to the very head." The boy obeyed', and the master 
 said', 
 
 " There now', there is a box at last' ! A rough made one af- 
 ter all', though you'' will think much of it, I suppose. Learn 
 
 the use of your Tools'; what one cannot do, another can. What 
 
 good do they do you', if they only lie in your basket' ? And 
 remember', they cannot make a box' unless you make use' of 
 them. 
 
 " There they are all together' ; you wanted them all' ; and 
 when you get a little more experience, you will find out before 
 you can make a thing as it should be', that you will want many 
 more instruments', and many years' practice." 
 
 The Hammer', which was a sensible downright' honest fel- 
 
 * Not feller. 
 
164 the reader's guide. 
 
 low', had not listened to the first quarrel in the basket', nor to 
 the master's words' without application' ; and he thus addressed 
 the Tools : 
 
 " Brethren', for we must all call ourselves brethren', you see 
 that none of us have any reason to boast ourselves one' against 
 another', and also of how little use we are alone. We must all 
 do our part', or there will be no work for us to share. And we 
 must also have some one who', like another instrument^, will 
 put us all to our uses. He, too, without the Master's teaching', 
 seems but a bungler. Where, or what, would have been the 
 box', without one' who knew how to use both boy v and tools ?" 
 
 LESSON XXXII. 
 
 the evil of conceit; or the mender of cracked 
 earthen ware. 
 
 " Edward'," said a prudent father to his son', who in the pride 
 of over-strained politeness was tripping conceitedly along with 
 a cane in one hand', and his hat borne up in the other", " return', 
 and for a few moments lend a listening ear to my words." 
 
 " Whatever may be our natural' or acquired' accomplish- 
 ments', conceit spoils them all. It disgusts the sensible, and ex- 
 poses its possessor to the derision' even of fools. It throws a 
 shade over talents not contemptible in themselves' ; it checks 
 the progress of improvement' ; it shuts up the avenues of 
 knowledge, and is an eternal bar to social regard' and solid 
 fame. 
 
 " He who is very vain of his own acquirements at an early 
 period of life', may certainly be pronounced very shallow' ; for 
 he either betrays his ignorance or his folly. He feels himself 
 incapable of ascending the hill of knowledge by his own ad- 
 dress', or he grovels at the bottom', and in his limited sphere of 
 vision', sees nothing he cannot reach', or does not already pos- 
 sess. The more enlarged our conceptions', and the higher our 
 views are carried', the more sensible we become of our wants 
 and imperfections', and the Jess we presume on our present at- 
 tainments in virtue or learning'. Conceit', however', is all-suf- 
 ficient' ; and as it blinds the mind to a sense of defects', so it 
 obstructs the possibility of their removal. 
 
 " But let a tale instruct', if reasoning' should fail. 
 
 "A mender of cracked earthen- ware had many years been 
 
THE EVIL OF CONCEIT. 165 
 
 settled in a certain capital town', and had just gained celebrity 
 for his ingenuity', industry', and success. He could alter the 
 spout of a bad-pouring tea-pot', cement a delicate tea-cup', or a 
 glass tumbler', and sometimes he could line a crazy pitcher 
 with such art and effect', that it was rendered almost as good 
 as new. 
 
 " Business flowed in upon him apace ; he was never idle ; 
 and as accidents will often happen to brittle materials', he was 
 never unemployed. He became respectable, and began to grow 
 rich. 
 
 " He had a favorite son' whom he wished to bring up to the 
 same business. He early taught him the whole history of ce- 
 ments' and rivets', of simple' and compound' fractures in wedge- 
 wood and queen wares', glass' and china, of scouring', anneal- 
 ing', joining', &c. The lad profited by his fathers' instructions', 
 and was likely', in due time', with sufficient practice', to un- 
 derstand his business very well. It is seldom, however', that 
 people are satisfied with their situation', and hence their misery 
 and disappointment. 
 
 " The old cobbler of earthen ware' was desirous that his son 
 should know all the new mysteries of the trade. He sent him 
 to the metropolis to profit by the instructions of the most emi- 
 nent artisans in his line. Now it is well known', that in the me- 
 tropolis' every one follows a separate branch of business', and 
 has a peculiar method of his own. The lad had several artists 
 to attend ; each was full of his own importance', and condemned 
 the practice of his brethren. 
 
 " The novice imbibed all their discordant sentiments', with- 
 out giving himself the trouble to reflect whether they were 
 founded in reason', or sanctioned by experience. One taught 
 him to scour out pitchers by a new process' ; another', to mend 
 tea-pots by a peculiar cement'; a third', to rivet bread-baskets 
 and cups by a mode unknown in the country. 
 
 The men he studied under' were adroit enough in their re- 
 spective little walks' ; but they had no notion of the general bu- 
 siness. 
 
 The young mender of earthen ware, however', soon thought 
 himself so wise 1 ', and became so much a slave to the opinions of 
 his masters', that he despised all the mysteries he had learned 
 from his father', and fancied himself the first genius of the craft. 
 
 " He returned to the country', full of himself and his ac- 
 quirements' ; he boasted of the difficult jobs he had performed', 
 and the wonders he had seen' ; ridiculed the modes of opera- 
 tion he had originally been taught', and nearly staggered the 
 faith of some who had grown veterans in the trade. His fa- 
 
166 the reader's guide. 
 
 ther,' too', thought him wiser than himself", and often stood in 
 mute astonishment to hear him talk of cementing cups which 
 had been broken into a hundred pieces,' of adding a handle 
 to one utensil', and a spout' to another. 
 
 " Talking', however', was all that he had yet v performed' ; 
 but his vanity and conceit were immense', and he longed to ex- 
 hibit his skill. Some friends of his father were willing to trust 
 him with a job' — and thought he might be a prodigy ; and it is 
 even said that cooks' were willing to have some things broken' 
 that they might have the pleasure of seeing him make them as 
 good as they were when new. 
 
 " In attempting, however', to mend a slight crack in a cream 
 pot by a new discovery', he let it slip through his fingers', and 
 spoiled a whole set of tea-table equipage. In scouring out a 
 jar that had become crusted with mince-pies and sweetmeats', 
 he unfortunately made a hole on the side' ; the spout of a ves- 
 sel that wanted only some little repairs', he quite broke off by his 
 bungling', and sent it home with a tin tube. Other accidents 
 happened in his hands' ; but he was still equally conceited', and 
 proud' of the secrets he had learned. His failings he always 
 ascribed to causes not in his power to prevent' ; they might 
 have happened to the most knowing of the craft' ; the materi- 
 als he had to work upon' were bad'', or the common tools' were 
 improper. 
 
 " At last his father saw through his shallow pretensions,' 
 and found that business was failing from his presumption. 
 
 " John'," said he', u I thought you might have gained some 
 improvement in town/ and therefore I was at the expense of 
 putting you under the best masters in the trade' ; but I find that 
 you have only gained conceit', which teaches you to des- 
 pise others/ and will infallibly make you despised. My cus- 
 tomers will not submit to your new tangled experiments. If 
 you really know any valuable discoveries in the craft', show 
 them by your practice' ; but never boast of them. Believe^ 
 me,' one ounce' of practice is worth a pound' of theory. It is 
 not what you think'' you know', but what you can actu- 
 ally perform', that will make you a good mender of earthen- 
 ware', or a wise man. Mind' me', leave vanity and conceit', 
 and stick to experience,' or you will lose the business of the 
 old established shop', and ruin your own character." 
 
 We are not told what effect this judicious advice had upon 
 him ; nor do we know what influence this story had upon Ed- 
 ward', whose importance was so much increased by his new 
 hat and shining cane. Vanity and conceit are contemptible' 
 wherever they are found. 
 
WEALTH AND FASHION. 167 
 
 LESSON XXXIII. 
 
 WEALTH AND FASHION. 
 
 "What a pity it is," said Caroline, throwing aside her book', 
 "that we are born under a republican government !" 
 
 " Upon my wordy' said her brother Horace', " that is a patri- 
 otic observation' for an American"' 
 
 Q', I know 1 ',' replied the sister', ' that it is not a popular 1 " one' ; 
 we must all join in the cry of liberty and equality', and bless 
 our stars that we have neither kings nor emperors to rule over 
 us', and that our first audible squeak was republican. If we 
 don't join 1 * in the shout', and hang our hats on hickory trees or 
 liberty poles', we are considered unnatural monsters. For my" 
 
 part', I am tired of it', and I am determined to say what I think. 
 I hate republicanism' ; I hate liberty and equality' ; and I don't 
 
 hesitate to declare', that I am for a monarchy. You may 
 
 laugh, but I would say it at the stake'." 
 
 " Bravo !" exclaimed Horace ; " why you have almost run 
 yourself out of breath'', Cara'. ■* you deserve to be prime 
 minister to the kingV 
 
 " You mistake',' replied she with dignity', " I have no wish 
 to mingle in political broils', not even if I could be as renowned 
 as Pitt^ or Fox'' ; but I must say, I think our equality' is odious. 
 
 What do you'' think'? To-day the new chamber-maid put her 
 head into the door, and said', " Caroline' ! your marnV' wants 
 you'" 
 
 " Ex' cellent," said Horace', clapping his hands, and laugh- 
 ing', " I suppose if ours'' were a monarchical government', she 
 would have bent one knee to the ground', or saluted your little 
 foot', before she spoke.' 
 
 ' No', Horace', you know there are no such forms as those', 
 
 except in the papal dominions'. I believe his holiness the Pope', 
 
 requires such a ceremony'." 
 
 " Perhaps you'' would like to be a Pope' ?" 
 
 * Abbreviation for Caroline. 
 
168 the reader's guide* 
 
 " No v ! I am no Roman Catholic." 
 
 " May I ask your highness' what 1 ' you would like to be' ?" 
 
 " I should like," said she', glancing at the glass', " 1 should 
 like to be a countess'." 
 
 " You are moderate' in your ambition' ; a countess', now a 
 days', is the fag end of nobility.'" 
 
 "O v ! but it sounds so delightfully' 1 '" — " The young countess' 
 Caroline !" 
 
 " If sound 4 " is all', you shall have" that pleasure ; we will call 
 you the young Countess Caroline'." 
 
 " That would be mere burlesque, Horace, and would make 
 me ridiculous'." 
 
 " There V replied Horace ; " nothing can be more inconsis- 
 tent for us than aiming at titles." 
 
 " For us. I grant you," replied Caroline, " but if they were 
 hereditary', if we had been born 5 ' to them', if they came to us 
 through belted knights', and high-born dames', then we might 
 be proud to wear them'. I never shall cease to regret that I 
 
 was not born 5 ' under a monarchy." 
 
 " You seem to forget''," said Horace, " that all are not lords 1 ' 
 
 and laddies' in the royal dominions'. Suppose your first squeak* 
 as you call it', should have been among the plebeians' ;* suppose 
 it should have been your lot' to crouch'' and bend", or be trod- 
 den' under foot" by some titled personage, whom, in your heart 1 ' 
 you despised ; what then' ?" 
 
 " You may easily suppose, that I did not mean to take those 
 
 chances'. No, I meant to be born among the higher 1 " ranks." 
 
 <; Your own reason must tell you' that all" cannot be born 
 among the higher ranks', for then the lower ones' would be 
 wanting', which constitute the comparison'. Now'', Caroline', 
 we come to the very point. Is it not better to be born under a 
 government', in which there is the extreme neither of high' nor 
 low" ; where one" man cannot be raised pre-eminently' over 
 another' ; and where our nobility consists of talent^ and virtue?" 
 " That sounds very patriotic', brother'," said Caroline', with 
 
 a laugh ; " but I am inclined to think' that wealth' constitutes 
 our' nobifity', and the right' of abusing' each other', our liber- 
 ty'." 
 
 " You are as fond of aphorisms as ever Lavater was," repli- 
 ed Horace', good humoredly v ; " but they are not always true." 
 
 " I will just ask you'," returned she, "if our rich men, who 
 
 * Pronounced plebee-ans. 
 
THE HUNTERS OF THE PRAIRIE. 169 
 
 ride in their own carriages', who have fine houses', and who 
 count by millions, are not ourgreut men?" 
 
 " They have all the greatness that money can buy' ; but this 
 is a very limited one " 
 
 "In my opinion," said Caroline, "money is power." 
 
 " You mistake," returned Horace ; " money may buy a 
 temporary power', but talent^ is power itself; and when united 
 to vir'tue, a God'-like pow'er, one before which the mere man 
 of millions' quails. No, give me talents', health' and unwaver- 
 ing principle, and I will not ask for wealthy but I will carve my 
 own way ; and depend upon it', wealth 1 ' will be honorably mine." 
 " Well', Horace, I am sure I heartily wish you the posses- 
 sion of all together', — talent', principle, and wealth'. Really', 
 without flattery', the two first you have ; and the last', accord- 
 ing to your own idea, will come when you beckon to it'. Now 
 I can tell you, that I feel as determined as you do, to " carve 
 my own way." I see you smile^, but I have always believed 
 that we could accomplish what we steadily will. ^Depend' upon 
 it', the time is not distant, when you shall see me in possession 
 of all that' rank which any one can obtain in our plebeian coun- 
 try." 
 
 LESSON XXXIV. 
 
 THE HUNTERS OF THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 The night had covered the earth with a thin robe of snow 
 As the morning dawned', we saw a deer straining across the 
 prairie, as if urged by some imminent peril. He went at full 
 bounds, and looked not behind. For a long time we watched 
 his progress' ; and though he flew onward with great rapidity', 
 such was the vast level over which he passed', that after a 
 while he seemed rather to creeps than run'. By degrees he 
 dwindled in size, till he appeared but a speck. At length he 
 reached the hills', which lay like a flight of steps' at the foot of 
 the Rocky Mountains ; and', as he ascended them', he seemed 
 an insect crawling over a sheet of white paper. 
 
 Scarcely was he lost to view, when a pack of eight wolves 
 of the prairie were seen on his track', speeding forward with 
 that eagerness which characterizes the race.. Two were in ad- 
 vance of the rest', with their noses upon the ground'' ; yet pro. 
 15 
 
170 THE READER S GUIDE. 
 
 ceeding with a directness', expressive at once of assurance and 
 determination. The rest followed, as if they placed implicit re- 
 liance upon their leaders. On' they went', and long before 
 the3 r reached the mountains', they were lost to our view. 
 
 It was a scene that suggested a long train of musings. One 
 might have fancied' that peace would hold her reign over the 
 solitude, as yet disturbed by no intrusive footsteps of man. Far 
 away was the ocean ; far away the busy marts along its bor- 
 der', whose bosoms', like the fretted sea, are agitated with the 
 surges of contending billows. Before us was the spotless 
 prairie, untouched and unsullied', pure with a mantle thrown 
 over it from heaven. Yet here were things to remind us of 
 
 scenes which are witnessed by human society. There was, 
 indeed, no buying and selling' ; yet that poor animal fled like 
 a debtor', and those blood-hounds of the forest', pursued like 
 greedy sheriffs. There was here no distinction of sects', no di- 
 versity of creeds ; yet that pacific deer might seem a quaker 
 of the forest', carrying his non-combative* doctrines to the ut- 
 most extent. Poor fellow' ! both he, and William Penn', his 
 great prototype, alike found that a peaceful life is not a sure 
 protection against the malice of the world around. 
 
 Fancies like these crossed my mind', till other scenes sug- 
 gested other thoughts', and the deer, and the wolves' were for- 
 gotten. As the sun was setting behind the mountains', how- 
 ever', my attention was suddenly attracted by the whistling of 
 the deer', and the sharp cry of the wolves', now close upon 
 him. He had recrossed the prairie, and sought for shelter in 
 a little rocky mound', situated in the midst of the plain. In vain 
 his endeavors to escape, for during the whole day' his unwearied 
 pursuers had maintained the chase. He was now worn and 
 weary ; and the sight of the wolves at his heels', with teeth laid 
 bare, and eyes staring upon their prey', was sufficient only to 
 produce a staggering gait', between a walk' and a bound. 
 Having crossed a little brook', he faltered as he ascended the 
 bank' ; and one of the wolves springing upon him', fixed his 
 fangs fatally in the back of his neck. 
 
 * A new coined word. 
 
THE MOTHER AND HER INFANTS. 171 
 
 LESSON XXXV. 
 
 THE MOTHER AND HER INFANTS, 
 
 A mother was kneeling in the deep hush of evening', at the 
 couch of two infants', whose rosy arms were twined in a mu- 
 tual embrace. A slumber, soft as the moonlight that fell 
 through the lattice over them like a silvery veil, lay on their 
 delicate lips— the soft bright curls that clustered on their pillow, 
 were slightly stirred by their gentle and healthful breathings' ; 
 and that smile, which beams from the pure depths of the fresh, 
 glad, spirit, yet rested on their coral lips. The mother looked 
 upon their exceeding beauty with a momentary pride' — and 
 then', as she continued to gaze upon the lovely slumberers', her 
 dark eye deepened with an intense and unutterable fondness' ; 
 when a cold, shuddering, fear came over her , lest those buds of 
 life, so fair', might be touched with sudden decay and go back', 
 in their brightness', to the dust. She lifted her voice in prayer 
 solemnly', passionately', earnestly', that the giver of life would 
 still spare to her those blossoms of love, over whom her soul 
 thus yearned. — As the low-breathed accents rose on the still 
 air', a deepened thought came over her' : her pure spirit went 
 out with her loved and pure ones into the strange, wild paths 
 of life' ; a strong horror chilled her frame as she beheld mildew 
 and blight settling on the fair and lovely of the earth', and high 
 and rich hearts scathed with desolating and guilty passion'. — The 
 prayer she was breathing grew yet more fervent', even to ago- 
 ny', that He^, who is the fountain of all purity', would preserve 
 those whom he had given her' in their innocence', permitting 
 neither shame, nor crime', nor folly' to cast a stain on the 
 brightness with which she had received them invested, from 
 His 1 " hands', as with a mantle. 
 
 As the prayer died away in the weakness of the spent spirit', 
 a pale shadowy form stood behind the infant sleepers. * I am 
 death',' said the spectre, ' and I come for these thy babes' — 1 
 am commissioned to bear them' where the perils you deprecate 
 are unknown' ; where neither stain', nor dust', nor shadow' can 
 reach the rejoicing spirit. It is only by yielding them to me, 
 you can preserve them from contamination and decay.' A 
 wild conflict' — a struggle as of the soul parting in strong agony,' 
 shook the mother's frame' ; but faith', and the love which hath 
 a purer fount than that of earth-ward passions', triumphed'; 
 and she yielded up her babes to the specter. 
 
172 
 
 LESSON XXXVI. 
 
 MELANCHOLY MOMENTS. 
 
 « I would not live alway' ; I ask not to stay' 
 Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; 
 The few lurid moments that dawn on us here, 
 Are enough for life's woes'' ; full enough' for its cheer." 
 
 Thou art gone v , bright and beautiful summer', with thy green 
 leaves and thy roses', to be here no more for a season. Thou 
 hast borne them all hence upon the winds', to rest a few short 
 hours in oblivion', and then come back in all thy sweetness' to 
 the longing earth. Even as the fond participators of my hap- 
 piness have passed one by one, and left this lone heart' a gloomy 
 and unlighted sepulcher', so hast thou passed away. And shall 
 I be here when the warm sunshine of spring breaks up the rude 
 frosts of winter', and unlocks the icy fetters which have stayed 
 
 the rivers in their course, and stopped the wild gush of foun- 
 tains' ? when all nature again smiles and puts on her garment 
 of green' — shall I then be here to pluck the first spring flowers 
 
 upon moor and fountain' ? Ah' ! who may tell . Yes' ! who 
 may look forward to thy coming, and say', < I shall be here'?' 
 
 Some unforeseen pestilence, some hidden blow from the hand 
 of Him who created the universe of worlds', and who is the all 
 seeing ruler of our destinies', may bear us hence to be here no 
 more forever. The song of birds may be heard again in the 
 forest', and the hum of bees upon the wild flowers', are unwitnessed 
 but by few of those who now feel', that thuu art gone. Who 
 of the gay circle that now smiles around me, may be dwellers 
 on this earth when thou again dost visit it' ? Thy balmy winds 
 may sigh over them', and the dew r'rops rest sweetly upon the 
 long grass that overshadows them', and I', even I', may be 
 one of those who have passed away" ! — yet who would live 
 forever' ? Who would not rather die, when the ties which bind 
 
 us here are yet unbroken ; when our early affections are yet 
 untarnished', and our fond hearts are still glowing with the 
 warm impulse of youth', unchilled by the lapse of time' ! Who 
 would not pass away', while life is yet bright with the flowers 
 
THE STORY OF A NTHUER. 173 
 
 of existence, and friendship has not grown cold'. Ah' ! why 
 do we cling to earth' !* — When the warm currents of life are 
 frozen', and our time-worn and channeled brows wear the deep 
 impress of age ; when the rude frosts of our decline have 
 stolen each flower of beauty', and fitted our gray heads for the 
 tomb', why do we still dread the coming of death', and say we 
 are not yet ready' 1 — True', thou mayest come again' ; thy 
 beautiful flowers may spring up', when the earth and the green 
 leaves may thrill to the music of the birds' ; the fountains may 
 gush forth from their chains', and the young streams leap to 
 their own murmurs. But not like unto this is age. Death is 
 
 the only restorer', and who would not hail it' as the high boon 
 from Him f who created all things ! 
 
 LESSON XXXVII. 
 
 THE STORY OF A HUNTER. 
 
 The following story comes to us from a friend who actually 
 heard it related by a person, in the manner herein described. 
 
 About thirty-five years ago I moved into this country', which 
 was then nearly a wilderness' ; no settlements having been 
 made excepting in a few places on the borders of the lake. I 
 arrived in the spring of the year', and commenced a clearing 
 on the farm I now occupy. By fall, I had built a good log 
 house, and temporary stables for my cattle' — had put into the 
 ground ten acres of wheat', and looked forward to the ensuing 
 year for the reward of my labors. My wife and child', for I 
 was married', were all my family' ; neighbors there were none 
 nearer than five or six miles' : so that visiting or amusements 
 were entirely out of the question. You may therefore suppose 
 that on the approach of a long northern winter I had ample time 
 to gratify my love for hunting', for which I had always a great 
 fondness. — Winter had set in early', and all my cares were 
 
 * Several of these sentences, though having an interrogative form, 
 do not really contain in them a question in fact ; that is, one which re- 
 quires, or expects, an answer in some shape or other. No answer, 
 either expressed or implied, is demanded ; and the sentences, therefore, 
 are exempt from the rules which govern interrogative ones. Some oi 
 them are mere exclamations. 
 15* 
 
174 the reader's guide. 
 
 confined to keeping a sufficient stock of wood on hand for 
 fuel', which you may imagine was not difficult when the trees 
 stood at my door', — and taking care of the few cattle of which 
 I was then owner. It was one day', I think, in the fore part of 
 December', when', having finished my morning's work', I took 
 down my gun', and told my wife that I would', on my return', 
 please her with the sight of a fat deer. Deer are now very 
 plenty in this part of the country' ; but then', ihey were so 
 
 much more so', that there was little merit or difficulty in achiev- 
 ing what I had promised. 
 
 I took my departure about a northwest course from my cab- 
 in', which led me direct into the forest The snow was about 
 a foot deep', and the wind blowing hard from the north', it drift- 
 ed much in the openings' ; yet this I thought was in my favor', 
 as the noise made among the trees by the wind', prevented the 
 game from hearing my approach in 'still hunting.' But I was 
 mistaken in my calculations' ; for I had travelled five or six 
 miles from home and had not got a shot at a single deer', though 
 I had seen numbers of them', but they were always on the run', 
 and at too great distance ; and all the traces which I saw show- 
 ed that they had scarcely walked during the day. I was then 
 a young' hunter', but I have since learnt' that this animal is al- 
 ways on the move and generally runs throughout winter days' ; 
 probably from the apprehension of danger from wolves' which 
 follow its scent through the snow. 
 
 At length I arrived at a large cedar swamp', on the edge of 
 which I was struck by the singular appearance of a large stub'', 
 twenty- five or thirty feet high', with its bark off. From its 
 scratched surface, I had no doubt it was climbed by racoons' or 
 martins', which probably had also a den in it', as from its ap- 
 pearance I judged it was hollow. The stub at its base might 
 have been seven or eight feet through' ; but eight or ten feet 
 higher up', its size was much diminished', so that I could grasp 
 sufficiently to ascend it', and ascertain what was within. My 
 gun and great coat were deposited in a secure place, and being 
 an expert climber', I soon gained the top. As I anticipated', the 
 stub was hollow', the aperture being about two and a half feet 
 in diameter. The day, you will observe, was dark and cloudy', 
 and looking down the hollow', I fancied that I could see the 
 bottom at no great distance ; but having nothing to put in to as- 
 certain its depth', I concluded that I would try to touch the bot- 
 tom with my feet. I therefore placed myself in the hole', and 
 lowered myself gradually', expecting every moment that my 
 foot would come in contact with some animal', or the foot of the 
 
THE STORY OF A HUNTER. 175 
 
 hollow ; but feeling nothing', I unthinkingly continued letting 
 myself down', until my head and hands', and my whole person', 
 were completely within the centre of the stub. 
 
 At this moment a sudden' and strange fear came over me ; I 
 know not from what cause, for I am not naturally timid' — it 
 seemed to affect me with a sense of suffocation' such as is expe- 
 rienced in dreams under the effect of night-mare. Rendered 
 desperate by my feelings', I made a violent attempt to extricate 
 myself, when the edges of the wood to which I was holding', 
 treacherously gave way' and precipitated me to the bottom of 
 the hole, which I found extended to a level with the ground. I 
 cannot wholly account for it', but probably from the erect posi- 
 tion in which my body was necessarily kept in so narrow a tube, 
 and my landing on my feet' on a bed of moss', dried leaves', and 
 ather soft substances', I sustained little or no injury from so 
 great a fall' ; nor were my clothes but little deranged in my de- 
 scent', owing', probably', to the smoothness of the surface pro- 
 duced by the long and frequent passing of the animals, to and 
 from their den' — for a den I found it to be. 
 
 After recovering from my fright' I had time to examine the 
 interior. All was dark' ; and putting out my hands to feel my 
 way', they came in contact with the cold nose, and then the fur', 
 of some beast' which I immediately knew was a half grown 
 cub, or young bear. Continuing to examine', I ascertained that 
 there were three or four of those animals', which', aroused by 
 the noise made in my descent', came around' and smelt of me, 
 uttering a mourning noise, taking me at first', no doubt, for their 
 dam' ; but after a little examination', snuffing and snorting as if 
 alarmed', they quietly betook themselves to their couch on the 
 moss', and left me to my own gloomy reflections. I knew they 
 were too young to do me any injury', but with that knowledge' 
 came the dreadful certainty that the mother', whose premises I 
 had so heedlessly invaded', was quite a different personage, and 
 that my life would date but a short period after she arrived', 
 as arrive she certainly would' before many hours could pass 
 over my head. 
 
 The interior of the den grew more visible after my eyes be- 
 came accustomed to the darkness' ; and aided by a little light 
 from the top', 1 discovered that the den was circular', and on the 
 the ground', was five or six feet in diameter', its circumference 
 diminishing, at the height of seven or eight feet', to a diameter 
 of less than three', owing to the singular formation of the trunk', 
 as I have before remarked. All my attempts to reach the nar- 
 row part of the hollow', in the hopes of working my way out, 
 as a chimney sweep might have done, were fruitless. My es- 
 
176 
 
 cape in this' way, therefore, was impossible. To cut through 
 the trunk a hole, sufficient to let out ray body, with a small 
 pocket knife, the only one I had', would have been the work of 
 weeks and even months', as from the examinations which I had 
 made of both the exterior and interior, I knew that it could not 
 be less than a foot thick. The knife was the only weapon 
 which I possessed', and a hug of my tremendous adversary 
 would deprive me of the power to use even so contemptible an 
 implement'; and even if I succeeded in killing the bear' — 
 which was not to be expected' — my case was equally hopeless', 
 for I should only exchange a sud'den death' for one, if possible, 
 even more horrid', a lingering one of famine and thirst' ; — for 
 my tracks in the snow 1 knew were long since covered by the 
 drift', and there was no possibility of my friends finding me, by 
 searching in a Wilderness of many miles in circuit. 
 
 My situation was indeed hopeless', and desperate. As the 
 shades of evening were now fast approaching, I thought of my 
 cheerful home' ; my wife seated by the fire' with our child in 
 her arms', or preparing our evening meal'', looking out anxious- 
 ly from time to time, expecting my return'. These and many 
 more such thoughts rushed through my mind', and which way 
 soever they were turned', you may suppose that they were teem- 
 ing with horror. At one time I had nearly determined to wreak 
 my feeling upon the cubs by destroying them', but the wanton 
 and useless cruelty of the act', as they could be of no service 
 to me then', prevented me. Yes', I would be merciful. Oh' ! 
 you know not how merciful one is', when he feels that he him- 
 self would willingly bean object of mercy from others. 
 
 Two hours had probably elapsed', and to me, two of the 
 longest that I ever experienced', when suddenly the little light 
 which had illuminated me from above was gone. I looked up', 
 and could no longer see the sky. My ears', which at the time 
 were peculiarly sensitive, were assailed with a low, growling 
 noise', such as a bear makes on discovering an enemy', and pre- 
 paring for an attack. I thought that my fate was at hand', as 
 this was the mother descending to her cubs', having', by her 
 acute organs of smell', discovered that her den had been entered 
 by some enemy. From the time T had ascertained my true 
 situation', I had opened my knife and held it ready in hand for 
 the encounter', come when it would. I now, therefore, braced 
 myself for a death grapple with my terrible antagonist', fever- 
 ishly awaiting her descent. 
 
 Bears always descend in the same manner as they ascend 
 trees ; that is, the head is always upward ; consequently, her 
 
TEMPER. 177 
 
 most assailable, or, rather, least formidable part' was opposed 
 to me. A thought quick as lightning rushed through my mind', 
 that escape was possible^, and that the bear might be the means. 
 No time could be afforded, nor was necessary for deliberation. 
 Just as she reached that part where the hollow widened, and 
 where|by a jump, I could reach her', I made a desperate spring' 
 and with both hands firmly caught hold of the fur which cover- 
 ed her extremities', giving at the same time a scream^, which, 
 in this close den sounded a thousand times louder than any hu- 
 man voice in the open air\ The bear', — and she was a power- 
 ful one, taken by surprise, and unable to get at me, — frighten- 
 ed, too, at the hideous and appalling noise which I made, scram- 
 bled for life up the hollow. But my weight, I found, was an 
 impediment to her' ; for when about half way up', I perceived 
 that, she began to lag', and notwithstanding I continued to scream', 
 at length came to a dead stand', apparently not having 
 strength enough to proceed. Knowing that my life depended 
 on her going on', I instantly let go with the hand in which I 
 had my knife, driving it to the haft into her flesh', and redoub- 
 ling the noise which I had already made. Her pain and fears 
 gave her new strength', and by another effort she brought me 
 once more to the light of day', at the top of the stub' ; nor did 
 she stop there 1 ', to receive my thanks for the benefit which she 
 had conferred on me ; but hastily descended to the ground'', and 
 made her way with all speed to the swamp. I sat for some 
 time on the stub', out of breath, and hardly crediting the re- 
 ality of my escape. After giving thanks to that Providence 
 which had so wonderfully preserved me, I descended to the 
 ground', found my coat and gun where I had left them', and 
 reached home after a fatiguing walk through the woods', about 
 nine o'clock in the evening. 
 
 LESSON XXXVIII. 
 
 TEMPER, A TALE. 
 
 Shut the door', Agatha,"* said Mr. Torrington to a beautiful 
 girl four years old' ; " the wind from the passage is intolerable." 
 But Agatha stirred not. 
 
 * Ag-atha, accent on the first syllable. 
 
178 the reader's guide. 
 
 " Did you not hear what I saicP ?" resumed her father, " shut' 
 the door for I am cold." 
 
 Still, however', the child continued to build houses', and her 
 father spoke in vain. 
 
 "I will shut the door myself," said her fatally indulgent 
 mother. " Agatha is not yet old enough' to understand the vir- 
 tue of obedience." 
 
 " But she is old enough to understand the inconveniencies ot 
 
 disobedience, my dear Emma, if properly punished for disobey- 
 ing. 
 
 " Surely it would be cruel to punish a child when she is in- 
 capable of knowing that what she does is worthy of punish- 
 ment'. When she is old enough to have reason', I will reason 
 with her', and make her obedient and obliging on principle." 
 
 "It is lucky for society, Emma, that the keepers of lunatics 
 do not act on your plan', and allow them to follow all their pro- 
 pensities till they are reasonable enough to feel the propriety of 
 restraint'." 
 
 " There is a great difference between mad people and chil- 
 dren', Mr. Torrington'." 
 
 " Undoubtedly', but not in the power of self-guidance and 
 self-restriction. The man who has lost his reason', and the 
 child who has not gained his", are equally objects for reproof 
 and restraint', and must be taught good and proper habits by 
 judicious and firm control', and', occasionally, by the operation 
 of fear." 
 
 " Could you ever have the heart to beat Agatha, Mr. Tor- 
 rington' 1" 
 
 " If Agatha's good required it — If it were necessaiy that 
 
 she should take medicine in order to cure the body', even you', 
 Emma, would not hesitate, I conclude, to force the medicine 
 down her throat." 
 
 " Certainly not'." 
 
 " And is not the health of her mind of even greater impor- 
 tance 1 and should we hesitate to inflict salutary punishment in 
 order to preserve that' uninjured ?" 
 
 At this moment Agatha, unconscious', poor child', how im- 
 portant to her future welfare was this conversation between her 
 parents', interrupted it by seizing a pair of sharp-pointed scis- 
 sors', and carrying off the forbidden plaything to the furthest 
 part of the room. 
 
TEMPER. 179 
 
 " Agatha, bring back the scissors this moment'," cried Mr. 
 
 Torrington' : but Agatha kept them still. 
 
 " Give them to me this instant'," he repeated', arising from 
 
 his chair', and approaching to take them by force, when Aga- 
 tha, unaccustomed to obey 1 ", as she was', when not in her fa- 
 ther's presence, and always used to command', instantly^ threw 
 the scissors on the ground with violence. 
 
 "Take them up, and give them to me." 
 
 But Agatha only turned her back', and putting her hand un- 
 der her chin threw out her raised elbow at her father' with the 
 gesture of sulky defiance. 
 
 Mr. Torrington now found that he was seriously called upon 
 to practice as well as preach^. 
 
 "Agatha," said he firmly but mildly', " obey me and give me 
 the scissors', or you shall go to bed this moment', and without 
 your supper." But as the child continued obstinate and disobe- 
 dient', in spite of her cries', blows', and kicks', Mr. Torrington 
 took her up in his arms', and carried her into the nursery. 
 
 "Put Miss Torrington to bed' directly'," said he, "and on 
 pain of instant dismissal I forbid you to give her any thing to 
 eat' or drink'." 
 
 He then returned to her mother', in the midst of the screams 
 of the spoiled and irritated Agatha. He found Mrs. torring- 
 ton in tears. 
 
 " Why are you distressed thus', dearest Emma V cried he 
 affectionately. 
 
 " I cannot bear to hear Agatha cry, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 " It does not give me pleasure'," coolly replied he. 
 " Ah'' Mr. Torrington', but you are not a mother." 
 
 C (it 
 
 " I know it', my love. I have had', it is true*", many comical 
 
 nervous fancies h , but I never fancied myself a mother' yet." 
 
 " This is a bad joke, Mr. Torrington'." 
 i c t i 
 
 "I grant it." 
 
 " And I' Mr. Torrington', am in no humor for joking ; this is 
 i i i i 
 
 too serious a subject." 
 
 " Emma, I joked^, to show you that P, at least', did not think 
 
 * Emphasis is often made by inversions. See the article on emphasis* 
 
180 
 
 this temporary affliction of our violent child a cause for sor- 
 row'." 
 
 " No 1 Hark', how she screams' ! Indeed', Mr. Torrington'', 
 I must go to her'. 
 
 " Indeed', Emma, you must not*" 
 
 " Her agonies distract me; I cannot bear it', I tell' you." 
 
 " You must' bear it', Mrs. Torrington', or forfeit much of my 
 respect." 
 
 " O', a mother's feelings' 
 
 are natural', and therefore honorable feelings : but I 
 expect a rational being to be superior to a mere brute mother." 
 "A brute mother', Mr. Torrington'!" 
 
 " Yes' ; a brute mother. The cat that lies yonder', unable 
 to hear the cries of its kitten', would, from mere natural instinct', 
 (the feelings of a mother', Emma, which I' have not 1 ', you 
 
 know',) fly at the animal', or human creature', that occasioned 
 those cries' ; and the cat', wholly guided by instinct', could not 
 do otherwise', though an operation were performing on its off- 
 spring that was requisite to save its life. But from you'', Em- 
 
 ma, who have reason'' to aid and regulate the impulses of mere 
 instinct', — from you'', I expect better things than a selfish indul- 
 gence of your own tenderness' at the expense of your child's fu- 
 ture welfare; nay', even of its present' safety. For had she 
 been allowed to retain the scissors', she might have destroyed 
 an eye 1 ", or laid open an artery' with them. If you must weep 
 because she weeps', let it be for the alarming obstinacy' and 
 violence which is now exhibiting ; a violence'' which may h , per- 
 haps', be big with her future misery and ruin." 
 
 The cries of Agatha soon began to grow fainter and fainter', 
 
 I C ( I ' I 
 
 and at length ceased' altogether ; for she had cried herself to 
 
 sleep. But now a new alarm took possession of Mrs. Torring- 
 ton. 
 
 "Bless me," she exclaimed', "perhaps she has screamed 
 herself into convulsions' ! I must go up and see her', indeed', 
 Mr. Torrington'." 
 
 "No, Emma, I' will spare you the trouble', and go myself." 
 Accordingly he did so', and found Agatha in a calm and qui- 
 et slumber, though on her full and crimson cheek' still glittered 
 the tears of turbulent resentment. 
 
A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS. 181 
 
 Mrs. Torrington', whom love and reverence for her husband 
 made submissive to his will, did not venture to follow him into 
 Agatha's bed room' ; but she stood in the hall', anxiously wait- 
 ing his return. 
 
 " Away' with these foolish fears'," said Mr. Torrington', " the 
 child is in a most comfortable sleep' ; — or', if you must fear', 
 let it be, as I said before', for the health of her mind, not of her 
 body ; and avoid', in future, the conduct that may endanger it." 
 
 LESSON XXXIX. 
 
 A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS. 
 
 On our returning from our expedition in quest of the young 
 Count', I learned that a burrow', or village, as it is termed', of 
 prairie dogs had been discovered on the level summit of a hill', 
 about a mile from the camp. Having heard much of the hab- 
 its and peculiarities of these little animals', I determined to pay 
 a visit to the community. The prairie dog is', in fact', one of 
 the curiosities of the Far West, about which travellers delight to 
 tell marvellous tales'", endowing him at times with something of 
 the politic and social habits of a rational being', and giving him 
 systems of civil government and domestic economy', almost 
 equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver. 
 
 The prairie dog is an animal of the cony kind', and about the 
 size of a rabbit. He is of a sprightly, mercurial nature', quick', 
 sensitive, and somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious', liv- 
 ing in large communities', sometimes of several acres extent', 
 where innumerable little heaps of earth show the entrances to 
 the subterranean cells of the inhabitants', and the well beaten 
 tracks', like lanes and streets', show their mobility and restless- 
 ness. According to the accounts given of them', they would 
 seem to be continually full of sport', business', and public af- 
 fairs' ; whisking about hither and thither', as if on gossipping 
 visits to each other's houses', or congregating in the cool of the 
 evening', or after a shower', and gamboling together in the open 
 air. Sometimes', especially when the moon shines', they pass 
 half the night in revelry', barking or yelping with short', 
 quick', yet weak tones', like those of very young puppies. 
 While in the height of their playfulness and clamor', however', 
 should there be the least alarm', they all vanish into their cells 
 in an instant', and the village remains blank and silent. In case 
 16 
 
182 the reader's guide. 
 
 
 they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without any hope of 
 escape', they will assume a pugnacious air', and a most whimsi- 
 cal look of impotent wrath and defiance. 
 
 The prairie dogs are not permitted to remain sole and undis- 
 turbed inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and rattlesnakes 
 are said to take up their abodes with them ; but whether as in- 
 vited guests, or unwelcome intruders', is a matter of controver- 
 sy. The owls are of a peculiar kind', and would seem to par- 
 take of the character of the hawk' ; for they are taller and 
 more erect on their legs', more alert in their looks', and rapid 
 in their flight', than ordinary owls', and do not confine their 
 excursions to the night', but sally forth in broad day. 
 
 Some say that they* only inhabit cells which the prairie dogs 
 have deserted', and suffered to go to ruin, in consequence of the 
 death, in them', of some relative ; for they would make out this 
 little animal to be endowed with keen sensibility', that will not 
 permit it to remain in the dwelling where it has witnessed the 
 death of a friend. Other fanciful speculators represent the 
 owl as a kind of house keeper' to the prairie dog ; and', from 
 having a note very similar', insinuate' that it acts, in a manner, 
 as family preceptor', and teaches the young litter to bark. 
 
 As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been ascer- 
 tained of the part he plays in this most interesting household' ; 
 though he is considered little better than a sycophant and sharp- 
 er', that winds himself into the concerns of the honest', credu- 
 lous little dog', and takes him in most sadly. Certain it is', if 
 he acts as a toad-eater', he occasionally solaces himself with 
 more than the usual perquisites of his order', as he is now and 
 then detected with one of the younger members of the family 
 in his maw. 
 
 Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about 
 the domestic economy of this little inhabitant of the prairies', 
 who, with his pigmy republic', appears to be a subject of much 
 whimsical speculation', and burlesque remarks', among the hun- 
 ters of the Far West. 
 
 It was towards evening that I set out with a companion', to 
 visit the village in question. Unluckily', it had been invaded in 
 the course of the day by some of the rangers', who had shot 
 two or three of its inhabitants', and thrown the whole sensitive 
 community into confusion. As we approached' we could per- 
 ceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at the entrances of their 
 cells',while sentinels seemed to have been posted on the outskirts', 
 
 * "Viz. owls. 
 
A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS. 183 
 
 to keep a look out. At sight of us b , the picket guards scam- 
 pered in and gave the alarm' ; whereupon every inhabitant gave 
 a sharp yelp, or bark', and dived into his hole, his heels twink- 
 ling in the air' as if he had thrown a somerset. 
 
 We traversed the whole village, or republic', which covered 
 an area of about thirty acres' ; but not a whisker of an inhab- 
 itant was to be seen. We probed their cells as far as the ram- 
 rods of our rifles would reach', but could unearth neither dog', 
 nor owl', nor rattlesnake. Moving quietly to a little distance', 
 we lay down upon the ground', and watched for a long time, si- 
 lent and motionless. By and bye, a cautious old burgher would 
 slowly put forth the end of his nose', but instantly draw it in 
 again. Another', at a greater distance, would emerge entirely' ; 
 
 but', catching a glance of us^, would throw a somerset', and 
 plunge back again into his hole. At length', some who resided 
 on the opposite side of the village', taking courage from the 
 continued stillness', would steal forth', and hurry off to a distant 
 hole, the residence, probably', of some family connexion', or 
 gossiping friend', about whose safety they were solicitous', or 
 with whom they wished to compare notes about the late occur- 
 rences. 
 
 Others', still more bold', assembled in little knots', in the streets 
 and public places', as if to discuss the recent outrages offered 
 to the commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow 
 burghers. 
 
 We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take a near- 
 er view of these public proceedings', when', yelp' ! yelp' ! yelp' ! 
 there was a shrill alarm passed from mouth to mouth' ; the 
 meetings suddenly dispersed' ; feet twinkled in the air in every 
 direction', and in an instant' all had vanished into the earth. 
 
 The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations' ; 
 but the train of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain by 
 the moral attributes which I had heard given to these little pol- 
 itic animals', still continued after my return to camp ; and late 
 in the night', as I lay awake after all the camp was asleep', 
 and heard in the stillness of the hours', a faint clamor of shrill 
 voices from the distant village, I could not help picturing to 
 myself the inhabitants gathered together in noisy assemblage', 
 and windy debate, to devise plans for the public safety', and to 
 vindicate the invaded rights' and insulted dignity' of the repub- 
 lie. 
 
1Q4 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON XL. 
 
 THE LAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 Anapestic verse of four feet. 
 
 1. "Dear father', I ask for my mother in vain' ; 
 
 Has she sought some far country her health to regain' ? 
 
 Has she left our cold climate of frost and of snow', 
 
 For some warm sunny land', where the soft breezes blow' ?" 
 
 " Yes', yes', gentle boy', thy lov'd mother has gone 
 
 To a climate where sorrow and pain are unknown' ; 
 
 Her spirit is strengthened', her frame is at rest v ; 
 
 There is health', there is peace, in the Land of the Blest " 
 
 2. " Is that land, my dear father', more lovely than ours' ? 
 Are the rivers more clear 1 ", and more blooming the flowers' ? 
 
 " Does Summer shine over it, all the year long' ? 
 Is it cheered by the glad sounds* of music and song' V 
 " Yes', the flowers are despoiled not by winter or night' ; 
 The well-springs of life are exhaustless and bright' ; 
 And by exquisite voices sweet hymns are addrest' 
 To the Lord who reigns over the Land of the Blest." 
 
 3. " Yet that land to my mother will lonely appear' ; 
 She shrunk from the glance of a stranger while here'; 
 From her foreign companions I know she will flee', 
 And sigh, dearest father', for you and for me." 
 
 " My darling', thy mother rejoices to gaze' 
 
 On the long-severed friends of her earliest days ; 
 
 Her parents have there found a mansion of rest', 
 
 And they welcome their child to the Land of the Blest." 
 
 4. " How I long to partake of such meetings of bliss' ; 
 That land must be surely more happy than this' ; 
 On you^, my kind father', the journey depends ; 
 Let us go to my mother', her kindred' and friends' ;" 
 " Not on me', love ; I trust I may reach\ that bright clime 
 But in patience I stay till the Lord's chosen time', 
 And must strive', while awaiting his gracious behest', 
 To guide thy young steps to the Land of the Blest." 
 
 5. " Thou must toil through a world full of dangers, my boy'; 
 Thy peace it may blight', and thy virtues destroy' ; 
 
 * Sounds, should be made short in reading. 
 
the orphan's song. 185 
 
 Nor wilt thod, alas'! be withheld from its snares' 
 By a mother's kind counsels', a mother's fond prayers' ; 
 Yet fear not' — the God', whose direction we crave, 
 Is mighty to strengthen', to shield', and to save ; 
 And his hand may yet lead thee', a glorified guest', 
 To the home of thy mother', the Land of the Blest." 
 
 LESSON XLI. 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S SONG. 
 
 Iambic. Each line has four feet; while the second and 
 fourth of each stanza has an additional short syllable. 
 
 1. Oh ! lady buy these budding flow'rs', 
 
 For I am sad', and wet', and weary. — 
 I gather'd them ere break of day', 
 
 When all was lonely', still', and dreary : 
 And long I've sought to sell them here, 
 
 To purchase clothes', and food', and dwelling', 
 For Valor's wretched orphan girls' — 
 
 Poor me, and my young sister Ellen'. 
 
 2. Ah' ! those who tread life's thornless way', 
 
 In fortune's golden sunshine basking', 
 May deem my wants require no aid', 
 
 Because my lips are mute', unasking' ; 
 They have no heart for woes like mine ; 
 
 Each word', each look,' is cold' — repelling' ; 
 Yet once a crowd of flatt'rers fawn'd', 
 
 And fortune smil'd on me' and Ellen ! 
 
 3. Oh ! buy my flowers', they're fair and fresh' 
 
 As mine 1 ', and morning's tears' could keep them' ; 
 To-morrow's sun shall see them dead', 
 
 And I shall scarcely live to weep them ! 
 Yet this sweet bud', if nurs'd with care', 
 
 Soon into fulness would be swelling' ; 
 And nurtur'd by some gen'rous hand' 
 
 So might'' my little sister Ellen ! 
 
 16* 
 
186 
 
 4. She's sleeping in the hollow tree, 
 
 Her only home' — its leaves her bedding' ; 
 And I've no food to carry there', 
 
 To soothe the tears which she'll be shedding. 
 Oh v ! that those mourner's tears which fall', 
 
 That bell which heavily is knelling', 
 And that deep grave were meant for me', 
 
 And my poor little sister Ellen ! 
 
 5. When we in silence are laid down' 
 
 In life's last fearless', blessed', sleeping', 
 No tears will fall upon our grave' 
 
 Save those of pitying Heiven's own weeping. 
 Unknown we've lived', unknown must die ; 
 
 No tongue the mournful tale be telling' 
 Of two young, broken-hearted girls' — 
 
 Poor Mary' and her sister Ellen ! 
 
 6. No one has bought of me to day', 
 
 And night is now the town o'ershading' ; 
 And F, like these poor drooping flowers', 
 
 Unnotic'd and unwept am fading ; 
 My soul is struggling to be free — 
 
 Itlothes its wretched earthly dwelling! 
 My limbs refuse to bear their load' — 
 
 Oh God', protect lone orphan Ellen. 
 
 LESSON XLII. 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMPSON. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet to a line. 
 
 1. In yonder grave a Druid lies', 
 
 Where slowly winds the stealing wave' ; 
 The year's best sweets shall duteous rise' 
 To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 
 
 2. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds' 
 
 His airy harp shall now be laid', 
 That he', whose heart in sorrow bleeds', 
 May love through life the soothing shade 
 
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMPSON. 187 
 
 3. Then maids and youths shall linger here", 
 
 And while its sounds at distance swell', 
 Shall sadly seem in pity's ear' 
 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 
 
 4. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore] 
 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is dresf, 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar', 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 
 
 5. And oft', as ease and health retire' 
 
 To breezy lawn, or forest deep', 
 The friend shall view yon whitening spire , 
 And mid the varied landscape weep. 
 
 6. But thou, who own'st that earthy bed', , 
 
 Ah v ! what will every dirge avail', 
 Or tears^, which love and pity shed', 
 That mourn beneath the gliding sail 1 
 
 7. Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 
 
 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near' ? 
 With him\ sweet bard', may fancy die, 
 And joy desert the blooming year. 
 
 8. But thou, lorn stream', whose sullen tide' 
 
 No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend', 
 Now waft me from the green hill's side, 
 Whose cold turf hides the buried friend'. 
 
 9. And see, the fairy valleys fade ; 
 
 Dun night has veil'd the solemn view N ! 
 Yet once again', dear parted shade, 
 Meek Nature's Child', again adieu ! 
 
 10. The genial meads', assign'd to bless' 
 
 Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom' ; 
 Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress', 
 With simple hands', thy rural tomb. 
 
 11. Long', long\ thy stone and pointed clay' 
 
 Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : 
 O ! vales and wild woods', shall he say', 
 In yonder grave your Druid lies ! 
 
188 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON XLIII. 
 
 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 
 
 In this ode is employed the iambic, trochaic, and anapestic 
 measure in lines of various lengths. 
 
 1. Ah me ! I've lost my liberty''; 
 
 And in this cage 
 
 My active mind' 
 
 Is close confin'd ; 
 Nor can I hope again 
 My birthright to obtain', 
 Till this my gilded tenement shall be 
 Destroyed by some disaster or by age. 
 
 2. But — how came I here' ? 
 
 Who was it that depriv'd my heav'n-born soul' 
 
 Of the freedom she enjoy'd' 
 
 In the paradise of God', 
 Where no base passion could my peace control', 
 Or in my breast create a fear' ? 
 
 'Twas Satan', aye 'twas he 
 
 That robb'd me of my liberty : 
 His artful snares the insidious fowler laid', 
 And to this captive state my innocence betray'd. 
 
 3. Cruel enemy', to try', Trochaic. 
 When I fear'd no danger nigh', " 
 Thus to deceive and ruin me " 
 With basest arts of treachery ! Iambic. 
 
 But boast not', Satan', thou thy point hast gain'd'. 
 
 Heaven permits it so to be, Trochaic. 
 
 That all the world may one day see 
 
 Justice triumphant over perfidy' ; 
 For know', that Christ the conquest hath obtain'd*. 
 
 Yes,' and he'll quickly come', 
 
 And publicly pronounce thy doom'. 
 So shall the horror of this cruel deed', 
 
 By which thy malice had design'd' 
 
 To draw down vengeance on mankind', 
 With double fury light on thy devoted head. 
 
THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 189 
 
 4. In the mean while I sit', 
 
 And here, in groans' 
 And silent moans', 
 Lament my prison'd state. 
 Ah me', I once was us'd to mount and fly', 
 
 Up through the trackless regions of the sky x ; 
 And as I pass'd along', 
 
 In sweetly pleasing strains/ 
 To trill my warbling song' 
 All o'er the etherial plains. 
 But now', condemned within this cage to lie', 
 I droop the wing', 
 
 Refuse to sing v , 
 
 And sighing', wish to die. 
 
 5. But why despair' ? 
 
 Come, try thy voice, and stretch thy wing' : 
 A bird within a cage^may chirp and sing', 
 And taste what freedom is h , e'en while she's herei 
 Strike up some cheerful note ; 
 With fond desire' 
 Peep through the wire : 
 Thy keeper '11 quickly come and let thee out. 
 
 6. This 1 ', O, tliis% is happy news' ! Trochaic. 
 Now' to sing 1 " I can't refuse : " 
 These shall be the notes I choose ;■ — " 
 
 "Satan, the cruel fowler', put me in, 
 
 " And fast inclos'd me round with sense and sin, 
 
 " But Satan cannot keep me here ; 
 " For not to him' the cage belongs ; 
 'Tis Christ's', and he shall have my songs', 
 
 " Since he's my kind deliverer." 
 
 7. Thus awhile 
 I will beguile 
 
 The passing hours away', 
 
 Assur'd my Master '11 not forget' 
 
 To make my bed', and find me meat', 
 So long as 'tis decreed that here I stay. 
 
 Wherefore, free from all cares', • 
 
 From all dangers and snares', 
 
190 
 
 While Jesus', my Saviour', is by', 
 
 O how happy I dwell', 
 
 Though immur'd in a cell' ; 
 Not anxious to live, nor yet fearful to die 
 
 8. But soon', alas' ! secure of future bliss', 
 
 Senseless I grow' 
 
 And scarcely know' 
 What real freedom is. 
 
 The little circuit of my cage 
 Doth all mv thoughts and time engage : 
 With heedless feet from perch to perch I hop' ; 
 
 And passing round', 
 
 Pleas'd with the sound' 
 
 Of tinkling bell' 
 
 Hung o'er my cell', 
 My nobler notes I drop. 
 Ari ! how deprav'd this wretched heart of mine, 
 
 So soon to lose its taste for joys divine ! 
 
 9. Busied thus with notes and straws', 
 Idle nonsense, empty joys', 
 Without a hope, without a fear' 
 Of pleasures or of dangers near', 
 Asleep I fall : 
 
 Fatal security" ! 
 
 But hark' ! I hear my keeper call. 
 
 Aye, tis his voice ; now' I awake', 
 Fancy I feel my prison shake', 
 
 And dire destruction's nigh. 
 Affrighted, round my cage I cast my eye, 
 
 And flutt'ring to and fro, 
 
 Not knowing where to go, 
 Attempt to make my escape', but cannot fly. 
 
 10. Ah' ! silly heart', 
 
 (I fetch a sigh', 
 And sighing, cry',) 
 Thus foolishly to part' 
 With noble hopes', substantial joys', 
 For airy phantoms', gilded toys'', 
 Trifles', the fond pursuit of which unmans my soul', 
 
THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 191 
 
 And leaves me to the sport of every fancied fear' 
 That would my peace control. 
 What miseries befall a heav'n-born mind*", 
 By being thus within a cage confin'd ! 
 
 Pity', Saviour', pity me, 
 
 And quickly come and set me free ! 
 
 11. My Saviour hears' ; and strait replies', 
 With soft compassion in his eyes', — 
 
 " Thy silent moans' 
 
 " And piteous groans' 
 " Have mov'd my heart' ; 
 
 " Ere long I'll come\ 
 
 " And fetch thee home, 
 " Where reason and the passions ne'er shall part. 
 
 12. 'Tis Jesus that speaks' ! how charming his name, 
 
 At the sound of his voice, 
 
 how 1 rejoice, 
 
 And kindle all into a flame ! 
 
 1 leap' and I fly', 
 And in ecstacy dry', 
 
 Vain world, I bid thee adieu : 
 I'll wait not for age' 
 To pull down my cage', 
 But, fearless of danger', will force my way through. 
 
 13. Check' thy passions', foolish man' ; 
 The long'est life is but a span. 
 
 Be contented here to stay' 
 
 Another hour', another day' ; 
 
 To feel a joy', to bear a pain', 
 
 To do some good', some good to obtain', 
 Think not the moments long Heav'n hath decreed ; 
 Impatience cannot lash them into speed. 
 With meek submission wait the approaching hour' : 
 
 The wheel of time will quickly whirl about', 
 And then thy keeper '11 come, and ope the door', 
 
 Put in his hand', and gently take thee out. 
 
 14. The day arrives. 
 
 1 4 ( ( 
 
 Now through the wire', 
 With strong desire', 
 1 cast my wishful eyes'. 
 
192 the reader's guide. 
 
 I see him come : Yes', yes', 'tis he ! 
 Hither he hastes to set me free. 
 
 O' the music that I hear', 
 
 Sweetly warbling in my ear ! 
 
 " Little songster' come away' ; 
 
 " In this vile cell no longer stay' ; 
 * But take thy flight to realms above the skies." 
 
 15. I hear', and instantly obey : 
 
 Out of my cage I spring ; 
 And as I pass the wicker'd way', 
 
 Thus to myself I sing : 
 " How safe, how easy 'tis to die', 
 " With Christ', my guardian angel', by ! 
 " He's my defence from pain and sin', 
 " From foes without' and fears within'. 
 " O death', where is thy sting' ? O grave, thy vie- 
 tory'?" 
 
 16. Now'' I'm happy', now'' I'm free : 
 
 My active spirit', heav'n-born mind', 
 From all the dregs of sin refin'd', 
 
 Feels and enjoys her godlike dignity. 
 
 No more oppress'd with the gross atmosphere' 
 Of error', prejudice and sin', 
 
 Freely I breathe my native air', 
 And drink ambrosial fragrance in. 
 O', who can think' — O, who can tell', 
 The strange sensations now I feel ! 
 
 17. Awhile my wings', unus'd to flight', I try', 
 And round and round in sportive bliss I fly : 
 
 Then through the opening skies', 
 
 In rapturous ecstasy I rise' 
 
 Up to ;he flow'ry fields of Paradise ; 
 
 And as I dart along', 
 On full expanded wing', 
 
 Amid the angelic throng', 
 Celestial anthems sing^ ; — 
 " Glory to Him that left his throne above', 
 " And downward bent his way on wings of love ; 
 " That wept', and bled', and died upon the tree, 
 " To conquer death and set the captives free." 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 193 
 
 LESSON XLIV. 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 During my residence in the country', I used frequently to 
 attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles', its 
 mouldering monuments', its dark oaken panelling', all reverend 
 with the gloom of departed years', seemed to fit it for the 
 haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country', 
 is so holy in its repose^, — such a pensive quiet reigns over the 
 face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down', 
 and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing 
 up within us. 
 
 " Sweet day v , so pure, so calm\ so bright', 
 The bridal of the earth and sky !" 
 
 I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man' ; but 
 there are feelings that visit me in a country church', amid the 
 beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else ; 
 and if not a more religious^, I think I am a better^, man on 
 Sunday', than on any other day of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back 
 upon the world', by the frigidity of the poor worms around me. 
 The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and 
 prostrate piety of a true Christian', was a poor decrepit old 
 woman', bending under the weight of years and infirmities. 
 She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. 
 The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. 
 Her dress', though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously 
 clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her v , for 
 she did not take her seat among the village poor', but sat alone 
 on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all 
 love, all friendship', all society' ; and to have nothing left her 
 but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and 
 bending her aged form in prayer', habitually conning her 
 prayer-book', which the palsied hand and failing eyes could 
 not permit her to read', but which she evidently knew by heart', 
 I felt persuaded that the faultering voice of that poor woman 
 arose to heaven far above the responses of the clerk', the 
 swell of the organ', or the chanting of the choir.* 
 
 * Pronounced quire. 
 17 
 
194 the reader's guide. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches' ; and this 
 was so delightfully situated', that it frequently attracted me. It 
 stood on a knoll*, round which a small stream made a beauti- 
 ful bend 1 ', and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
 meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees', 
 which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire 
 shot up lightly from among them', with rooks and crows gene- 
 rally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny 
 morning', watching two laborers who were digging a grave. 
 They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected cor- 
 ners of the church' yard' where, by the number of nameless 
 graves around', it would appear that the indigent and friendless 
 were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made 
 grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was 
 meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank', which extend 
 thus down into the very dust', the toll of the bell announced the 
 approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty', 
 with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest 
 materials', without pall or other covering', was borne by some 
 of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold 
 indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings 
 of affected wo, but there was one real mourner who feebly tot- 
 tered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the de- 
 ceased' — the poor old woman' whom I had seen seated on the 
 steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend', who 
 was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring 
 poor had joined the train', and some of the children of the vil- 
 lage were running hand in hand', now shouting with unthinking 
 mirth', and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity', on the 
 grief of the mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson is- 
 sued from the church porch', arrayed in the surplice, with 
 prayer book in hand', and attended by the clerk. The service, 
 however', was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been 
 destitute, and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuffled 
 through', therefore, in form'', but coldly and unfeelingly. The 
 well fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door' ; 
 his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did 
 I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching cere- 
 mony', turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
 ground'. On it were inscribed the name and age of the de- 
 ceased' — " George Somers', aged 26 years." The poor mo- 
 ther had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her 
 withered hands were clasped as if in prayer ; but I could per- 
 
 * Pronounced nole. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 195 
 
 ceive, by a feeble rocking of the body', and a convulsive mo- 
 tion of the lips', that she was gazing on the last relics of her 
 son with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 
 
 Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
 There was that bustling stir 1 ", which breaks so harshly on the 
 feelings of grief and affection' : directions given in the cold 
 tones of business' ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel' ; 
 which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most 
 withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from 
 a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes', and looked 
 about with a. faint wildness. As the men approached with 
 cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands', 
 and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who at- 
 tended her', took her by her arm', endeavored to raise her from 
 the earth', and to whisper something like consolation — " Nay', 
 now' — nay", now' — don't take it so sorely to heart'." She 
 could only shake her head', and wring her hands', as one not 
 to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth', the creaking of 
 the cord seemed to agonize her ; but when', on some acciden- 
 tal obstruction', there was a jostling of the coffin', all the tender- 
 ness of the mother burst forth'; as if any harm could come to 
 him'' who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat' — my 
 eyes filled with tears' — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous 
 part in standing by^ and gazing idly on this scene of maternal 
 anguish. I wandered to another part of the church. yard', 
 where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
 grave'', leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
 her on earth*, and returning to silence and destitution', my 
 heart ached for her. What 1- , thought I', are the distresses of 
 the rich 1- ? They have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile 
 — a world' to divert' and dissipate their griefs. What are the 
 
 sorrows of the young' ? Their growing minds soon close 
 above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the 
 pressure — their green and ductile affections' soon twine around 
 new objects. But the sorrows of the poor 1 ", who have no out- 
 ward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged', with 
 whom life at best is but a wintry day', and who can look for 
 no after growth of joy' — the sorrows of a widow', aged', soli- 
 tary', destitute, mourning over an only son', the last solace of 
 her years' ; — these are indeed sorrows' which make us feel the 
 zmpotency of consolation. 
 
196 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON XLV. 
 
 t 
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that 
 the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the 
 instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter 
 must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence 
 
 of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live 
 on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense lan- 
 guish and decline with the charms which excited them', and 
 turn with shuddering and disgust from the dismal precincts of 
 the tomb' ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises 
 purified from every sensual desire 1 , and returns', like a holy 
 flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 
 
 The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we 
 refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal' — 
 ever other affliction to forget' ; but this' wound we consider it 
 a duty to keep open — this' affliction we cherish and brood over 
 in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget 
 the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though 
 every recollection is a pang 1 " 1 Where is the child that would 
 willingly forget the most tender of parents', though to remember 
 be but to lament 1 " 1 Who', even in the hour of agony', would 
 forget the friend over whom he mourns' 1 Who, even when 
 the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved' ; 
 when he feels his heart 1 ", as it were, crushed', in the closing of 
 its portal' ; would accept of consolation' that must be bought 
 by forgetfulness' ? — No, the love which survives the tomb' is 
 one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has woes'", it has 
 likewise its delights'" ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief 
 is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection' — when the sudden 
 anguish and the convulsive agony' over the present ruins of all 
 that we most loved', is softened away into pensive meditation 
 on all that it was in the days of its loveliness' — who would root 
 out such a sorrow from the heart' ? Though it may sometimes 
 
 throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety', or spread 
 a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom' ; yet who would ex- 
 change it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revel- 
 ry' ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. 
 There is a remembrance of the dead', to which we turn even 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 197 
 
 from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — 
 It buries every error' — covers every defect' — extinguishes every 
 resentment' ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond 
 regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon 
 the grave even of an enemy', and not feel a compunctious 
 throb ^, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful 
 of earth that lies mouldering before him' ? 
 
 But the grave of those we loved * — what a place for medita- 
 tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole his- 
 tory of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments 
 lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of 
 intimacy ; — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the 
 solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of 
 death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance—its 
 mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring 
 love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh ! how thrilling ! — 
 pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye, 
 turning upon us even from the threshold of existence. The 
 faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more 
 assurance of affection ! 
 
 Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate ! There 
 settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
 unrequited', every past endearment unregarded', of that depart- 
 ed being, who can never' — never' — never' return to be soothed 
 
 by thy contrition' ! 
 
 If thou art a child', and hast ever added a sorrow to the 
 soul', or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent' 
 — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom 
 that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms', to doubt one 
 moment of thy kindness or thy truth' — if thou art a friend, and 
 hast ever wronged', in thought', or word', or .deed', the spirit 
 that generously confided in thee— if thou art a lover' and hast 
 ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now 
 lies cold and still beneath thy feet', then be sure that every un- 
 kind look', every ungracious word', every ungentle action', will 
 come thronging back upon thy memory', and knocking dole- 
 fully at thy souf — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrow- 
 ing and repentant on the grave, and .utter the unheard groan', 
 and pour the unavailing tear' — more deep', more bitter', be- 
 cause unheard' and unavailing. 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers', and strew the beauties 
 of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou 
 canst', with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret'' ; — but 
 
 17* 
 
198 THE 
 
 take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction 
 over the dead', and henceforth be more faithful and affection- 
 ate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 
 
 LESSON XL VI. 
 
 THOUGHTS ON DEATH. Job vii. 
 
 1 Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth' ? 
 
 Are not his days also like the days of an hireling' 1* 
 
 2 As a servant earnestly desireth the shadow', 
 
 And as a hireling looketh for ihe reward of his work 1 ", 
 
 3 So am I made to possess months of vanity', 
 And wearisome nights are appointed to me. 
 
 4 When I lie down', I say, When shall I arise, and the night' 
 
 be gone 5 ^ 1 
 
 And I am full of tossings to and fro to the dawning of the 
 day. 
 
 5 My flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust' ; 
 My skin is broken and become loathsome. 
 
 6 My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, 
 And are spent without hope. 
 
 7 O remember that my life is wind ; 
 My eye will no more see good. 
 
 8 The eye of him that hath seen me, shall see me no more ; 
 Thy eyes are upon me, and I am not. 
 
 9 As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away', 
 
 So he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no 
 more. 
 
 10 He shall return no more to his house, 
 Neither shall his place know him any more. 
 
 11 Therefore I will not restrain my mouth' ; 
 I will speak in the anguish of my spirit' ; 
 
 I will complain in the bitterness of my soul. 
 
 12 Am I a sea^, or a whaled that thou settest a watch 1 " over 
 
 No question is here properly asked. 
 
THOUGHTS ON DEATH. 199 
 
 13 When I say, My bed shall comfort me, 
 My couch shall ease my complaint', 
 
 14 Then thou scarest me with dreams', 
 And terrifiest me through visions', 
 
 15 So that my soul chooseth strangling 
 And death' rather than my life. 
 
 16 I loath if ; I would not live always" ; 
 Let me alone ; for my days are vanity. 
 
 ( ( C ( 
 
 17 What is man that thou shouldst magnify him', 
 And that thou shouldst set thy heart upon him' ? 
 
 18 And that thou shouldst visit him every morning', 
 And try him every moment' ? 
 
 19 How long wilt thou not depart from me, 
 Nor let me alone till 1 swallow my spittle ? 
 
 20 I have sinned' ; what shall I do to thee, 
 
 O thou preserver of men'' ? why hast thou set me as a 
 
 mark against thee, 
 So that I am a burden to myseir ? 
 
 21 And why dost thou not pardon my transgression', 
 
 And take away^ my iniquity' ? 
 
 For now shall I sleep in the dust', 
 
 And thou shalt seek me in the morning', but I shall not be. 
 
 Job xiv. 1 — 14. 
 
 1 Man that is born of a woman 
 
 Is of few days and full of trouble. 
 
 2 He cometh forth like a flower', and is cut down : 
 
 He fleeth also as a shadow', and continueth not. 
 
 3 And dost thou open thy eyes upon such one, 
 And bring me into judgment with thee' ? 
 
 4 Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean' ? not one. 
 
 5 Seeing his days are determined', 
 
 The number of his months is with thee', 
 
 Thou hast appointed his bounds that he cannot pass', 
 
 6 Tum v from him', that he may rest', 
 
200 
 
 Till he shall accomplish, as a hireling', his day\ 
 
 7 For there is hope of a tree', if it is cut down' 
 That it will sprout again', 
 
 And that its tender branch will not cease\ 
 
 8 Though its root shall become old in the earth', 
 And its stock die in the ground', 
 
 9 Yet through the scent of water it will bud', 
 And bring forth boughs like a plant. 
 
 10 But man' dieth', and wasteth away' ; 
 
 ( t ( t ( 
 
 Yes\ man v yieldeth his breath', and where is' he' ? 
 
 11 As the waters fail from the sea, 
 
 And the flood decayeth and drieth up', 
 
 12 So man lieth down', and riseth not v : 
 
 ( i ( 
 
 Till the heavens be no more 1 ', they shall not awake, 
 
 Nor be raised out of their sleep. 
 
 13 that thou wouldst hide me in the grave 1 ", 
 
 That thou wouldst keep me secret/ until thy wrath is 
 
 past\ 
 That thou wouldst appoint me a set time, and remember 
 
 me! 
 
 14 If a man dieth', shall he live again*" ? 
 
 All the days of my appointed time will I wait', till my 
 change shall come. 
 
 LESSON XL VII. 
 
 Cain and abel. — Genesis iv. 3 — 15. 
 
 And Abel was a keeper of sheep', but Cain was a tiller of 
 the ground. And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain 
 brought of the fruit of the ground an offering to the Lord. And 
 Abel', he also brought of the firstlings of his flock', and of the 
 fat thereof. And the Lord had respect to Abel', and his of- 
 fering : but to Cain'' and to his'' offering' he had not respect. 
 And Cain was very wroth'', and his countenance fell. And 
 
THE HOST OF NIGHT. 201 
 
 the Lord said to Cain', why art thou wroth' 1 and why is thy 
 countenance fallen' 1 If thou doest weir, shalt thou not be 
 accepted' ? and if thou doest not'' well', sin lieth at the door. 
 
 And to thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him. 
 
 And Cain talked with Abel his brother' ; and it came to 
 pass when they were in the field', that Cain rose up against 
 Abel his brother', and slew him. And the Lord said to Cain'', 
 Where is Abel', thy brother' ? And he said', I know not : Am 
 I my brother's keeper 1 ' ? And he said, what hast thou done 5 ' ? 
 
 the voice of thy brother's blood crieth to me from the ground. 
 
 And now art thou cursed from the earth', which hath opened 
 her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from the ground' ; 
 when thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield to 
 thee its strength. A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in 
 the earth. And Cain said to the Lord', My punishment is 
 greater than I can bear. Behold thou hast driven me this day 
 from the face of the earth ; and from thy face shall I be hid ; 
 and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth ; and it 
 will come to pass', that eveiy one that findeth me will slay me. 
 And the Lord said to him', Therefore, whoever slayeth Cain 1 ', 
 vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord 
 set a mark upon Cain', lest any finding him should kill him. 
 
 LESSON XL VIII. 
 
 THE HOST OF NIGHT. 
 
 The first and third alternate lines have three feet each ; the 
 second and fourth lines have two feet each. The first foot in 
 each line is either a trochee or iambus, or spondee ; oftenest a 
 trochee. The other feet are generally iambic. 
 
 1. Look at the host of night' — 
 
 These silent stars' ! 
 What have they known of blight'. 
 Or heard of wars' ! 
 
 2. Were they not marshall'd there, 
 
 These fires sublime, 
 
202 the reader's guide. 
 
 Gemming the midnight air'. 
 Ere earth knew time ? 
 
 3. Shine they for ought but earth 1 ", 
 
 These silent stars'" ! 
 And when they sprung to birth', 
 Who broke the bars'", 
 
 4. And let their radiance out 5 ", 
 
 To kindle space 1 " ? 
 When rang God's morning shout' 
 O'er the glad race ! 
 
 5. Are they imbed'ded there 5 " — 
 
 These silent stars' ? 
 
 Or do they circle air', 
 On brilliant' cars' ? 
 
 6. Unfading things', impearl'd 
 
 On night's brow coof, 
 In mercy to the world', 
 So beautiful' ! 
 
 7. Are they all desolate — ■ 
 
 These silent stars'" — 
 Hung in their spheres by fate 
 Which nothing mars'" ? 
 
 8. .Is young life springing" there, 
 
 Mid stars and dew 1 " ; 
 Can Death', or Pain', or Care', 
 Float up the blu'e^ ? 
 
 9. Or can thy searching eye' 
 
 See naught that saves' ! — 
 Is there mortality', 
 
 And worms'" — and graves'" ! 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 10. Or is all'— all we see' — 
 
 These peerless gems^, 
 The immortal jewlry' 
 And diadems ? 
 
 11. Where is the tongue to tell' 
 
 Of things like these 1 ' 1 
 All Earth' — and Heaven' — and Hell', 
 Are mysteries ! 
 
 12. Curst man' ! — and hast thou pride', 
 
 That vauntest so 1 ' ? 
 By each' thou art defied', — 
 What dost thou^ know^? 
 
 203 
 
 LESSON XLIX. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Anapestic ; four feet in each line, with a short syllable 
 added to the end of the first and third line of each stanza. The 
 first foot of each line is generally a trochee. A trochee is oc- 
 casionally found in the place of the third foot. 
 
 1. How often I think on the scenes of my childhood', 
 
 The meadows and fields where the wild flowers grew ; 
 The orchards, the pond, the glade, and the wildwood', 
 And the social delights my infancy knew ; — 
 
 2. The dew-spangled lawn', and the green grassy meadow', 
 
 The copse where the birds warbled sweetly their lay' ; 
 Where oft in the wide-spreading trees' ample shadow', 
 We felt the sea breeze in the heat of the day. 
 
 3. I remember the road', with its winding and turning', 
 
 The green living hedge row that skirted the way' ; 
 The field it enclos'd, where the brick kiln was burning', 
 And the pits where they dug up the smooth yellow clay. 
 
 4. And I have not forgot, when a storm was a coming', 
 
 The hoarse rumbling noise of the waves of the sea 1 *, 
 
204 
 
 The old hollow log where the partridge was drumming', 
 And the wood-pecker pecking the hollow oak tree. 
 
 5. I remember the old fashion'd mansion we liv'd in', 
 
 With the bay and the beach, and the ocean in view' ; 
 The swamp and the brake', where the singing birds built 
 in', 
 And the tree by the lane where the thorn apples grew. 
 
 6. In that old fashion'ed house', in this lov'd situation', 
 
 With small panes of glass, and the clean oaken floors, 
 Content was our lot, and no fear of invasion' ; 
 Not a bar', nor a lock', nor a bolt' to the doors. 
 
 7. But what was the cause of that tranquil enjoyment' 1 
 
 Not the house, nor the fields', nor the prospects' so rare ; 
 Not the orchards', nor pond', nor rural employment', 
 But the dearly lov'd friends of my bosom were there. 
 
 8. And the day that we parted', the heart rending anguish' 
 
 No pen can describe', neither pencil pourtray' ; 
 To me all the beauties around seem'd to languish', 
 And all the gay scenes quickly faded away. 
 
 
 LESSON L. 
 
 CLING NOT TO EARTH. 
 
 Iambic. Three feet in each line; but the last foot in each 
 stanza is a pyrrhic. 
 
 1. Cling not to earth' — there's nothing there', 
 However lov'd' — however fair', 
 
 But on its features still must wear' 
 The impress of mortality. 
 
 2. The voy'ger on the boundless deep', 
 Within his barque' may smile or 
 But bear him on' — he will not weep' 
 
 To leave its wild uncertainty. 
 
HOLINESS TO THE LORD. 205 
 
 3. Cling not to earth' — as well we may' 
 Thrust Asia's serpent's wanton play', 
 That glitters only to betray' 
 
 To death 1 ' or else to misery. 
 
 4. Dream not of Friendship' — there may be 
 A word', a smile, a grasp' for thee*" — 
 
 But wait the hour of need'', and see v — 
 But wonder not' — their fallacy. 
 
 5. Think not of Beauty' ; — like the rest' 
 It bears a lustre on its crest 1 " — 
 
 But short the time ere stands confess 
 Its falsehood' — or its frailty.* 
 
 6. Then rest no more so fondly on' 
 
 The flowers of earth around thee strown' ; — 
 They'll do awhile to sp6rt upon', 
 But not to love so fervently. 
 
 LESSON LI. 
 
 HOLINESS TO THE LORD. 
 
 Iambic. Three feet in a verse. In the following piece the 
 voice is kept up, without a cadence, from the beginning to the 
 end. 
 
 Write*' on your garnered treasures', 
 Write'' on your choicest pleasures', 
 Upon things new and old', 
 The precious stone and gold' ; — 
 5. On outward riches — write' — 
 On bosomed' riches — write*" — 
 Wife* — husband'— children' — friends h ; — 
 On all that goodness lends' ; — 
 
 • The author must have intended that this word should be pronounced 
 with three syllables, thus, fra-il-ty ; but this is too great a poetical li- 
 cense. 
 
 18 
 
206 
 
 On altars where you kneel ; — 
 
 10. Where Mercy doth reveal' 
 
 Herself h ; — on your good name', 
 Upon your cherished fame', — 
 On every pleasant thing' ; — 
 On stores that Heaven doth fling' 
 
 15. Into your basket' ; — write 4, ! 
 Upon the smiles of God', — 
 Upon his scourging rod' ; — 
 Write 4, on your inmost heart' ; 
 Write 4, upon every part' 
 
 20. Of thy mysterious frame 1 ' : — 
 To Him 1 ', from whom it came', — 
 To Him^, who claims the whole', 
 Time 4 ", talent', body', souF, — 
 To whom small birds belong', 
 
 25. And worlds that wheel in song', 
 Ocean and little rills', 
 The everlasting hills', 
 Whose shadowing wings as well' 
 Fold heaven', as the broad helF ; — 
 
 30. Who moves the planets' dance', 
 Who marks the blade's advance', — 
 Whose coming stirs the dead' — 
 Write 4, ! — (for it shall be read', 
 When finally expire' 
 
 35. Suns on their funeral pyre', — ) 
 Upon his footstool-write 4, ! — 
 Upon his throne — go, write *• — 
 
 Holiness to the Lord ! 
 
I SHALL BE SATISFIED. 207 
 
 LESSON LII. 
 
 I SHALL BE SATISFIED. 
 
 Anapestic. The first and third lines of each stanza have 
 four feet ; the second and fourth, three. The first foot is 
 generally an iambus, or a spondee. 
 
 1. If I, in thy likeness, O Lord', may awake', 
 
 And shine a pure image of thee', 
 Then I shall be satisfied when I can break' 
 The fetters of flesh', and be free ! 
 
 2. I know the stained tablet must first be washed white', 
 
 To let thy bright features be drawn ^ ; 
 I know I must suffer the darkness of night', 
 To welcome the coming of dawn : 
 
 3. But I shall be satisfied when I can cast' 
 
 The shadows of nature all by^ ; 
 When the cold', heavy world' from my vision has past', 
 To let the soulj open her eye. 
 
 4. I gladly shall feel the blest morn drawing near', 
 
 When time's dreamy fancy shall fade', 
 If then v in thy likeness I may but appear', 
 And rise'' in thy beauty arrayed. 
 
 5. To see thee in glory', O Lord' ! as thou art', 
 
 From this mortal, perishing clay' 
 The spirit im'mortal in peace would depart', 
 And joyous mount up her bright way. 
 
 6. When on*" thine own image, in me^, thou hast smiled' 
 
 Within thy blest mansion', and when' 
 The arms of my Father encircle his child' — 
 Oh* ! I shall be satisfied then ! 
 
208 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON LIII. 
 
 THE ADVENTURE OF A MASON. 
 
 There was once upon a time a poor mason', or brick -layer 
 in Granada, who kept all the saints' days and holidays', and 
 saint Monday' into the bargain', and yet', with all his devotion', 
 he grew poorer, and poorer, and could scarcely earn bread for 
 his numerous family. One night he was roused from his first 
 sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it', and beheld 
 before him a tall', meager', cadaverous looking priest. "Hark 
 ye, honest friend'," said the strang'er, " I have observed that 
 you are a good Christian', and one to be trusted', will you un- 
 dertake a job this very night' ?" " With all my heart', Senor 
 Padre,* on condition that I am paid accordingly." 
 
 " That' you shall be, but you must suffer yourself to be blind- 
 folded." 
 
 To this' the mason made no objection' ; so being hood- wink- 
 ed', he was led by the priest through various rough lanes, and 
 winding passages', until they stopped before the poital of a 
 house. The priest then applied a key', turned a creaking lock' 
 and opened what sounded like a ponderous door. They enter- 
 ed' ; the door was closed and bolted', and the mason was con- 
 ducted through an echoing corridor and spacious hall', to an in- 
 terior part of the building. Here the bandage was removed 
 from his eyes', and he found himself in a patio,f or court', dimly 
 lighted by a single lamp. 
 
 In the center', was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain', 
 under which the priest requested him to form a small vault' ; 
 bricks and mortar being at hand for the purpose. He accord- 
 ingly worked all night', but without finishing the job. Just be- 
 fore day-break the priest put a piece of gold into his hand^, and 
 having again blindfolded him', conducted him back to his dwell- 
 ing. 
 
 " Are you willing'," said he', " to return and complete your 
 work' ?" 
 
 " Gladly, Senor Padre', provided I am as well paid." 
 
 " Well, then', to-morrow 1 " at midnight' I will call again." 
 
 * Spanish title for a Priest ; pronounced, nearly, Sane-yur Pah dra; 
 first a as in father ; second as in late, but short, 
 f A Spanish word. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF A MASON. 209 
 
 He did so and the vault was completed. " Now," said the 
 priest', " you must help me to bring forth the bodies that are to 
 be buried in this vault." 
 
 The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words' ; he 
 followed the priest with trembling steps' into a retired chamber 
 of the mansion', expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of 
 death', but was relieved', on perceiving three or four portly jars 
 standing in one corner. They were evidently full of money' ; 
 and it was with great labor that he and the priest carried them 
 forth and consigned them to their tomb. The vault was then 
 closed', the pavement replaced', and all traces of the work ob- 
 literated. 
 
 The mason was again hood -winked and led forth by a route 
 different from that by which he had come. After they had 
 wandered for a long time through a perplexed maze of lanes 
 and alleys', they halted. The priest then put two pieces of 
 gold into his hand'. " Wait here," said he, " until you hear 
 the cathedral bell toll for matins. If you presume to uncover 
 your eyes before that' time', evil will befal you." So saying 
 he departed. 
 
 The mason waited faithfully', amusing himself by weighing 
 the gold pieces in his hand', and clinking them against each oth- 
 er. The moment the cathedral rung its matin peal, he uncov- 
 ered his eyes and found himself on the banks of the Xenil ;* 
 from whence he made the best of his way home, and reveled 
 with his family for a whole fortnight on the profits of his two 
 night's work' ; after which he was as poor as ever. 
 
 He continued to work a little, and pray a good deal', and 
 keep holidays and saints' days from year to year', while his 
 family grew up as gaunt and ragged as a crew of gipsies. 
 
 As he was seated one morning at the door of his house', he 
 was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon who was noted for own- 
 ing many houses', and being a griping landlord. 
 
 The man of the money eyed him', for a moment', from be- 
 neath a pair of shagged eye-brows. 
 
 " I am told, friend', that you are very poor." 
 
 " There is no denying the fact, Senor t ; it speaks for it- 
 self." 
 
 " I presume, then', you will be glad of a job', and will work 
 cheap'." 
 
 " As cheap, my master', as any mason in Granada." 
 
 " That's what I want. 1 have an old house fallen to decay', 
 
 * Pronounced Zenil. 
 f Spanish for Sir. 
 
 18* 
 
210 
 
 that costs more money than it is worth to keep it in repair', for 
 nobody will live in it' ; so I must contrive to patch it up and 
 keep it together at as small expense as possible." 
 
 The mason was accordingly conducted to a huge deserted 
 house that seemed going to ruin. Passing through several 
 empty halls and chambers', he entered an inner court where 
 his eye was caught by an old Moorish fountain. He paused for 
 a moment. " It seems," said he', " as if I had been in this place 
 before' : but it is like a dream. Pray who occupied this house 
 formerly' ?" 
 
 "A pest upon him' !" said the landlord ; " It was an old mi- 
 serly priest', who cared for nobody but himself. He was said 
 to be immensely rich\ and, having no relations', it was thought 
 he would leave all his tressure to the church. He died sud- 
 denly', and the priests and friars thronged to take possession of 
 his wealth', but nothing could they find' but a few ducats in a 
 leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me' ; for since 
 his death the old fellow continues to occupy my house, without 
 paying rents', and there's no taking the law of a dead man. — 
 The people pretend to hear the clinking of gold, all night long 
 in the chamber where the old priest slept', as if he were count- 
 ing over his money, and sometimes a groaning and moaning 
 about the court. Whether true or false, these stories have 
 brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will remain 
 in it." 
 
 " Enough'," said the mason sturdily' — " Let me live in your 
 house rent free', until some better tenant presents', and I will 
 engage to put it in repair', and quiet the troubled spirits that 
 disturb it. I am a good Christian and a poor man', and am not 
 to be daunted by the devil himself , even though he come in 
 the shape of a big bag of money." 
 
 The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted' ; he 
 moved with his family into the house, and fulfilled all his en- 
 gagements. By little and little he restored it to its former state. 
 The clinking of gold was no longer heard at night in the cham- 
 ber of the defunct priest', but begun to be heard by day in the 
 pocket of the living mason. In a word', he increased rapidly in 
 wealth', to the admiration of all his neighbors', and became one 
 of the richest men in Granada. He gave large sums to the 
 church by way', no doubt', of satisfying his conscience', and 
 never revealed the secret of the wealth until, on his death-bed', 
 to his son and heir. 
 
THE TRUANT. 211 
 
 LESSON LIV. 
 
 THE TRUANT. 
 
 Since writing the foregoing pages', we have had a scene of 
 petty tribulation in the Alhambra which has thrown a cloud 
 over the sunny countenance of Dolores*. This little damsel 
 has a female passion for pets of all kinds', from the superabun- 
 dant, kindness of her disposition. One of the ruined courts of 
 the Alhambra is thronged with her favorites. A stately pea- 
 cock and his hen seem to hold regal sway here over pompous 
 turkeys', querulous guinea fowls', and a rabble rout of common 
 cocks and hens. The great delight of Dolores, however', has 
 for some time past been centered in a youthful pair of pigeons', 
 which have lately entered into the holy state of wedlock', and 
 which have even supplanted a tortoise shell cat and kitten in 
 her affections. 
 
 As a tenement for them to commence house keeping', she 
 had fitted up a small chamber', adjacent to the kitchen', the 
 window of which looked into one of the quiet Moorish courts. 
 Here they lived in happy ignorance of any world beyond the 
 court, and its sunny roofs. In vain they aspired to soar above 
 the battlements', or to mount to the summit of the towers. — 
 Their virtuous union was at length crowned by two spotless 
 and milk white eggs', to the great joy of their cherishing little 
 mistress. Nothing could be more praiseworthy than the con- 
 duct of the young married folks on this occasion. They took 
 turns to sit upon the nest until the eggs were hatched', and 
 while their callow progeny required warmth and shelter. While 
 one thus staid at home, the other foraged abroad for food, and 
 brought home abundant supplies. 
 
 This scene of conjugal felicity has suddenly met with a re- 
 verse. Early this morning', as Dolores was feeding the male 
 pigeon', she took a fancy to give him a peep at the great world. 
 Opening a window', therefore, which looks down upon the val- 
 ley of the Darro, she launched him, at once, beyond the walls 
 of the Alhambra. For the first time in his life, the astonished 
 bird had to try the full vigor of his wings. He swept down in- 
 to the valley", and then rising upwards with a surge', soared al- 
 most to the clouds. Never before had he risen to such a height', 
 or experienced such delight in flying' ; and like a young spend- 
 
 * Do-lo-res. 
 
212 the reader's guide. 
 
 htrift', just come to his estate', he seemed giddy with excess of 
 liberty', and with the boundless field of action suddenly opened 
 to him. For the whole day he has been circling about in capri- 
 cious flights', from tower to tower', and from tree to tree. Ev- 
 ery attempt has been made, in vain', to lure him back', by scat- 
 tering grain upon the roofs' ; he seems to have lost all thought 
 of home', of his tender help mate', and his callow young. To 
 add to the anxiety of Dolores', he has been joined by two palo- 
 mas ladrones', or robber-pigeons, whose instinct it is to entice 
 wandering pigeons to their own dove-cotes. The fugitive', like 
 many other thoughtless youths on their first launching upon the 
 world', seems quite fascinated with these knowing', but grace- 
 less companions', who have undertaken to show him life', and 
 introduce him to society. He has been soaring with them over 
 all the roofs and steeples of Granada. A thunder shower has 
 passed over the city', but he has not sought his home ; night 
 has closed in', and still he comes not. To deepen the pathos of 
 the affair', the female pigeon', after remaining several hours on 
 the nest without being relieved', at length went forth to seek her 
 recreant mate ; but stayed away so long', that the young ones 
 perished for want of the warmth and shelter of the parent bo- 
 som. 
 
 At a late hour in the evening', word was brought to Dolores 
 that the truant bird had been seen upon the towers of the 
 GeneralhTe*. A council of war was forthwith held in the cham 
 ber of Tiaf Antonia. The Generaliffe is a distinct jurisdiction 
 from the Alhambra, and of course some punctilio, if not jeal- 
 ousy', exists between their custodians. It was determined, there- 
 fore, to send Pepe',^: the stuttering lad of the gardens', as an am- 
 bassador to the Administrador',§ requesting that if such fugitive 
 should be found in his dominions', he might be given up as a 
 subject of the Alhambra. Pepe departed', accordingly', on his 
 diplomatic expedition', through the moonlight groves and ave- 
 nues', but returned in an hour with the afflicting intelligence that 
 no such bird was to be found in the dove-cote of the Generaliffe. 
 The Administrador', however', pledged his sovereign word, that 
 if such vagrant should appear there', even at midnight', he 
 should instantly be arrested and sent back prisoner to his little 
 black eyed mistress. 
 
 Thus stands this melancholy affair', which has occasioned 
 
 * Gen-e-ra,lif-fe. 
 t Tee-a. 
 t Pa.pe. 
 § Administrator, or governor. 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 213 
 
 much distress throughout the palace, and has sent the inconso- 
 lable Dolores to a sleepless pillow. " Sorrow endureth for a 
 night," says the proverb, " but joy ariseth in the morning." — 
 The first object that met my eyes', on leaving my room this 
 morning', was Dolores with the truant pigeon in her hand', and 
 her eyes sparkling with joy. He had appeared at an early 
 hour on the battlements', hovering shyly about from roof to 
 roof ', but at length entered the window', and surrendered him- 
 self prisoner. He gained little credit', however', for his return', 
 for the ravenous manner in which he devoured the food set be- 
 fore him', showed that', like the prodigal son', he had been driv- 
 en home by sheer famine. Dolores upbraided him for his faith- 
 less conduct', calling him all manner of vagrant names', though 
 woman-like', she fondled him at the same time to her bosom', 
 and covered him with kisses. I observed, however', that she 
 had taken care to clip his wings' to prevent all future soarings' ; 
 a precaution which I mention for the benefit of all those' who 
 have truant wives', or wandering husbands'. 
 
 More than one valuable moral might be drawn from the sto- 
 ry of Dolores and her pigeon. 
 
 LESSON LV. 
 
 IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 
 
 I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste 
 and of virtue is the same ; or that they may always be expect- 
 ed to co-exist in an equal degree. More powerful correctives 
 than taste can apply, are necessary for reforming the corrupt 
 propensities which too frequently prevail among mankind. Ele- 
 gant speculations are sometimes found to float on the surface of 
 the mind', while bad passions possess the interior regions of the 
 heart/'. At the same time this cannot but be admitted', that the 
 exercise of taste is', in its native tendency', moral and purifying. 
 From reading the most admired productions of genius', whether 
 in poetry or prose, almost every one rises with some good im- 
 pressions left on his mind' ; and though these may not always 
 be durable', they are at least to be ranked among the means of 
 disposing the heart to virtue. One thing is certain', and I shall 
 hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully', that without 
 possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree', no man 
 can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He 
 
214 
 
 THE READER S GUIDE. 
 
 must feel what a good' man feels', if he expects greatly to move 
 or interest mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honor', 
 virtue, magnanimity', and public spirit^, that only can kindle 
 that fire of genius', and call up in the mind those high ideas', 
 which attract the admiration of ages' ; and if this spirit be ne- 
 cessary to produce the most distinguished efforts of eloquence', 
 it must be necessary also to our relishing them with proper taste 
 and feeling. 
 
 LESSON LVI. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF INDIAN FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 
 
 We are happy in having buried under ground the red axe', 
 that has so often been dyed with the blood of our brethren. 
 Now, in this fort', we inter the axe', and plant the tree of Peace. 
 We plant a tree whose top will reach the Sun', and its branches 
 spread abroad', so that it shall be seen afar off. May its growth 
 never be stifled and choked' ; but may it shade both your coun- 
 try and ours' with its leaves. Let us make fast its roots', and 
 extend them to the uttermost of your colonies. If the French 
 should come to shake this tree, we should know it by the mo- 
 tion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great 
 Spirit allow us to rest in tranquillity upon our mats', and never 
 again dig up the axe to cut down the tree of Peace ! Let the 
 earth be trod hard over it', where it lies buried. Let a strong 
 stream run under the pit', to wash the evil away out of our 
 sight and remembrance. The fire that had long burned in Al- 
 bany is extinguished. The bloody bed is washed clean', and 
 the tears are wiped from our eyes. We now renew the cove- 
 nant chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as 
 silver', and not suffered to contract any rust. Let not any one 
 pull away his arm from it. 
 
PARABLES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT. 215 
 
 LESSON LVII. 
 
 PARABLES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT. Judges IX, 7, 20. 
 
 7 Jotham went and stood in the top of mount Gerizim',* and 
 lifted up his voice and cried', and said to them',Hearken' to 
 me, ye men of Shechem',"(" that God may hearken to you. 
 
 8 The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them' ; 
 
 9 and they said to the olive-tree' Reign thou over us. But 
 the olive-tree said to them', Should I leave my fatness', 
 with which by me they honor God and man , and go to be 
 
 10 promoted over the trees' ? And the trees said to the fig- 
 
 11 tree, Come thou and reign over us'. But the fig-tree said 
 to them', Should I forsake my sweetness', and my good fruit' 
 
 12 and go to be promoted over the trees 1 '? Then said the 
 
 13 trees to the vine, Come thou, and reign over us. And the 
 vine said to them', Should I leave my wine'', which cheer- 
 eth God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees'^ ? 
 
 14 Then said all the trees to the bramble, Come thou, and 
 
 15 reign over lis. And the bramble said to the trees', If in 
 truth ye anoint me king over you, then come, and put your 
 trust in my shadow' : and if not', let fire come out of the 
 
 16 bramble', and devour the cedars of Lebanon. Now there- 
 fore', if ye have done truly and sincerely in that ye have 
 made Abimelech king', and if ye have dealt well with Je- 
 rubbaal, and his house', and have done to him according to 
 
 17 the deserving of his hands' : (for my father fought for you, 
 and adventured his life far, and delivered you from the 
 
 18 hand of Midian': and ye have risen u$> against my father's 
 house this day', and have slain his sons', seventy persons', 
 upon one stone, and have made Abimelech', the son of his 
 maid-servant', king over the men of Shechem', because he 
 
 19 is your brother' ;) if ye then have dealt truly and sincerely 
 with Jerubbaal', and with his house this day,' then rejoice 
 
 20 ye in Abimelech', and let him rejoice also in you: but if 
 not, let fire come out from Abimelech', and devour the men 
 of Shechem', and the house of Millo ; and let fire come out 
 from the men of Shechem', and from the house of Millo, 
 and devour Abimelech. 
 
 * Gerizim ; second syllable long. 
 t Shek-em. 
 
216 the reader's guide. 
 
 2 Samuel xii. 1 — 7. 
 
 1 And the Lord sent Nathan to David. And he came to him, 
 and said to him', There were two men in one city' ; the one 
 
 2 rich', and the other poor'. The rich man had very numer- 
 
 3 ous flocks and herds' ; but the poor man had nothing save 
 one little ewe lamb', which he had bought and nourished ; 
 and it grew up together with him 1 ", and with his children ; 
 it did eat of* his own meat', and drank of his own cup', and 
 
 4 lay in his bosom', and was to him as a daughter. And 
 there came a traveler to the rich man', and he spared to 
 take of his own flock and of his own herd', to dress for the 
 way-faring man that had come to him ; but took the poor 
 man's lamb', and dressed it for the man that had come to 
 
 5 him. And David's anger was greatly kindled against the 
 man v ; and he said to Nathan', As the Lord liveth', the man 
 
 6 that hath done this thing shall surely die : And he shall 
 restore the lamb fourfold', because he did this thing', and 
 
 7 because he had no pity. And Nathan said to David, Thou 
 art the man. 
 
 2 Kings xiv. 9—10. 
 
 9 And Jehoash the king of Israel sent to Amaziah king of 
 Judah', saying', The thistle that was in Lebanon sent to the 
 cedar that was in Lebanon', saying', Give thy daughter to 
 my son for a wife : and there passed by a wild beast that 
 
 10 was in Lebanon', and trod down' the thistle. Thou has in- 
 deed smitten Edom', and thy heart hath lifted thee up' ; 
 glory of this', and tarry at home ; for why shouldst thou 
 
 meddle to thy hur*, that thou shouldst fall', even thou^, and 
 
 Judah with thee ? 
 
 Ezekiel xix. 1 — 9. 
 
 1 Moreover take thou up a lamentation for the princes of Isra- 
 el', and say', 
 
 2 What is thy mother' ? A lioness' : she lay down among li- 
 
 3 ems', she nourished her whelps among young lions. And 
 she brought up one of her whelps' : it became a young 
 lion', and it learned to catch the prey' ; it devoured men'. 
 
 4 The nations also heard of him' ; he was taken in their pit', 
 and they brought him with chains to the land of Egypt. 
 
JOB- REBUKED BY ELIPHAZ. 217 
 
 5 Now when she saw that she had waited', and her hope was 
 
 lost 1 ', then she took another of her whelps', and made him r 
 
 6 a young lion. And he went up and down among the lions', 
 he became a young lion', and learned to catch the prey', and 
 
 7 devoured men. And he knew their desolate palaces', and he 
 laid waste their cities ; and the land was desolate, and the 
 
 8 fulness of it', by the noise of his roaring. Then the nations 
 set against him on every side from the provinces', and 
 
 9 spread their net over him : he was taken in their pit. And 
 they put him in custody in chains', and brought him to the 
 king of Babylon : they brought him into holds 1 ', that his 
 voice should no more be heard upon the mountains of Israel. 
 
 LESSON LVIII. 
 
 JOB REBUKED BY ELIPHAZ. Job iv. 
 
 1 Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered and said' ; 
 
 2 If we essay to commune with thee', wilt thou be grieved' ? 
 But who can refrain from speaking' ? 
 
 3 Behold', thou hast instructed many', 
 
 And thou hast strengthened the weak hands'. 
 
 4 Thy words have upheld him that was falling', 
 And thou hast strengthened the feeble knees. 
 
 5 But now it hath come upon thee', and thou faintest' ; 
 
 It toucheth thee', and thou art troubled'. 
 
 6 Is not this thy fear', thy confidence', 
 
 Thy hope', and the uprightness of thy ways' ? 
 
 7 Remember', I pray thee', who ever perished', being inno- 
 
 cent' 1 
 
 Or where were the righteous cut off' 1 
 
 8 Even as I have seen', they that plow iniquity', 
 And sow wickedness', reap the same'. 
 
 By the blast of God they perish', 
 And by the breath of his nostrils are they consumed'. 
 19 
 
218 THE 
 
 10 The roaring of the lion', and the voice of the fierce lion', 
 And the teeth of the young lions', are broken. 
 
 11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey 1 ", 
 
 And the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad. 
 
 12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, 
 And my ear received a small sound of it. 
 
 13 In thoughts from the visions of the night', 
 When deep sleep falleth on men', 
 
 14 Fear came upon me', and trembling', 
 
 Which made all my bones to shake. 
 
 15 Then a spirit passed before my face ; 
 The hair of my flesh stood up ; 
 
 16 It stood still, but I could not discern its form' ; 
 An image was before my eyes'' ; 
 
 There was silence, — and I heard a voice saying', 
 
 17 Shall mortal man be more just than God' ? 
 
 Shall a man' be more pure than his Maker' ? 
 
 18 Behold', he put no trust in his servants' ; 
 And his angels he charged with folly' : 
 
 19 How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay 1 ', 
 Whose foundation is in the dust 1 ", who are crushed before 
 
 the moth^ ? 
 
 20 They are destroyed from morning to evening' ; 
 They perish for ever without any regarding it. 
 
 21 Doth their excellence which is in them depart' ? 
 They die 1 ", even without wisdom. 
 
 LESSON LIX. 
 
 SINAI AT THE GIVING OF THE LAW. Exodus xix. 16 25. 
 
 16 And it came to pass on the third day in the morning', that 
 there were thunders and lightnings', and a thick cloud upon 
 the mount', and the voice of the trumpet exceedingloud'' ; so 
 
 17 that all the people that were in the camp trembled. And 
 Moses brought forth the people out of the camp' to meet with 
 
 1 8 God' ; and they stood at the nether part of the mount'. And 
 mount Sinai was altogether in a smoke b , because the Lord 
 descended upon it in fire'' : and the smoke of it ascended as 
 
the soul's defiance. 219 
 
 the smoke of a furnace', and the whole mount trembled great - 
 
 19 ly. And when the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and 
 grew louder and louder', Moses spoke, and God answered 
 
 20 him by a voice. And the Lord came down upon mount Si- 
 nai^, on the top of the mounf ; and the Lord called Moses 
 
 21 to the top of the mount'' ; and Moses went up. And the 
 
 Lord said to Moses', Go down', charge the people lest they 
 break through to the Lord to gaze% and many of them per- 
 
 22 ish. And let the priests also who come near to the Lord v , 
 
 sanctify themselves*" lest the Lord break forth upon them. 
 
 23 And Moses said to the Lord'', The people cannot come up 
 to mount Sinai ; for thou chargest us saying', Set bounds 
 
 24 about the mount', and sanctify it\ And the Lord said to 
 
 hirn^, Away', go down', and thou shalt come up', thou, and 
 Aaron with thee : but let not the priests' and the people' 
 
 break through', to come up to the Lord', lest he break forth 
 
 25 upon them. So Moses went down to the people', and spoke 
 to them. 
 
 LESSON LX. 
 
 Iambic verse ; eight lines in a stanza, alternating with lines 
 of four and three feet, except the last line which has but two ; — 
 but the last line of the last stanza has three feet. 
 
 1. I said to sorrow's awful storm', 
 
 That beat against my breast', 
 Rage on'' — thou may'st^ destroy this form', 
 
 And lay it low at rest 1 ", 
 But still the spirit', that now brooks' 
 
 Thy tempest raging high', 
 Undaunted on its fury looks' 
 
 With steadfast 
 
 eye. 
 
 I said to Penury's meagre train', 
 Come on'' — your threats I brave ; 
 
220 the reader's guide. 
 
 My last poor life-drop you may drain', 
 And crush me to the graved 
 
 Yet still, the spirit that endures', 
 Shall mock your force the while* 1 , 
 
 And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 
 With bitter smile. 
 
 3. I said to cold Neglect and Scorn', 
 
 Pass on 1, — I heed you not'' ; 
 
 Ye may pursue 1 ' me till my form' 
 
 And being are forgot % 
 Yet still the spirit', which you see' 
 
 Undaunted by your wiles', 
 Draws from its own nobility' 
 Its high-born smiles. 
 
 4. I said to Friendship's men'aced blow', 
 
 Strike deep — my heart shall bear 1 " ; 
 Thou canst but add one bitter wo 
 
 To those already there ; 
 Yet still the spirit that sustains' 
 
 This last'' severe distress', 
 Shall smile upon its keenest pains^, 
 And scorn redress. 
 
 5. I said to Death's uplifted dart', 
 
 Aim sure — O, why delay' 1 
 
 Thou wilt not find a fearful heart' — 
 A weak reluctant prey^ ; 
 
 For still'' the spirit', firm and free', 
 Triumphant in the last dismay', 
 s Wrapt in its own eternity', 
 
 Shall smiling pass away. 
 
FABLE OF THE WOOD ROSE AND THE LAUREL. 221 
 
 LESSON LXI. 
 
 FABLE OF THE WOOD ROSE AND THE LAUREL. 
 
 Iambic measure ; the lines of various lengths, containing 
 four, three, and two feet. 
 
 1 In these deep shades a flowret blows', 
 
 Whose leaves a thousand sweets disclose ; 
 
 With modest air it hides its charms', 
 
 And every breeze its leaves alarms' ; 
 5 Turns on the ground its bashful eyes', 
 
 And oft unknown^, neglected^, dies. 
 
 This flower', as late I careless strayed', 
 
 I saw in all its charms arrayed'. 
 
 Fast by the spot where low it grew', 
 10 A proud and flaunting Wood Rose blew'. 
 
 With haughty air her head she raised', 
 
 And on the beauteous plant she gazed. 
 
 While struggling passion swelled her breast', 
 
 She thus her kindling rage expressed' ; 
 
 15 " Thou worthless flower', 
 
 Go leave my bower, 
 And hide in humbler scenes thy head' ; 
 
 How dost thou dare', 
 
 Where roses are', 
 20 Thy scents to shed' 1 
 
 Go, leave my bower'', and live unknown' ; 
 I'll rule the field of flowers alone." 
 
 "And dost thou think'" — the laurel cried', 
 And raised its head with modest pride', 
 25 While on its little trembling tongue' 
 A drop of dew incumbent hung' — 
 
 " And dost thou think I'll leave this bower', 
 The seat of many a friendly flower 1 ', 
 
 The scene where first I grew' ? 
 30 Thy haughty reign will soon be o'er, 
 And thy frail form will bloom no more" ; 
 My N flower will perish too\ 
 
 19* 
 
222 the reader's guide, 
 
 But know', proud rose', 
 When winter's snows' 
 35 Shall fall where once thy beauties stood',. 
 My pointed leaf of shining green' 
 Will still amid the gloom be seen', 
 To cheer the leafless wood." 
 
 "Presuming fool' !" the Wood Rose cried', 
 
 40 And strove in vain her shame to hide' ; 
 
 But ah' ! no more the flower could say' ; 
 For', while she spoke', a transient breeze' 
 Came rustling through the neighboring trees 
 
 And bore her boasted charms away'. , 
 
 45 And such, said I', is beauty's power' ! 
 Like thee she falls, poor trifling flower' ; 
 
 And if she lives her little day h , 
 Life's winter comes with rapid pace, 
 And robs her form of every grace', 
 
 And steals her bloom away'. 
 
 50 But in thy form', thou Laurel green', 
 Fair Virtue's semblance soon is seen. 
 
 In life she cheers each different stage', 
 Spring's transient reign', and Summer's glow" 
 And Autumn mild', advancing slow', 
 
 And lights the eye of age. 
 
 LESSON LXII. 
 
 THE SOAP-BUBBLE. 
 
 Iambic ; four feet in each line. 
 
 1. Bright globe, upon the sunbeam tost', 
 Pure', sparkling', then forever lost' ; 
 No crested wave that glittering breaks'., 
 Nor pearl that Wealth admiring takes', 
 Nor diamond from Golconda's coast, 
 Can half thy changeful brilliance boast. 
 
THE CONSUMPTIVE. 223 
 
 2. Hast thou a voice to bid us see' 
 An emblem of our infancy', 
 
 Our reckless youth', our manhood's strife', 
 And all the painted gauds* of life' ? 
 
 3. Hope spreads her wing of plumage fair', 
 Rebuilds her castle bas'd on air' ; 
 
 Its turrets crown'd with frost-work bright', 
 Its portals fill'd with rosy light' ; 
 A breath of summer stirs the tree' ; — 
 Where is that gorgeous dome^ 1 — with thee\ 
 
 4. Behold', array'd in robes of light' 
 Young Beauty charms the gazer's sight ; 
 Fast in her steps the graces tread'', 
 
 The roseate chaplet decks her head' ; 
 But the brief garland fades away', 
 The bubble bursts 1 ", — and she is clay. 
 
 5. Dilate once more thy proudest size', 
 And deck thee in the rain-bow's' dies' ; 
 Thy boldest flight aspiring dare 1 ", 
 Then vanish to thy native air' ; 
 
 Love dazzles thus 1 * with borrow'd rays 1 ", 
 And thus the trusting heart betrays. 
 
 6. Again it swells'; that crystal round' 
 
 Soars', shines', expands', and seeks the ground' ; 
 Save': save' that frail and tinsel shell' ! 
 Where fled its fragments' 1 — who can tell'? 
 Thus, when the soul from dust is free', 
 Thus shall it gaze', O Earth', on thee'. 
 
 LESSON LXIII. 
 
 THE CONSUMPTIVE. 
 
 Iambic. Four and three feet alternating with each other, 
 
 1. No', never more' — my setting sun' 
 Hath sunk his evening rays ; 
 
 * Gaud is now obsolete ; something showy. 
 
224 the reader's guide. 
 
 And this poor heart is nearly done' 
 
 With hope of better days'. 
 I feel it in the clay cold hand', 
 
 The hard and fast expiring breath' ; 
 For now', so near the tomb I stand', 
 
 I breathe the chilling airs of death. 
 
 2. No , never more' — it all is vain' — 
 
 But O', how Memory leans^ 
 To see', and hear', and feel again' 
 
 Its youth inspiring scenes' ! 
 And deep the sigh that Memory heaves', 
 
 When, one by one', they all are fled', 
 As autumn gales on yellow leaves', 
 
 That wither on their woodland bed. 
 
 3. No, never more — I may not view' 
 
 The summer vale and hill', 
 The glorious heaven', the ocean's blue,' 
 
 The forests', dark and still'' — 
 The evening's beauty', once so dear', 
 
 That bears the glowing thoughts above, 
 When nature seems to breathe and hear' 
 
 The voiceless eloquence of love. 
 
 4* No, never more — when prisoners wait' 
 
 The death-call to their doom', 
 And see beyond their dungeon gate' 
 
 The scaffold and the tomb', 
 On the fair earth, and sun-bright heaven 5 
 
 Their gaze how fervently they cast' ! 
 So death to life a charm hath given', 
 
 And makes it loveliest at the last. 
 
 5, No, never more — and now farewell' : 
 
 The bitter word is said' ; 
 And soon above my green roofed cell' 
 
 The careless foot will tread. 
 My heart hath found its rest above', 
 
 The cares of earth are passing by ; 
 And O', it is a voice of love 1 ", 
 
 That whispers' — It is time to die 
 
ESCAPE FROM WINTER. 225 
 
 LESSON LXIV. 
 
 ESCAPE FROM AVINTER. 
 
 Anapeslic ; four feet in each line. 
 
 1. O, had I the wings of a swallow', I'd fly 
 
 Where the roses are blossoming all the year long' ; 
 Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye', 
 
 And the bills of the warblers are ever in song' ; 
 0, then I would fly from the cold and the snow', 
 
 And hie to the land of the orange and vine^, 
 And. carol the winters away in the glow' 
 
 That rolls o'er the evergreen bowers of the line. 
 
 2. Indeed I should gloomily steal o'er the deep', 
 
 Like the storm- loving petrel, that skims there alone' ; 
 I would take me a dear little martin to keep' 
 
 A sociable flight to the tropical zqne v ; 
 How cheerily', wing by wing', over the sea', 
 
 We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away' ! 
 And forever our song and our twitter should be', 
 
 " To the land where the year is eternally gay." 
 
 3. We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers', 
 
 And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm', 
 And live', like the bee', on its fruits and its flowers', 
 
 That always are flowing with honey and balm' ; 
 And there we would stay' till the winter is o'er', 
 
 And April is checkered with sunshine and rain' — 
 O, then we would fly from the far-distant shore', 
 
 Over island and wave', to oar country again'. 
 
 4. How light we would skim', where the billows are rolled', 
 
 Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime^ 
 And break on the beaches in surges of gold ^ 
 
 When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime' ! 
 We would touch for a while', as we traversed the ocean', 
 
 At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore^, 
 And winnow our wings with an easier motion', 
 
 Through the breath of the cedar that blows from the shore. 
 
226 
 
 And when we had rested our wings^, and had fed' 
 
 On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves^, 
 
 By the spirit of home and of infancy led', 
 
 We would hurry again to the land of our loves' ; 
 
 And when from the breast of the ocean would spring', 
 Far off in the distance, that dear native shore', 
 
 In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing', 
 " No land is so lovely', when winter is o'er'." 
 
 LESSON LXV. 
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 Iambic. The third and sixth lines of each stanza have three 
 feet, each ; the other lines, four each. 
 
 1. I'll tell you, friend', what sort of wife', 
 Whene'er I scan this scene of life', 
 
 Inspires my waking schemes' : 
 And when I sleep', with form so light', 
 Dances before my ravished sight', 
 
 In sweet aerial dreams. 
 
 2. The rose its blushes need not lend', 
 Nor yet the lily with them bend' 
 
 To captivate my eyes'. 
 Give me a cheek the heart obeys^, 
 And', sweetly mutable', displays' 
 
 Its feelings as they rise' ; 
 
 3. Features', where pensive', more than gay', — 
 Save when a rising smile doth play^, — 
 
 The sober' thought you see' ; 
 Eyes', that all soft and tender seem^, 
 And kind affections round them beam', 
 
 But most of alF, on me'; 
 
 4. A form', though not of finest mould', 
 Where yet a something' you behold' 
 
 Unconsciously doth please ; 
 Manners all graceful without art', 
 
A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 227 
 
 That to each look and word impart' 
 A modesty and ease. 
 
 5. But still her air', her face'', each charm', 
 Must speak a heart with feeling warra^ ; 
 
 And mind inform the whole' ; 
 
 With mind her mantling cheek must glow*" ; 
 
 Her voice 1 ", her beaming eye 1 ", must show' 
 An all-inspiring soul. 
 
 6. Ah ! could I such a being find', 
 And were her fate to mine but joined' 
 
 By Hymen's silken tie', 
 
 To her myself, my all I'd give', 
 
 For her alone delighted live', 
 For her consent to die. 
 
 7. Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed', 
 On the soft pillow of her breast' 
 
 My aching head I'd lay' ; 
 At her sweet smile each care should cease', 
 Her kiss infuse a balmy peace, 
 
 And drive my griefs away. 
 
 8. In turn', I'd soften all her' care ; 
 
 Each thought', each wish', each feeling' share ; 
 
 Should sickness e'er invade, 
 My voice should soothe each rising sigh', 
 My hand the cordial should supply' ; 
 
 I'd watch beside her bed'. 
 
 9. Should gathering clouds our sky deform', 
 My arms should shield her from the storm' ; 
 
 And', were its fury hurled 1 ", 
 My bosom to its bolts I'd bare ; 
 In her defence undaunted dare 
 
 Defy the opposing world'. 
 
 10. Together should our prayers ascend', 
 Together humbly would we bend' 
 
 To praise the Almighty name ; 
 And when I saw her kindling eye' 
 Beam upwards to her native sky 1 ", 
 
 My soul should catch the flame. 
 
228 the reader's guide. 
 
 11. Thus nothing should our hearts divide'', 
 But on our years serenely glide, 
 
 And all to love be given'. 
 And, when life's little scene was o'er', 
 We'd part, to meet and part no more, 
 
 But live and love in heaven. 
 
 LESSON LXVI. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM COWPER's CONVERSATION, 
 
 Iambic, five feet in a line ; — horoic verse, or epic poetry 
 
 1 Some fretful tempers wince at every touch' ; 
 
 You always do too little', or too much v ; 
 
 You speak with life^, in hopes to entertain V- - 
 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain'. 
 5 You fall at once into a lower' key ; — 
 
 That's worse — the dronepipe of a humble bee. 
 
 The southern sash admits too strong a light r ; 
 
 You rise and drop the curtain' — now it's night'. 
 
 He shakes with cold'' — you stir the fire 1 ', and strive' 
 10 To make a blaze^ — that's' roasting him alive. 
 
 Serve him with ven'son 1 ^, and he chooses fish' ; 
 
 With soal — that's just the sort he would not wish'. 
 
 He takes what he at first profess'd to lothe, 
 
 And in due time' feeds heartily on both ; 
 15 Yet still', o'erclouded with a constant frown', 
 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 
 Your hope to please him', vain' on every plan' ; 
 
 Himself should do that wonder', if he can'. 
 
 Alas' ! his efforts double his distress' ; 
 20 He likes yours little, and his own still less'. 
 
 Thus always teasing others', always teas'd^ 
 
 His only pleasure is' — to be dis'pleas'd. 
 
A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 229 
 
 LESSON LXVII. 
 
 A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 
 
 Most mistresses of families have a family receipt-book ; and 
 are apt to believe that no receipts are so good as their own. 
 
 With one of these notable ladies a young house keeper went 
 to pass a few days 1 ', both at her town' and country'-house. The 
 hostess was skilled, not only in culinary lore, but in economy ; 
 and was in the habit of setting on her table'', even when not 
 alone', whatever her taste' or carefulness, had led her to pot', 
 pickle or preserve, for occasional use. 
 
 Before a meager family dinner was quite over', a dish of Pot- 
 ted Sprats was set before ihe lady of the house, who, expatiating 
 on their excellence, derived from a family receipt' a century 
 old', prest her still unsatisfied guest to partake of them. 
 
 The dish was as good as much salt and little spice could 
 make if ; but it had one peculiarity' — it had a strong flavor of 
 garlick', and to garlick^ the poor guest had a great dislike. 
 
 But she was a timid woman' ; and good breeding', and what 
 she called benevolence, said, " persevere in swallowing'," 
 though her palate said, " no'." " Is it not excellent' ?" said the 
 hostess'. " Very' ;" faltered out the half-suffocated guest ; and 
 this was lie the first. " Did you ever eat any thing like it be- 
 fore ?" " Never'" — replied the other more firmly', for then 
 she knew that she spoke the truth', and longing to add', " and I 
 hope that I shall never eat any thing like it again'." "I will 
 give you the receipt'," said the lady kindly' ; it will be of use 
 to you as a young house-keeper' ; for it is economical' as well 
 as good', and serves to make out when we have a scrap-dinner. 
 My servants often dine on it. " " I wonder you can get any ser- 
 vants to live with you," thought the guest' ; " but I dare say 
 that you do not get any one to stay long !" " You do not, how- 
 ever', eat as if you liked it'." " O yes' indeed\ I do very 
 much," (lie the second',) she replied' ; " but you forget that I 
 have already eaten a good dinner' ;" (lie the third'. Alas' ! 
 what had benevolence', so called', to answer for on this occa- 
 sion' !) 
 
 " Well', I am delighted to find that you like my sprats^" said 
 the flattered hostess', while the cloth was removing ; adding', 
 " John' ! do not let those sprats be eaten in the kitchen !" an 
 order which the guest heard with indescribable alarm. 
 
 The next day they were to set off for the country-house', or 
 20 
 
230 the reader's guide. 
 
 cottage'. When they were seated in the carriage', a large box 
 was put in', and the guest fancied that she smelt garlick' ; but 
 
 " Where ignorance is bliss'', 
 Tis folly to be wise." 
 
 She therefore asked no questions' ; but tried to enjoy the pres- 
 ent, regardless of the future. At a certain distance they stop- 
 ped to bait the horses. There the guest expected that they 
 should get out', and take some refreshment ; but her economical 
 companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, observed', " I al- 
 ways sit in the carriage on these occasions. If one gets out, 
 the people at the inn expect one to order a luncheon. I there- 
 fore take mine with me." So saying, John was summoned to 
 drag the carriage out of sight of the inn windows. She then 
 unpacked the box', took out of it knives and forks', plates', &c', 
 and also took a jar u which', impregnating the air with its efflu- 
 via, even before it was opened', disclosed to the alarmed guest 
 that its contents were the dreaded sprats ! 
 
 " Alas' !" thought she, " Pandora's box was nothing to this' ! 
 
 for in that', hope remained behind ; but at the bottom of this b 
 is despair' !" In vain did the unhappy lady declare 1 *, (lie the 
 fourth',) that she had no appetite', and', (lie the fifth',) that she 
 never ate in the morning." Her hostess would take no denial. 
 However', she contrived to get a piece of sprat down', envelop- 
 ed in bread' ; and the rest she threw out of the window', when 
 her companion was looking another way', — who, on turning 
 round', exclaimed', " so you have soon despatched the fish' ! let 
 me give you another' ; do not refuse*" because you think that 
 they are nearly finished'' ; I assure you that there are several 
 
 left' ; and', (delightful information' !) we shall have a fresh sup- 
 ply to-morrow' !" However', this time she was allowed to 
 know when she had eaten enough' ; and the travellers proceed- 
 ed to their journey's end. 
 
 This' day, the sprats did not appear at dinner ; — but, there 
 being only a few left', they were kept for a bonne louche,* and 
 reserved for supper', a meal, of which', this evening', on account 
 of indisposition', the hostess did not partake, and was therefore 
 at liberty to attend entirely to the wants of her guest', who 
 would have declined eating also', but it was impossible ; she had 
 just declared that she was quite welF, and had often owned 
 that she enjoyed a piece of supper after an early dinner. There 
 
 * Pronounced bon boosh. A French phrase for last bit, a choice bit. 
 
PILGRIMAGE- TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 231 
 
 was, therefore, no retreat foom the maze in which her insincer- 
 ity had involved her ; and eat' she must : but', when she again 
 smelt on her plate the nauseous composition^, which being near 
 the bottom of the pot was more disagreeable than ever', human 
 patience and human infirmity could bear no more ; the scarce- 
 ly tasted morsel fell from her lips', and she rushed precipitately 
 into the open air', almost disposed to execrate', in her breast', 
 potted sprats', the good breeding of her officious hostess', and 
 even Benevolence' itself. 
 
 LESSON LXVIII. 
 
 PILGRIMAGE TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. EXTRACTS. 
 
 It was not dark when we entered the secluded, hill-embosomed 
 settlement', where we were to pass the night. The little ro- 
 mantic retreat of Conway we had left behind us', lingering 
 there only long enough to exchange a low breathed word or 
 two of knightly courtesy with wit and beauty', which', in the 
 form of lovely woman', had made this mountain-shadowed vil- 
 lage their home for a season. Never did that beauty appear 
 so resistless amid the music and shade-lamps of the coteries at 
 P., as it did there among the simplicities of nature. 
 
 We flung ourselves from horse and wagon at Hall's. The 
 notable Judge was then living', the wonder and curiosity of his 
 region. As we dismounted at his quiet and grassy door', the 
 old man was bowing and smiling', with his eye full of sport', and 
 his cheek full of tobacco', and expressing his welcome in all the 
 varied' but homely honesty of his manner. He was decidedly 
 of the old school. It spoke in his coat' and inexpressibles' ; in 
 his hair' and his hat'. Then his broad, mountain Yankee 
 was inimitable. No one could stand before it', seasoned as it 
 was with just that idee* of self-importance', that made it notori- 
 ous without being offensive. He received us heartily, and in 
 proper time had us down to a table', whose viands were surpass- 
 ed only by the colony of daughters he contrived to congregate 
 about it. On all sides of us, flashed their mirthful and beauti- 
 ful faces', and on all sides went their pattering and Camilla-like 
 feet', in the tireless services of the house. The whole estab- 
 lishment was in the way of rugged', honest hospitality. It was 
 
 * Vulgarism for idea. 
 
232 the reader's guide. 
 
 in a state of continual overflow at this season ; and our own lit- 
 tle band furnished but a trifle of the aggregate which it daily- 
 found it necessary to accommodate. As we sat before the his- 
 sing urn', flanked by milk bowls and whortleberry pies', the 
 eye very naturally turned with something of an inquisitive 
 glance towards the kitchen fire', which gleamed through a half- 
 opened door', and round which were gathered the dusky forms 
 of four or five Indian females. They were of the St. Francois* 
 tribe, passing up through the hills, on their way to Canada. — 
 They furnished a wild picture, sitting about the hearth in that 
 uncertain light', their long hair floating about their shoulders', 
 and their basket-stuff scattered at their feet. As we pushed 
 through the room', I observed that they were preparing some 
 rude repast in the corner', mingling the various articles of their 
 meal with the reeking smoke of their pipes', and the peculiar 
 guttural murmur of their monosyllable conversation. We left 
 them that night to the floor and their blankets ; and before we 
 were astir the next morning, they were threading the hills tow- 
 ards the Notch of the White Mountains. But it is out of the 
 question to dismiss our landlord in this summary way. He de- 
 serves something more. The country hereabouts had afore- 
 time thought he deserved all the honor it could command ; and 
 so the district had trooped him off to Washington in the unsur- 
 passable, the climacteric capacity of a representative of the 
 people. How long he served, and how well', it would be need- 
 less for any book to tell, for his own tongue knew the story 
 best\ and certainly best it could relate it. The pride of this 
 old service, and of the old recollection', was amusing', dashed 
 as it was with various curious anecdotes in the broad language 
 of the narrator, and sprinkled with a due accompaniment of to- 
 bacco juice, ejected wherever it might happen', under the influ- 
 ence of a secret', but apparently irresistible', chuckle. Wheth- 
 er he had ever soiled' the ermine, in this or any other way', we 
 
 do'nt pretend to say v ; but it is nevertheless true, that in addi- 
 tion to his honors at the capitol', our quaint friend had', in oth- 
 er years', also sustained the dignity of judge. Indeed', this ti- 
 tle held by, while all others had deserted him ; and as " the 
 Court," we naturally addressed him, during our protracted sit- 
 ting under the story-spinning spirit which seemed to have taken 
 possession of the whole man. The night waned apace under 
 our laugh and glee. Still the Judge held on\ His tales were 
 like an endless screw^, or the Saco under the force of a fresh- 
 et ; and as there appeared to be no probability of the bottles be- 
 * Saint Fran-say ; or in plain English, St. Francis. 
 
PILGRIMAGE TO TttE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 233 
 
 ing corked, while we sat to witness their pouring', we found it 
 convenient to ask the road to our chambers', if we intended to 
 resume the other in the morning. Still' the tongue wagged' ; 
 and even as we went straggling up the narrow stairs', bearing 
 our lamps before our gaping visages', the Judge kept company^, 
 
 determined that nothing should remain half told, if he could help 
 it. In short', the good old man could scarce refrain from 
 seating himself quietly on an old trunk in the chamber', and dis- 
 coursing the night' out v ; and we found nothing would do, but 
 incontinently throw off our clothes, and thus bow the old chron- 
 icler from our presence. As it was' he was obliged to go in 
 the midst of a parenthesis' ; but he saw there was no hope, and 
 so retreated with his arm half lifted in the way of asseveration. 
 A sumptuous breakfast', spiced by the quiet drollery of " the 
 court'," and the admirable attentions of his household', set us 
 forward under excellent auspices. Every mile now increased 
 the interest of the route, and every hill assumed a new charac- 
 ter', grouped in, as it was', to form a portion of the lifting and 
 gathering panorama. We were now fast approaching the cel- 
 ebrated gorge', and ere noon found ourselves descending that 
 wild ravine', at the foot of which stands the humble and rude 
 residence of Crawford', the experienced guide of these overshad- 
 owing mountains. 
 
 The old man received us with a wintry smile, (he never 
 laughed in the world' !) and a sort of guttural welcome. We 
 informed him of our wish to employ his services in the ascent', 
 and he expressed himself ready almost on the instant. There 
 was little preparation for one of his mercury.* He was ever 
 in good guise enough for a start'', for nature had given him a 
 dress that was proof to all trials here among her fastnesses. 
 Accordingly, having arranged the inner and outer man for the 
 expedition, we set forward with our iron-muscled conductor, 
 along the winding', ascending' pathway. The scene was full 
 of sublimity. Often the mountain torrent crossed our course', 
 dashing from rock to rock', to lose itself in some ravine, whose 
 depths the eye could not penetrate', and over which the pine 
 sighed', as it had centuries before, to the passing Indian. Some- 
 times we came upon an opening, that disclosed to us', far up 
 and away', the path of the avalanche',f that had carried destruc- 
 tion to the land below', in some tempest of former years. It 
 was in the early afternoon when we issued upon that green and 
 beautiful spot', then occupied by the Willey family', since that 
 time so suddenly and awfully destroyed. It was warm and still. 
 
 * Temperament. t Av-a-lansh. 
 
 20* 
 
234 the reader's guide. 
 
 The smoke curled peacefully up from the humble roof, and quiet 
 and content abode there, in their most attractive garb. Nothing 
 could present a stronger contrast than this spot, as it was then', it- 
 self offering to the eye every feature of loveliness and repose that 
 could be desired', and overshadowed on every side by the gi- 
 gantic ridges of the mountains', and the same ground^, as it was 
 when we stood upon it', after that terrible night', when ruin 
 went thundering through that valley. The spot is now sealed — 
 stamped by desolation. There is no green grass there' ; there 
 is no life. The low house still stands as it did'', but it is silent. 
 They who made its roof a place of welcome to the weary trav- 
 eller', and conducted him about the various rugged recesses of 
 its picturesque neighborhood', sleep the long sleep beneath the 
 huge rocks that lie scattered about its deserted door. That 
 door lies flung from its hinges' ; the walls are rent', and the fox 
 looks out of the window. Who has not read the tale of that 
 night of horror' ! And who, as he stands over that ruin', does 
 
 not feel how blind is man', and how vain his calculations' ! 
 
 That humble family heard the rush of the coming earth'. They 
 thought to escape'', and fled', affrighted', through the darkness 
 of midnight. They were crushed and buried in an instant. — 
 Had they remained still upon their pillows', they had lived to 
 tell the tale. * * * * 
 
 It was hardly day-break when we were roused to gird anew', 
 if we wished to witness the sun's first appearance over the moun- 
 tain ranges. With renewed spirits', and a shout', we sprung to 
 our feet^, and in ten minutes had resumed our line of march 
 through the Dedalian forest. The ascent continued as difficult 
 and spongy as before, and it was not until we had cleared the 
 heavier growth of pine and fur', and issued into a sparser and 
 shorter generation of trees, that we found relaxation in our la- 
 bors. At length we rose above the tangled wood, and emer- 
 ged upon a hillock', covered with trees, indeed, perfectly form- 
 ed', but only a few inches in height', and every instant decreas- 
 ing in length', so that in a few moments we found ourselves lit- 
 erally walking upon the top of a miniature forest. So rapidly 
 were we now rising above vegetation', that even this dwarfish 
 presentation of it was soon left behind 11 , and nothing but the 
 mountain cranberry offered itself, as the last substance which 
 nature could support in these lofty regions of the air. The scene 
 was not a little striking as we issued upon this cleared point of 
 the mountain land', from the scattered woods below. The deli- 
 
PILGRIMAGE TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 235 
 
 cious cool atmosphere was just blushing into morning', and a few 
 clouds swept over us', just catching the hues of day', as they 
 drove their dim trains over the distant peaks', and gradually 
 dissolved in the upper sky. A right reverend looking owl sat 
 in the most saturnine guise possible upon a little evergreen as 
 we came up', and after gazing at us for a moment with admira- 
 ble stolidity', threw out its broad gray wings', and went flap- 
 ping heavily down the hill side into the woods below'. We 
 took this for a good omen. There was something classic in the 
 intimation' ; and we urged forward with all the new vigor that 
 may be supposed from this decided conviction that Minerva was 
 on our side. While we were yet canvassing where he would 
 appear', over the ridge that shot away into the heavens above 
 us', the sun came up in all his splendor beside a peak now bath- 
 ed in one flood of golden light. * * * * 
 
 Mount Washington was now first discovered heaving up into 
 the blue, above the dark belt of clouds that gathered about his 
 base. We had risen into a region of grandeur' ; and this view 
 of the monarch mountain on the east', with that of the highlands 
 and peaks below us', over which we had toiled', and which now 
 reposed in their silence, and darkness', and vastness', like some 
 great Black Sea suddenly stayed as its waves were at the high- 
 est, together formed a panorama that is beyond description', 
 and whose general effect is beyond belief. Upon one of these 
 elevations, that presented this noble picture, and upon which the 
 sun poured his morning lustre, we sat down to an ethereal break- 
 fast. Hardly had we dipped into our viands before our sun- 
 shine was succeeded in an instant', by a mist, thick as night, 
 and driving about us with all the drenching rapidity of a north- 
 east storm'. This', to a party in their dresses', and most unques- 
 tionable perspiration', was a matter of doubtful utility. There 
 was but one way to meet the evil' ; that was, to fly from it. We 
 were therefore soon clear of our anchorage, and leaping from 
 rock to rock into a valley where we hoped to find ourselves less 
 exposed. A few steps disclosed to us the mystery of this sud- 
 den envelopement. We had breakfasted in a cloud'. At this 
 
 moment it was sweeping off into the air below us', and in course 
 of a minute the very spot we had occupied in a fog so thick we 
 could hardly discern each other through its veil', was again in 
 clear sunlight, and the volumed vapor was wrapping other sum- 
 mits that lay in its watery path. * * * * 
 
 The time consumed in this last stage', [namely, to the summit 
 of Mount Washington',] was not long', and ere high noon' we 
 
236 
 
 had reached the summit. We that write this same are decided- 
 ly of opinion' — we always maintained it', and mean to hold to it', 
 because we believe it' — that we were the first of the band' — not 
 even excepting our long-legged pioneer of Hart's location' — the 
 very first that reached the top of the granite peak.' This was 
 something'. It argued good muscle. We have proved the 
 probability of that since, fully', by the degrees we have taken 
 in gymnastics. However, there we were, and in a reasonably 
 short time the party was full', and a chorus every way com- 
 mensurate, was at once despatched into the clear blue sky. 
 And we well shouted. There was never braver scene to shout 
 over. We were above the world*', emphatically' ; and soften- 
 ed as every feature of it was', as it reposed, outstretched' below 
 us', we could not but conclude that after all the scandal which 
 has been heaped upon it', it was quite a decent world, in the up- 
 shot', and a thing easy enough to rise superior to, if a man will 
 only come to the trial. To be sure 1 ", it seemed to be rather a 
 foolish affair to fight about', taken as a whole ; but when you 
 came to think of quarrelling for acres' and feet', it made you 
 laugh incontinently, at the very idea. As for man', he seemed 
 so much the merest circumstance of creation'— so perfectly un- 
 noticeable among the mightier works of his Maker', that his 
 struggle to become a president or a post-master', looked really 
 melancholy to us. Alas' ! the magnificence of ambition' ! 
 
 Of course, the drill and mallet were not long idle. The " na- 
 tural longing after immortality" led each one to do his best to- 
 wards impressing his name upon granite in lines as deep'', if not 
 as delicate', as those of a master of the chisel' ; and for ourselves 
 we can only say that we drove away so manfully', that we have 
 strong faith in the lasting of our letters, though not so decided a 
 one in their beauty. At length this praiseworthy duty was ef- 
 fected' ; a perfect mystery from beginning to end to the mind of 
 our slab-sided guide, who saw no more glory attached to this 
 particular elevation than what fairly belonged to vulgar ' heights 
 and distances' ; his white oak nature being as unetherealized in 
 this connection', as was that of the tailor', who found nothing 
 more immediately striking in the torrent of Niagara than the 
 capital chance it offered to ' sponge a coat !' 
 
 Many a rock on this apex is covered with this hasty sculp- 
 ture. Sometimes the eye will fall on a lady's name, for true it 
 is that now and then her heroic spirit has led woman to scale 
 this i heaven kissing hill',' though at the time we trod its sum- 
 mit', it was a point quite unattainable by the sex. At present 
 we believe it is a common object with the venturesome sister- 
 
PILGRIMAGE TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 237 
 
 hood' ; and if the gentle creatures are only willing to incur the 
 sad risk of an enlarged ancle, we see nothing to hinder their cap- 
 ping this climax as easily as they do all others. How much more 
 glory in this 1 ' than forever to ' chronicle small beer.' Let her 
 wrestle her way up to Mount Washington^, and after that', dedi- 
 cate herself to a pair of small spectacles', and woman is made a 
 classic for all the future purposes of the world. We cannot leave 
 this subject of chiseling out immortality upon the mountain gran- 
 ite of Washington', without relating a circumstance at which 
 we were somewhat inclined to be merry. We refer to an ex- 
 pressive Latin inscription', done on copper', and nailed to the 
 rock upon the summit. It was signed, (per auctoritatem,*) by 
 some three or four literary and learned gentlemen from the me- 
 tropolis of Massachusetts', or thereabouts', wonderfully pregnant 
 with the story of their toiF, but every letter of it engraved, un- 
 questionably, some weeks before, calmly and coolly in Boston. 
 This is what we call perspiration in perspective ; or to speak 
 elegantly, sweating infuturo.\ 
 
 But the prospect' ! the prospect' ! from this mountain tower. 
 Towards the west it was boundless. It seemed as if the eye 
 glanced over land and lakes, till vision was lost in the horizon 
 of the northern sea. On the east', the whole region reposed 
 beneath a veil of white vapor', so still and outstretched', that it 
 resembled a vast ocean ^ above which storm and wind had sunk 
 to their everlasting rest. Far away, one or two solitary peaks 
 lifted themselves from the silent mist', as towering islands from 
 the calm deep ; and off towards the south, the black swells of 
 the mountainous country lapped one upon the other', like the 
 deep when its huge waves are heaved up and forward at night. 
 Above us', the air was of singular transparency', and the blue 
 sky seemed so near that we felt as though we were bathing our 
 brows in its clearness. 
 
 * By authority. 
 
 t Sweating before the time comes. 
 
238 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON LXIX. 
 
 A SCENE FROM THE GIPSY, OR WHOSE SON AM I. 
 
 A room in a respectable country inn. 
 
 Enter Captain Etheridge and Captain Mertoun, ush- 
 ered in by the Landlord. 
 
 Land. Will you be pleased to take any thing, gentlemen' ? 
 
 Capt. Eth. I can answer for myselP — nothing'. 
 
 Capt. Mer. I agree, and disagree, with you ; that is y , I coin- 
 cide with you in' — nothing'. 
 
 Capt Eth. Then I trust, Mr. Harness', that you will coin- 
 cide with us in expediting the greasing of that radical wheel as 
 soon as possible, and let us know where the horses are put to. 
 
 Land. Most certainly', Captain Etheridge' ; I will superin- 
 tend it myself. [Exit Landlord.]. 
 
 Capt. Eth. An old butler of my father's', who set up many 
 years ago, with a few hundred pounds', and the Etheridge Arms' 
 as a sign'. He has done well. 
 
 Capt. Mer. That is to say', the Etheridge Arms have put him 
 on his legs'', and drawing corks for your father has enabled him 
 to draw beer for himself and his customers. Of course he mar- 
 ried the lady's maid'. 
 
 Capt. Eth. No, he did more wisely' ; he married the cook\ 
 
 Capt. Mer. With a good fat portion of kitchen stuff', and a 
 life interest of culinary knowledge. I have no doubt but that 
 he had a farther benefit from your liberal father and mother. 
 
 Capt. Eth. By-the-by', I have spoken to you of my father 
 repeatedly', Edward' ; but you have not yet heard any remarks 
 relative to my mother'. 
 
 Capt. Mer. I take it for granted', from your report of your 
 father', and my knowledge [bowing] of the offspring', that she 
 must be equally amiable. 
 
 Capt. Eth. Had she been so, I should not have been silent' ; 
 but as I have no secrets from you, I must say', she is not — the 
 very paragon' of affection. 
 
 Capt. Mer. I am sorry for it. 
 
 Capt. Eth. My father, disgusted with the matrimonial traps 
 that were set for the post-captain', and baronet of ten thousand 
 a year', resolved', as he imagined', wisely', to marry a woman 
 in inferior life ; who, having no pretensions of her own 1, would 
 
A SCENE FROM THE GIPSY. 239 
 
 be humble and domestic. He chose one of his tenant's daugh- 
 ters', who was demure to an excess. The soft paw of a cat 
 conceals her talons. My mother turned out the very antipodes 
 of his expectations. 
 
 Capt, Mer. Hum ! 
 
 Capt. Eth. Without any advantages, excepting her alliance 
 with my father, and a tolerable share of rural beauty, she is as 
 proud as if descended from the house of Hapsburg' — insults 
 her equals', tramples on her inferiors', and' — what is worse than 
 all' — -treats my father very ill. 
 
 Capt. Mer. Treats him' ill' ! What' ! he that was such a mar- 
 tinet', such a disciplinarian on board' ! She does not beat him' ? 
 
 Capt. Eth. No, not exactly'' ; but so completely has she 
 gained the upper hand', that the admiral is as subdued as a dan- 
 cing bear', obeying her orders with a growl', but still obeying 
 them. At her command he goads himself into a passion with 
 whomsoever she may point out as the object of his violence. 
 
 Capt. Mer. How completely she must have mastered him ! 
 How can he submit to it' 1 
 
 Capt, Eth. Habit, my dear Mertoun', reconciles us to such ; 
 and he, at whose frown hundreds of gallant fellows trembled', is 
 now afraid to meet the eye of a woman'. To avoid anger with 
 her', he affects anger with every one else. This I mention to 
 you', that you may guide your conduct towards her. Aware 
 of your partiality to my sister', it may be as well 
 
 Capt. Mer. To hold the candle to the devil', you mean. Your 
 pardon, Etheridge, for the grossness of the proverb. 
 
 Capt. Eth. No apology', my dear fellow'. Hold the candle 
 when you wilF, it will not burn before a saint', and that's the 
 truth. Follow my advice, and I will insure you success. I 
 only wish that my amatory concerns had so promising an ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 Capt. Mer. Why, I never knew that you were stricken.* 
 
 Capt. Eth. The fact is', that I am not satisfied with myself; 
 and when I am away from my Circe, I strive all I can to drive 
 her from my memory. By change of scene, absence and occu- 
 pation', I contrive to forget her indifferent well. Add to all this'', 
 I have not committed myself by word or deed. I have now 
 been three years in this way ; but the moment I find myself 
 within two miles of my fair one', as the towers of my house rise 
 upon my sight', so rises the passion in my bosom' ; and what I 
 supposed I had reasoned away to a mere dwarfish inclination, 
 becomes at once a mighty sentiment. 
 
 Capt. Mer. That looks very like attachment. Three years, 
 
 * Stricken is now obsolete ; struck should be used. 
 
240 
 
 did you say' ? My dear brother in affliction', make me your 
 confidant. 
 
 Capt. Eth. I intended to do s6, or I should not have origina- 
 ted the subject. My father brought up the daughter of our stew, 
 ard, Bargrove, with my sister Agnes. I have therefore known 
 Lucy from her infancy', and ought I to be ashamed to say how 
 much I am in love with her' ? 
 
 Capt. Mer. Etheridge, this is a point on which', I am afraid' 
 my advice would not be well received. 
 
 Capt. Eth. Of course you would imply that she must be re- 
 nounced'. 
 
 Capt. Mer. Most assuredly' ; that is my opinion on a first 
 view of the case. You have your father's' example. 
 
 Capt, Eth. I have, but still there are many points in my fa- 
 vor. Bargrove is of a very old', though decayed family' ; in- 
 deed', much more ancient than our own. 
 
 Capt. Mer. I grant you, there is one difficulty removed. But 
 still your relative position. He is now your father's steward. 
 
 Capt. Eth. That is certainly a great obstacle ; but on the 
 other hand', she has really' been well educated. 
 
 Capt. Mer. Another point in your favor*, I grant. 
 
 Capt. Eth. With respect to Lucy herself, she is 
 
 Capt. Mer. As your father thought your mother' — perfec- 
 tion'. Recollect, the soft paw of the cat conceals the talons. 
 
 Capt. Eth. Judge for yourself when you see and converse 
 
 with her. I presume I am to consider myself blind'. At all 
 events', I have decided upon nothing' ; and have neither by word' 
 or deed', allowed her to suppose an attachment on my part : still 
 it is a source of great anxiety. I almost wish that she were 
 happily married'. By-the-by', my mother hates her. 
 
 Capt. Mer. That's not in y6ur favor, though it is in her's. 
 
 Capt. Eth. And my father doats upon her. 
 
 Capt. Mer. That's in favor of you both' 
 
 Capt. Eth. Now you have the whole story', you may advise 
 me as you please : but remember', I still preserve my veto. 
 
 Capt. Mer. My dear Etheridge', with your permission', I 
 will not advise at all'. Your father tried in the same lottery', 
 and drew a blank' ; you may gain the highest prize' ; but my 
 hopes with your sister render it a most delicate subject for my 
 opinion. Your own good sense must guide you, 
 
 Capt. Eth. Unfortunately it often happens', that when a man 
 takes his feelings for a guide', he walks too fast for good sense 
 to keep pace with him. 
 
PORTIA DISGUISED AS A DOCTOR OF LAWS. 241 
 
 Capt. Mer. At all events be not precipitate ; and do not 
 advance one step which', as a man of honor', you may not re- 
 trace. 
 
 Capt. Eth. I will not if I can help it. But here comes Mr. 
 Harness . 
 
 LESSON LXX. 
 
 PORTIA DISGUISED AS A DOCTOR OF LAWS. 
 
 Portia, Is your name Shy lock' ? 
 
 Shylock. Shylock' is my name. 
 
 Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow' ; 
 Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law' 
 Cannot oppose you'', as you do proceed. — 
 You stand within his reach do you not' ? 
 
 [ To Antonio. 
 
 Antonio. Ay', so he says. 
 
 Por. Do you confess the bond' ? 
 
 Ant. I do'. 
 
 Por. Then must the Jew be merciful'. 
 
 Shy. On what compulsion must 1' ? tell me that'. 
 
 Por. The quality of mercy is not strained, 
 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven', 
 Upon the place beneath' ; it is twice blessed' ; 
 It blesseth him' that gives', and him* that takes^ : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest' ; it becomes' 
 The throned monarch better than his crown' : 
 His^sceptre' shows the force of temporal' power, 
 The attribute to awe* and majesty'', 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings' ; 
 
 But mercy' is above 1 * this scepter'd sway 1 " ; 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings' ; 
 
 It is an attribute to God' himself ; 
 
 And earthly power doth then show likest' God's', 
 When mercy' seasons justice. Therefore, Jew', 
 
 Though justice be thy plea*", consider this*, — 
 That, in the course of justice, none of us' 
 Should see salvation' : we do pray for mercy' : 
 
 21 
 
242 
 
 THE READER S GUIDE. 
 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render' 
 The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much', 
 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea'' ; 
 Which if thou follow', this strict court of Venice 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 
 Shy. My deed 's upon my' head' ! I crave the law', 
 
 The penalty' and forfeit' of my bond. 
 
 Por. Is he not able to discharge the money' ? 
 
 Bassanio. Yes', here I tender it for him in the court'; 
 Yea', twice the sum : if that will not suffice', 
 I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er', 
 On forfeit of my hands', my head', my heart' ; 
 
 If this will not suffice, it must appear' 
 
 That malice bears down truth'. And I beseech you, 
 
 Wrest once the law' to your authority' : 
 
 To do a great right', do a little wrong, 
 
 And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
 Por. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice' 
 
 Can alter a decree established : 
 
 'Twill be recorded for a precedent' ; 
 
 And many an error', by the same example, 
 
 Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 
 Shy. A Daniel' come to judgment' ! yea a Daniel' ! 
 
 O wise young judge, how do I honor thee ! 
 Por. I pray you', let me look upon the bond. 
 Shy. Here 'tis', most reverend doctor', here it is'. 
 Por. Shylock', there's thrice thy money offer'd thee; 
 Shy. An oath', an oath', I have an oath'' in heaven' : 
 
 Shall I lay perjury upon my soul' ? 
 No, not for Venice. 
 Por. Why*', this bond is forfeit' ; 
 
 And lawfully', by this', the Jew may claim' 
 A pound of flesh', to be by him cut off' 
 Nearest the merchant's heart' : Be merciful' ; 
 Take thrice thy money' ; bid me tear' the bond. 
 
 Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor'. — 
 It doth appear, you are a worthy judge ; 
 You know the law', your exposition' 
 Hath been most sound' ; I charge you by the law, 
 
PORTIA — DISGUISED AS A DOCTOR OF LAWS. 243 
 
 Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar', 
 
 Proceed to judgment' : by my soul I swear', 
 
 There is no power in the tongue of man' 
 
 To alter me : I stay here, on my bond'. 
 Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court' 
 
 To give the judgment. 
 Por. Why then', thus it is. 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 
 Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man' ! 
 Por. For the intent' and purpose of the law' 
 
 Hath full relation to the penalty', 
 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
 
 And how much elder' art thou' than thy looks' ! 
 Por. Therefore, lay bare your bosom'. 
 Shy. Ay', his breast', 
 
 So says the bond'; — Doth it not', noble judge' i* 
 
 Nearest his heart' ; those are the very words*. 
 Por. It is so. Is there balance here, to weigh 
 
 The flesh' 1 
 Shy. I have them ready'. 
 
 Por. Have by' some surgeon, Shylock', on your charge'', 
 
 To stop his wounds', lest he do bleed to death. 
 Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond' 1 
 
 Por. It is not so expressed ; But what of that' ? 
 'Twere good you do so much' for charity'. 
 Shy. I cannot find it' ; 'tis not in the bond', 
 
 Por. Come, merchant', have you any thing to say' ? 
 Ant. But little ; I am arm'd and well prepar'd', — 
 
 Give me your hand', Bassanio' ; fare you well' ! 
 
 ( c c 
 
 Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
 
 For herein fortune shows herself more kind' 
 
 Than is her custom ; it is still her use' 
 
 To let the wretched' man out-live his wealth'' ; 
 
 To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow' 
 
 An age of poverty' ; from which lingering penance 
 
 Of such a misery' doth she cut me off. 
 
 Commend me to your honorable wife ; 
 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end' ; 
 
 Say, how I loved you ; speak me fair in death' ; 
 
 And when the tale is told', bid her be judge, 
 
244 
 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 
 Repent not that you shall lose your friend' ; 
 
 And he repents not' that he pays your debt' ; 
 
 For if the Jew do cut but deep' enough', 
 
 I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 
 Shy. We trifle time : I pray thee pursue sentence. 
 For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
 
 The court awards it', and the law doth give it'. 
 Shy. Most rightful judge ! 
 For. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast' ; 
 
 The law allows it', and the court awards it'. 
 Shy. Most learned judge ' — a sentence ; come, prepare. 
 For. Tarry a little ; there is something else. — 
 
 This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood' ; 
 
 The words expressly are, a pound of flesh' ; 
 
 But, in the cutting it', if thou dost shed' 
 
 One drop of Christian blood', thy lands and goods' 
 
 Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 
 Unto the state of Venice. 
 Gratiano. O upright judge ! — Mark', Jew' ;— O learned 
 
 judge ! 
 Shy. Is that the law' ? 
 For. Thyself*" shalt see the act' : 
 
 For', as thou urgest justice 1 ', be assur'd', 
 
 Thou shalt have justice, more t than thou desir'st. 
 
 Gra. O learned judge ! — Mark', Jew' ; — a learned judge ! 
 Shy. I take this' offer then' ; — pay the bond thrice, 
 
 And let the Christian go. 
 Bass. Here is the money. 
 
 For. Soft; 
 
 The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft' ! — no haste ; — 
 
 He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
 Gra. O Jew' ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 
 For. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh'. 
 
 Shed thou no blood' ; nor cut thou less', nor more, 
 
 But just a pound' of flesh' : if thou tak'st more 1 ', 
 
 Or less', than a just pound, — be it but so much' 
 
 As makes it light, or heavy', in the substance, 
 
 Or the division of the twentieth part 
 
 Of one poor scruple 1 * ; nay', if the scale do turn" 
 
 But in the estimation of a hair^, — 
 
 Thou diest', and all thy goods are con'fiscate\ 
 
PORTIA — DISGUISED AS A DOCTOR OF LAWS. 245 
 
 Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel', Jew' ! 
 
 Now 1 ", infidel', I have thee on the hip'. 
 Por. Why doth the Jew pause 1 take thy forfeiture. 
 Shy. Give me my principal', and let me go. 
 Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is'. 
 Por. He hath refus'd it in the open court' ; 
 
 He shall have merely justice', and his bond. 
 Gra. A Daniel', still say I' ; a second Daniel' ! — 
 
 I thank thee, Jew', for teaching me that' word. 
 
 Shy. Shall 1 not have barely my principal' 1 
 
 Por. Thou shalt have nothing'' but the forfeiture', 
 
 To be so taken at thy peril', Jew'. 
 Shy. Why', then', the devil do him good of it ! 
 
 I'll stay no longer question. 
 Por. Tarry' Jew' ; 
 
 The law hath yet another hold on you. 
 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice', — 
 If it be proved against an alien', 
 That by direct', or indirect attempts', 
 He seek the life of any citizen', 
 The party', 'gainst the which he doth contrive', 
 Shall seize one half his goods' ; the other half 
 Comes to the privy coffer of the state' ; 
 And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
 Of the duke only', 'gainst all other voice. 
 In which predicament', I say thou stand'st'; 
 For it appears by manifest proceeding 7 , 
 That, in'directly', and directly', too, 
 Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
 Of the defendant' ; and thou hast incurr'd' 
 The danger formerly by me rehears'd'. 
 Down', therefore, and beg mercy of the duke'. 
 Gra. Beg' that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself : 
 And yet', thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 
 
 Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
 Therefore', thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 
 Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit', 
 I pardon thee thy lhV, before thou ask it : 
 For half thy wealth', it is Antonio's ; 
 The other half comes to the general state', 
 Which humbleness may lessen to a fine, 
 21* 
 
246 the reader's guide. 
 
 Por* Ay', for the state' ; not for Antonio. 
 
 Shy, Nay, take my life and all' ; pardon not that" : 
 
 You take my house, when you do take the prop' 
 
 That doth sustain^ my house' ; you take my life, 
 When you do take the means^ whereby I live. 
 
 LESSON LXXI. 
 
 THE GOVERNOR, AND THE NOTARY. 
 
 In former times there ruled, as governor of the Alhambra, a 
 doughty old cavalier', who, from having lost one arm in the 
 wars', was commonly known by the name of El Gobernador* 
 Manco, or the one armed governor. He in fact prided himself 
 upon being an old soldier' ; wore his mustachios curled up to his 
 eyes', a pair of campaigning boots', and a toledo as long as a spit', 
 with his pocket handkerchief in the basket hilt. 
 
 He was, moreover, exceedingly proud' and punctilious', and 
 tenacious of all his privileges and dignities. Under his sway, 
 the immunities of the Alhambra', as a royal residence. and do- 
 main', were rigidly exacted. No one was permitted to enter 
 the fortress with fire arms, or even with a sword or staff', unless 
 he were of a certain rank', and every horseman was obliged to 
 dismount at the gate' and lead his horse by the bridle. Now 
 as the hill of the Alhambra rises from the very midst of the city of 
 Granada, being, as it were, an excrescence of the capital', it 
 must at all times be somewhat irksome to the captain-general 
 who commands the province', to have thus an imperium in im- 
 perio' ;t a petty independent post', in the very core of his do- 
 mains. It was rendered the more galling in the present in- 
 stance, from the irritable jealousy of the old governor', that 
 took fire on the least question of authority and jurisdiction', and 
 from the loose vagrant character of the people that had gradu- 
 ally nestled themselves within the fortress as in a sanctuary', 
 and from thence carried on a system of roguery and depreda- 
 
 * Gober.nador ; a as in father. 
 
 f Latin. A government within a government. An empire within an 
 empire. 
 
THE GOVERNOR, AND THE NOTARY. 247 
 
 tion at the expense of the honest inhabitants of the city. Thus 
 there was a perpetual feud and heart-burning between the cap- 
 tain general and the governor ; the more virulent on th| part 
 of the latter', inasmuch as the smallest' of two neighboring 
 potentates' is always the most captious about his dignity. 
 
 One of the most fruitful sources of dispute between these two 
 doughty rivals', was the right claimed by the governor to have 
 all things passed free of duty through the city', that were in- 
 tended for the use of himself or his garrison. By degrees, this 
 privilege had given rise to extensive smuggling. A nest of 
 contrabandistas* took up their abode in the hovels of the for- 
 tress and the numerous caves in its vicinity', and drove a thriv- 
 ing business under the connivance of the soldiers of the gar- 
 rison. 
 
 The vigilance of the captain-general was aroused. He con- 
 sulted his legal adviser and factotum', a shrewd, meddlesome 
 Escribano| or notary', who rejoiced in an opportunity of per- 
 plexing the old potentate of the Alhambra', and involving him 
 in a maze of legal subtilities. He advised the captain-general 
 to insist upon the right of examining every convoy passing 
 through the gates of his city\ and he penned a long letter for 
 him', in vindication of the right. Governor Manco was a 
 straight-forward, cut-and-thrust old soldier', who hated an 
 Escribano, and this one in particular', worse than all other 
 Escribanoes. 
 
 "Whaty said he, curling up his mustachios fiercely', "does 
 the captain-general set his man of the pen to practice confu- 
 sions upon me' ? I'll let him see that an old soldier is not to be 
 baffled by Schoolcraft. 
 
 He seized his pen', and scrawled a short letter in a crabbed 
 hand\ in which', without deigning to enter into argument', he 
 insisted on the right of transit i'ree of search', and denounced 
 vengeance on any custom-house officer who should lay his un- 
 hallowed hand on any convoy protected by the flag of the Al. 
 hambra. 
 
 While this question was agitated between the two pragmati- 
 cal potentates', it so happened that a mule laden with supplies 
 for the fortress, arrived one day at the gate of Xenil4 by 
 which it was to traverse a suburb of the city on its way to the 
 Alhambra. The convoy was headed by a testy old corporal', 
 
 * A Spanish word for contrabandists ; illegal traders ; smugglers. 
 t Escri-ba.no ; a as inf ather. 
 % Zenil. 
 
248 the reader's guide. 
 
 who had long served under the governor', and was a man after 
 his own heart' ; as trusty and staunch as an old toledo blade. 
 As they approached the gate of the city, the corporal placed 
 the banner of the Alhambra on the pack saddle of the mule', 
 and drawing himself up to a perfect perpendicular', advanced, 
 with his head dressed to the front', but with the wary side- 
 glance of a cur passing through hostile grounds, and ready for 
 a snap and a snarl. 
 
 " Who goes there' V' said the sentinel at the gate. 
 
 " Soldier of the Alhambra," said the corporal", without turn- 
 ing his head. 
 
 " What have you in charge ?" 
 
 " Provisions for the garrison'." 
 
 " Proceed'." 
 
 The corporal marched straight forward', followed by the 
 convoy', but had not advanced many paces' before a possee of 
 custom-house officers rushed out of a small toll-house. 
 
 "Hallo, there!" cried the leader; "Muleteer', halt', and 
 open those packages'." 
 
 The corporal wheeled round', and drew himself up in battle 
 array. " Respect the flag of the Alhambra," said he ; " these 
 things are for the governor." 
 
 " A fig for the governor', and a fig for his flag'. Muleteer', 
 halt', I say." 
 
 " Stay the convoy at your peril' !" cried the corporal', cock- 
 ing his musket. " Muleteer' proceed." 
 
 The muleteer gave his beast a hearty thwack ; the custom- 
 house officer sprang forward, and seized the halter ; whereupon 
 the corporal levelled his piece and shot him dead. 
 
 The street was immediately in an uproar. The old corpo- 
 ral was seized', and after undergoing sundry kicks and cuffs', 
 and cudgellings', which are generally given impromptu by the 
 mob in Spain', as a foretaste of the after penalties of the law', 
 he was loaded with irons', and conducted to the city prison' ; 
 while his comrades were permitted to proceed with the convoy', 
 after it had been well rummaged', to the Alhambra. 
 
 The old governor was in a towering' passion', when he heard 
 of this insult to his flag and capture of his corporal. For a 
 time he stormed about the Moorish halls', and vapored about 
 the bastions', and looked down fire and sword upon the palace 
 of the captain-general. Having vented the first ebullition of 
 his wrath', he despatched a message demanding the surrender 
 of the corporal', as to him alone belonged the right of sitting in 
 
THE G0VER0R, AND THE NOTARY. 249 
 
 judgment on the offences of those under his command. The 
 captain-general', aided by the pen of the delighted Escribano, 
 replied at great length', arguing that as the offence had been 
 committed within the walls of his city', and against one of his 
 civil officers', it was clearly within his proper jurisdiction'. 
 The governor rejoined by a repetition of his demand'; the cap- 
 tain-general gave a sur-rejoinder of still greater length', and 
 legal acumen' ; the governor became hotter and more peremp- 
 tory in his demands', and the captain general cooler and more 
 copious in his replies' ; until the old lion-hearted soldier abso- 
 lutely roared with fury', at being thus entangled in the meshes 
 of legal controversy. 
 
 While the subtle Escribano was thus amusing himself at the 
 expense of the governor', he was conducting the trial of the 
 corporal ; who, mewed up into a narrow dungeon of the pri- 
 son', had merely a small grated window at which to show his 
 iron-bound visage, and receive the consolations of his friends ; 
 a mountain of written testimony was diligently heaped up', ac- 
 cording to Spanish form', by the indefatigable Escribano ; the 
 corporal was completely overwhelmed by it. He was con- 
 victed of murder', and sentenced to be hanged. 
 
 It was in vain the governor sent down remonstrance and 
 menace from the Alhambra. The fatal day was at hand', and 
 the corporal was put in capilla, that is to say', in the chapel of 
 the prison ; as is always done with culprits the day before ex- 
 ecution', that they may meditate on their approaching end', 
 and repent them of their sins. 
 
 Seeing things drawing to an extremity', the old governor de- 
 termined to attend the affair in person. For this purpose he 
 ordered out his carriage of state, and surrounded by his guards', 
 rumbled down the avenue of the Alhambra into the city. 
 Driving to the house of the Escribano, he summoned him to 
 the portal. 
 
 The eye of the old governor gleamed like a coal at behold- 
 ing the smirking man of the law advancing with an air of exul- 
 tation. 
 
 "What is this I hear'," cried he ; « s tliat you are about to 
 put to death one of my soldiers' V 9 
 
 " All according to law', — all in strict form of justice," said 
 the self-sufficient Escribano', chuckling and rubbing his hands. 
 " I can show your excellency the written testimony in the 
 case." 
 
 " Fetch hither'," said the governor. 
 
 The Escribano bustled into his office, delighted with having 
 another opportunity of displaying his ingenuity at the expense 
 
250 
 
 of the hard-hearted veteran. He returned with a satchel full 
 of papers', and began to read a long deposition with profession- 
 al volubility. By this time a crowd had collected', listening 
 with outstretched necks and gaping mouths. 
 
 " Pry'thee, man'', get into the carriage out of this pestilent 
 throng', that I may the better hear thee'," said the governor. 
 
 The Escribano entered the carriage, when', in a twinkling', 
 the door was closed', the coachman smacked his whip', mules', 
 carriage, guards and all', dashed off at a thundering rate', leav- 
 ing the crowd in gaping wonderment'' ; nor did the governor 
 pause until he had lodged his prey in one of the strongest dun- 
 geons of the Alhambra. 
 
 He then sent down a flag of truce in military style, proposing 
 a cartel or exchange of prisoners', the corporal' for the notary'. 
 The pride of the captain-general was piqued' ; he returned a 
 contemptuous refusal', and forthwith caused a gallows tall and 
 strong', to be erected in the center of the Plaza Neuva'* for the 
 execution of the corporal. 
 
 "O ho'! is that' the game'?" said governor Manco' : he 
 gave orders', and immediately a gibbet was reared on the verge 
 of the great beetling bastion that overlooked the Plaza. 
 "Now'," said he', in a message to the captain-general', "hang 
 my soldier when you please ; but at the same time that he is 
 swung off in the square', look up to see your Escribano dang- 
 ling against the sky'." 
 
 The captain-general was inflexible' ; troops were paraded 
 in the square ; the drums beat' ; the bell tolled' ; an immense 
 multitude of amateursf had collected to behold the execution' ; 
 on the other hand', the governor paraded his garrison on the 
 bastion', and tolled the funeral dirge of the notary from the 
 Torre de la Campana',^: or tower of the bell. 
 
 The notary's wife pressed through the crowd with a whole 
 progeny of little embryo Escribanos at her heels', and throw- 
 ing herself at the feet of the captain-general', implored him 
 not to sacrifice the life of her husband', and the welfare of her- 
 self and her numerous little ones', to a point of pride ; "for 
 you know the old governor two weir." said she, " to doubt 
 that he will put his threat in execution if you hang the sol- 
 dier." 
 
 The captain-general was overpowered by her tears and 
 lamentations', and the clamors of her callow brood. The cor- 
 
 * Plaza; a as in father; Neuva, Na-oo-vah. 
 
 t Am-a-tures. 
 
 X Tor-ra, Campa-na. 
 
A THUNDER STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 251 
 
 poral was sent up to the Alhambra under a guard, in his gal- 
 lows garb', like a hooded friar' ; but with head erect' and a 
 face of iron. The Escribano was demanded in exchange, 
 according to the cartel. The once bustling and self-sufficient 
 man of the law was drawn forth from his dungeon', more dead 
 than alive. All his flippancy and conceit had evaporated' ; 
 his hair', it is said', had nearly turned grey with affright', and 
 he had a downcast', dogged look', as if he still felt the halter 
 round his neck. 
 
 The old governor stuck his one arm a kimbo, and for a mo- 
 ment surveyed him with an iron smile. "Henceforth, my 
 friend'," said he', " moderate your zeal in hurrying others to 
 the gallows' ; be not too certain of your own safety', even 
 though you should have the law on your side ; and above all', 
 take care how you play off your Schoolcraft another time 
 upon an old soldier." 
 
 LESSON LXXII. 
 
 A THUNDER STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 In crossing a prairie of moderate extent, rendered little bet- 
 ter than a slippery bog by the recent showers', we were over- 
 taken by a violent thunder-gust. The rain came rattling upon 
 us in torrents', and spattered up like steam along the ground' ; 
 the whole landscape was suddenly wrapped in gloom that gave 
 a vivid effect to the intense sheets of lightning', while the thun- 
 der seemed to burst over our very heads', and was reverberated 
 by the groves and forests that checkered and skirted the prairie. 
 Man and beast were so pelted', drenched', and confounded', 
 that the line was thrown in complete confusion' ; some of the 
 horses were so frightened as to be almost unmanageable', and 
 our scattered cavalcade looked like a tempest-tossed fleet, 
 driving hither and thither, at the mercy of wind and wave. 
 
 At length', at half past two o'clock', we came to a halt', 
 and', gathering together our forces', encamped in an open and 
 lofty grove, with a prairie on one side, and a stream on the 
 other. The forest immediately rung with the sound of the axe, 
 and the crash of falling trees. Huge fires were soon blazing'; 
 blankets were stretched before them, by way of tents' ; booths 
 
252 
 
 were hastily reared of bark and skins'; every fire had its 
 group drawn close around it', drying and warming themselves', 
 or preparing a comforting meal. Some of the rangers were 
 discharging and cleaning their rifles', which had been exposed 
 to the rain' ; while the horses', relieved from their saddles and 
 burthens', rolled in the wet grass. 
 
 The showers continued from time to time', until late in the 
 evening. Before dark, our horses were gathered in and teth- 
 ered about the skirts of the camp', within the outposts', 
 through fear of Indian prowlers', who are apt to take advan- 
 tage of stormy nights for their depredations and assaults. As 
 the night thickened', the huge fires became more and more lu- 
 minous' ; lighting up masses of the overhanging foliage, and 
 leaving other parts of the grove in deep gloom. Every fire had 
 its gobiin group around it', while the tethered horses were 
 dimly seen', like spectres', among the thickets' ; excepting that 
 here and there a grey' one' stood out in bright relief. 
 
 The grove thus fitfully lighted up by the ruddy glare of the 
 fires', resembled a vast leafy dome, walled in by opake dark- 
 ness' ; but every now and then two or three quivering flashes 
 of lightning in quick succession', would suddenly reveal a 
 vast champaign country', where fields and forests', and run- 
 ning streams', would start', as it were, into existence for a few 
 brief seconds', and', before the eye could ascertain them', van- 
 ish again into gloom. 
 
 A thunder storm on a prairie', as upon the ocean', derives 
 grandeur and sublimity from the wild and boundless waste over 
 which it rages and bellows. It is not surprising that these aw- 
 ful phenomena of nature should be objects of superstitious rev- 
 erence to the poor savages'", and that they should consider the 
 thunder the angry voice of the Great Spirit. As our half- 
 breeds sat gossiping round the fire, I drew from them some of 
 the notions entertained on the subject by their Indian friends. 
 The latter declare that extinguished thunderbolts are sometimes 
 picked up by hunters on the prairies', who use them for the 
 heads of arrows and lances', and that any warrior thus armed' 
 is invincible. Should a thunder storm occur', however', during 
 battle, he is liable to be carried away by the thunder', and 
 never be heard of more. 
 
 A warrior of the Konza tribe', hunting on a prairie, was 
 overtaken by a storm', and struck down senseless by the thun- 
 der. On recovering', he beheld the thunderbolt lying on the 
 ground', and a horse standing beside it. Snatching up the bolt', 
 he sprang upon the horse', but found', too late, that he was 
 astride of the lightning. In an instant he was whisked away 
 
PRINCE ARTHUR. 253 
 
 over prairies, and forests', and streams', and deserts', until he 
 was flung senseless at the foot of the Rocky Mountains' ; from 
 whence, on recovering', it took him several months to return to 
 his own people. 
 
 This story reminded me of an Indian tradition', related by a 
 traveller', of the fate of a warrior' who saw the thunder lying 
 upon the ground', with a beautifully wrought moccason on each 
 side of it. Thinking he had found a prize, he put on the moc- 
 casons' ; but they bore him away to the land of spirits', from 
 whence he never returned. 
 
 These are simple and artless tales', but they had a wild and 
 romantic interest heard from the lips of half-savage narrators', 
 round a hunter's fire, in a stormy night', with a forest on one 
 side, and a howling waste on the other' ; and where, peradven- 
 ture, savage foes might be lurking in the outer darkness. 
 
 LESSON LXXIII. 
 
 PRINCE ARTHUR. 
 
 A room in the Castle. 
 Enter Hubert and two attendants. 
 
 Hubert. Heat me these irons hot' : and, look' thou stand' 
 Within the arras : when I strike my foot' 
 Upon the bosom of the ground*", rush forth'', 
 And bind the boy 1 ', which you shall find with me, 
 Fast to the chair' : be heedful' : hence, and watch'. 
 
 1. Attend. I hope 4 your warrant will bear out the deed. 
 
 Hud. Uncleanly scruples'! Fear not you : look to't'. — 
 
 (Exeunt Attendants.) Young lad', come forth' ; I have to 
 say with you. 
 
 Enter Arthur. 
 
 Arthur. Good' morrow', Hubert'. 
 
 Huh. Good' morrow', little prince. 
 
 Arih. As little prince, (having so great a title 
 
 To be more prince,) as may be. — You are sad^. 
 22 
 
254 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE, 
 
 Hub. Indeed', I have been' merrier. 
 Arth, Mercy on me ! 
 
 Methinks', nobody should be sad but T : 
 
 Yet, I remember', when I was in France, 
 Young gentlemen would be as sad as night', 
 Only for wantonness. By my Christendom', 
 So I were out of prison', and kept sheep 1 ', 
 I should be as merry as the day is long' ; 
 
 And so I would be here, but that I doubt' 
 
 My uncle practices more harm to me : 
 
 He is afraid of me', and T of him' : 
 
 Is it my' fault' that I was Geffrey's son' ? 
 
 No', indeed, is't not' ; And I would to heaven', 
 
 I were your son', so you would love me', Hubert'. 
 
 Hub. If I talk to him', with his innocent prate' 
 
 He will awake my mercy', which lies dead' : 
 Therefore I will be sudden', and despatch. Aside. 
 
 Arth. Are you sick', Hubert' ? you look pale to day* 1 : 
 
 In sooth', I would you were a little sick' ; 
 That I might sit all night', and watch with you : 
 
 I warrant, I love you more than you do me'. 
 
 Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom'. — 
 Read here', young Arthur'. (Showing a paper.) 
 
 How now, foolish rheum', (Aside.) 
 Turning dispiteous torture out of door' ! 
 I must be briefs, lest resolution drop' 
 Out at mine eyes', in tender womanish tears. — 
 Can you not read it' ? is it not fair writ' ? 
 
 Arth. Too' fairly', Hubert', for so foul' effect : 
 
 Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes' ? 
 
 Hub. Young boy', I must'. 
 
 Arth. And will' you ? 
 
 c 
 
 Hub. And I will'. 
 
 Arth. Have you the heart' ? When your head did but 
 ache', 
 I knit my handkerchief about your brows', 
 (The best I had', a princess wrought it me',) 
 And I did never ask it you again' ; 
 And with my hand at midnight held your head' ; 
 And', like the watchful minutes to the hour', 
 Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time', 
 
PRINCE ARTHUR. 255 
 
 Saying, What lack yodi? and Where lies your grief? 
 
 Or, what good love may I perform for you" ? 
 Many a poor man's son' would have lain still, 
 And ne'er have spoken a loving word to you ; 
 But you^, at your sick service', had a prince'. 
 
 Nay\ you may think my love was crafty love', 
 And call it cun'ning' ; Do', an if you wilF : 
 If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill', 
 Why', then' you must". — WilP you put out mine 
 
 1 
 
 These eye's, that never did', nor ever shalP, 
 
 So much as frown'j on you ? 
 
 Huh. I have sworn' to do it ; 
 
 And with hot irons must I burn them out. 
 
 Arth. Ah', none but in this iron' age would do it' ! 
 The iron of itself, though heat* red-hot', 
 Approaching near these eyes', would drink my tears', 
 And quench his fiery indignation', 
 Even in the matter of mine innocence : 
 Nay', after that*, consume away in rust 1 ", 
 But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 
 Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron' 1 
 And if an angel should have come to me', 
 And told me', Hubert should put out mine eyes', 
 
 I would not have believed a tongue, but Hubert's'. 
 Hub. Come forth'. (Stamps.) 
 
 Re-enter Attendants, with cords, irons, fyc. 
 
 Do' as I bid you do'. 
 Arth. O', save' me, Hubert', save' me ! my eyes are out', 
 
 Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men'. 
 Hub. Give me the iron', I say', and bind' him here. 
 Arth. Alas', what need you be so boist'rous rough' ? 
 
 I will not struggle 7 , I will stand stone still'. 
 
 For heaven's sake', Hubert', let me not be bound 1, ! 
 
 And I will sit as quiet as a lamb'; 
 
 I will not stir', nor wince', nor speak' a word', 
 
 Nor look upon the iron angerly^ : 
 
 * Pronounced het. 
 
256 the reader's guide. 
 
 Thrust but these men away', and I'll forgive you, 
 Whatever torment you do put me to'. 
 
 Hub. Go', stand within' ; let me alone' with him. 
 
 1. Attend. I am best' pleas'd to be v , from such a deed'. 
 
 {Exeunt Attendants). 
 
 Arih. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend' ; 
 
 He hath a stern look, but a gentle' heart' : — 
 Let him come back b , that his' compassion may' 
 Give life to yours'. 
 
 Hub. Come', boy', prepare yourself. 
 
 Artli. Is there no remedy' ? 
 
 Hub. None', but to lose your eyes. 
 
 Arth. O', heaven' ! — that there was but a m6te in yours', 
 A grain', a dust', a gnat', a wand'ring hair', 
 Any' annoyance in that precious sense' ! 
 Then', feeling what small' things' are boist'rous there. 
 Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 
 
 Hub. Is this your promise' 1 go to', hold your tongue'. 
 
 Arth. Hubert', the utterance of a brace' of tongues' 
 Must need want pleading for a pair of eyes' : 
 Let' me not hold my tongue' ; let' me not', Hubert' ! 
 Or, Hubert', if you wilP, cut out' my tongue', 
 So I may keep mine eyes' ; O', spare' mine eyes', 
 Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 
 Lo', by my troth', the instrument is cold', 
 And would not harm me'. 
 
 Hub. I can heat it' boy". 
 
 Arih. No% in good sooth' ; the fire is dead with grief, 
 Being create for comfort', to be us'd' 
 In undeserv'ed extremes' : See' else yourself; 
 There is no malice in this burning coal' ; 
 The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out^, 
 And strew'd repentant ashes on his head'. 
 
 Hub. But with my breath I can revive it', boy'. 
 
 Arth. And if you do^, you will but make it blush, 
 
 And glow with shame of your proceedings', Hubert' : 
 
 Nay', it, perchance', will sparkle in your eyes^ ; 
 
 And like a dog that is compelled to fight', 
 
 Snatch at his master' that doth tar* him on. 
 
 All things, that you should use to do me wrong', 
 
 Deny their office' : only you'' do lack' 
 
 That' mercy', which fierce fire', and iron', extends', — 
 
 * Tar ; to tease, to provoke ; obsolete. 
 
BEER BLEATING. MAGIC BALLS. 257 
 
 Creatures of note', for mercy-lacking uses. 
 Huh. Well, see' to live ; I will not touch thine eyes' 
 
 For all the treasures that thine uncle owns' ; 
 
 Yet am I sworn h , and I did purposed boy'', 
 
 With this same very iron to burn them out'. 
 Arth. O, now you look like Hubert' ! all this while' 
 
 You were disguised 1 ". 
 Hub. Peace' : no more'. Adieu ; 
 
 Your uncle must not know but you are dead' : 
 
 I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. 
 
 And, pretty child', sleep' doubtless', and secure', 
 
 That Hubert', for the wealth of all the world', 
 
 Will not offend thee'. 
 Arth. O, heaven' ! — I thank' you' Hubert'. 
 Hub. Silence' ; no more' : Go closely in' with me ; 
 
 Much danger do I undergo for thee. (Exeunt.) 
 
 LESSON LXXIV. 
 
 DEER BLEATING. MAGIC BALLS. 
 
 On the following morning we were rejoined by the rangers 
 who had remained at the last encampment, to seek for the stray 
 horses. They had tracked them for a considerable distance 
 through bush and brake', and across streams', until they found 
 them cropping the herbage on the edge of a prairie. Their 
 heads were in the direction of the fort', and they were evident- 
 ly grazing their way homeward', heedless of the unbounded 
 freedom of the prairie so suddenly laid open to them. 
 
 About noon the weather held up, and I observed a mysteri- 
 ous consultation going on between our half-breeds and Tonish' : 
 it ended in a request that we would dispense with the services 
 of the latter for a few hours', and permit him to join his com- 
 rades in a grand foray.* We objected that Tonish was too 
 much disabled by aches and pains for such an undertaking ; but 
 he was wild with eagerness for the mysterious enterprise, and, 
 when permission was given him', he seemed to forget all his ail- 
 ments in an instant. 
 
 * Hunting excursion. 
 22* 
 
258 
 
 In a short time the trio were equipped and on horseback 
 with rifles on their shoulders and handkerchiefs twisted round 
 their heads', evidently bound for a grand scamper. As they 
 passed by the different lodges of the camp, the vain-glorious lit- 
 tle Frenchman could not help boasting to the right and left, of 
 the great things he was about to achieve ; though the taciturn 
 Beatte,* who rode in advance, would every now and then check 
 his horse, and look back at him with an air of stern rebuke. It 
 was hard, however, to make the loquacious Tonish play " In- 
 dian." 
 
 Several of the hunters, likewise, sallied forth', and the prime 
 old woodman', Ryan', came back early in the afternoon, with 
 ample spoil', having killed a buck and two fat does. I drew 
 near to a group of rangers that had gathered round him as 
 ne stood by the spoil, and found they were discussing the merits 
 of a stratagem sometimes used in deer hunting. This consists 
 in imitating with a small instrument called a bleat', the cry of 
 the fawn, so as to lure the doe within reach of the rifle. There 
 are bleats of various kinds, suited to calm or windy weather, 
 and to the age of the fawn. The poor animal, deluded by them', 
 in its anxiety about its young will sometime advance close up to 
 the hunter. " I once' bleated a doe''," said a young hunter, 
 " until it came within twenty yards of me', and presented a sure 
 mark. I levelled my rifle three times', but had not the heart to 
 shoot', for the poor doe looked so wistfully, that it in a manner 
 made my heart yearn. I thought of my own' mother, and how 
 anxious she used to be about me' when I was a child' ; so to put 
 an end to the matter', I gave a halloo'', and started the doe out 
 of rifle shot in a moment." 
 
 " And you did right'," cried honest old Ryan. " For my 
 part, I never could bring myself to bleating deer. I've been 
 with hunters who had bleats, and have made them throw them 
 away. It is a rascally trick to take advantage of a mother's 
 love for her young." 
 
 Towards evening, our three worthies returned from their mys- 
 terious foray. The tongue of Tonish gave notice of their ap- 
 proach, long before they came in sight' ; for he was vociferating 
 at the top of his lungs', and rousing the attention of the whole 
 camp. The lagging gait and reeking flanks of their horses, 
 gave evidence of hard riding' ; and on nearer approach, we 
 found them hung round with meat', like a butcher's shambles. 
 In fact they had been scouring an immense prairie that extend- 
 ed beyond the forest, and which was covered with herds of buf- 
 
 * Be-at-te. 
 
 ind 
 
DEER BLEATING. MAGIC BALLS. 259 
 
 falo. Of this prairie, and the animals upon it', Beatte had re- 
 ceived intelligence a few days before', in his conversation with 
 the Osages' ; but had kept the information a secret from the 
 rangers, that he and his comrades might have the first dash at 
 the game. They had contented themselves with killing four' ; 
 though, if Tonish might be believed', they might' have slain 
 them by scores. 
 
 These tidings', and the buffalo meat brought home in evi- 
 dence', spread exultation through the camp', and every one look- 
 ed forward with joy to a buffalo hunt on the prairies. Tonish 
 was again the oracle of the camp*', and held forth by the hour to 
 a knot of listeners', crouched round the fire, with their shoulders 
 up to their ears. He was now more boastful than ever of his 
 skill as a marksman. All his want of success in the early part 
 of our march, he attributed to being " out of luck'," if not " spell 
 bound' ;" and finding himself listened to with apparent creduli- 
 ty', gave an instance of the kind', which he declared had hap- 
 pened to himself'', but which was evidently a tale picked up 
 among his relations', the Osages. 
 
 According to this account', when about fourteen years of 
 age, as he was one day hunting, he saw a white deer come out 
 from a ravine. Crawling near to get a shot', he beheld another 
 and another come forth', until there were seven', all as white as 
 snow. Having crept sufficiently near', he singled one out and 
 fired'', but without effect' ; the deer remained unfrightened. He 
 loaded and fired again', and again he missed. Thus he contin- 
 ued firing and missing until all his ammunition was expended', 
 and the deer remained without a wound. He returned home 
 despairing of his skill as a marksman', but was consoled by an 
 old Osage hunter. These white deer', said he', have a charm- 
 ed life, and can only be killed by bullets of a particular kind. 
 
 The old Indian cast several balls for Tonish'', but would not 
 suffer him to be present on the occasion 1 ', nor inform him of the 
 ingredients and mystic ceremonials. 
 
 Provided with these balls', Tonish' again set out in quest of 
 the white deer 1 ", and succeeded in finding them. He tried at 
 first with ordinary balls', but missed as before. A magic ball, 
 however', immediately brought a fine buck to the ground. — 
 Whereupon the rest of the herd immediately disappeared and 
 were never seen again. 
 
260 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON LXXV. 
 
 A FRONTIER FARM HOUSE. 
 
 
 In the course of the morning we came upon Indian tracks, 
 crossing each other in various directions ; a proof that we must 
 be in the neighborhood of human habitations. At length', on 
 passing through a skirt of wood, we beheld two or three log 
 houses, sheltered under lofty trees on the border of a prairie, the 
 habitations of Creek Indians, who had small farms adjacent. 
 Had they been sumptuous villas, abounding with the luxuries 
 of civilization, they could not have been hailed with greater de- 
 light. 
 
 Some of the rangers rode up to them in quest of food ; the 
 greater part, however, pushed forward in search of the habita- 
 tion of a white settler, which we were told was at no great dis- 
 tance. The troop soon disappeared among the trees, and I fol- 
 lowed slowly in their track' ; for, my once fleet and generous 
 steed faltered under me, and was just able to drag one foot after 
 the other' ; yet I was too weary and exhausted to spare him. 
 
 In this way we crept on, until on turning a thick clump of 
 trees, a frontier farm house suddenly presented itself to view. It 
 was a low tenement of logs, overshadowed by great forest trees', 
 but it seemed as if a very region of Cocagne* prevailed around 
 it. Here was a stable and barn', and granaries teeming with 
 abundance', while legions of grunting swine, gobbling turkeys', 
 cackling hens', and strutting roosters', swarmed about the farm 
 yard. 
 
 My poor jaded and half famished horse, raised his head and 
 pricked up his ears, at the well known sights and sounds. He 
 gave a chuckling inward sound', something like a dry laugh ; 
 whisked his tail, and made great leeway toward a corn crib', 
 filled with golden ears of maize ; and it was with some difficulty 
 that I could control his course, and steer him up to the door of 
 the cabin. A single glance within was sufficient to raise eve- 
 ery gas r ronomicj" faculty. There sat the captain of the rangers 
 and his officers', round a three legged table, crowned by a broad 
 and smoking dish of boiled beef and turnips. I sprang off my 
 horse in an instant', cast him loose to make his way to the corn 
 
 * Cocan, a as in bat. Region of Cocagne is a region of plenty, abun- 
 dance. 
 
 t Gastric, it should be ; there is no such word as gastronomic. Per- 
 taining to sound. 
 
A FRONTIER FARM HOUSE. 261 
 
 crib', and entered this palace of plenty. A fat good humored 
 negress received me at the door. She was the mistress of the 
 housed the spouse of the white man who was absent. 1 hailed 
 her as some swartf fairy of the wild, that had suddenly conjur- 
 ed up a banquet in a desert ; and a banquet was it in good sooth. 
 In a twinkling she lugged from the fire a huge iron pot, that 
 might have rivalled one of the famous flesh pots of Egypt', or 
 the witches' caldron in Macbeth. Placing a brown earthen 
 dish on the floor', she inclined the corpulent caldron on one side, 
 and out leaped sundry great morsels of beef, with a regiment of 
 turnips tumbling after them', and with a rich cascade of broth, 
 overflowing the whole. This she handed me with an ivory 
 smile that extended from ear to ear v ; apologizing for our hum- 
 ble fare', and the humble style in which it was served up. Hum- 
 ble fare ! humble style ! Boiled beef and turnips', and an earth- 
 en dish to eat them from' ! To think of apologizing for such a 
 treat^ to a half-starved man from the prairies' ; and then such 
 magnificent slices of bread and butter' ! Head of Apicius\ 
 what a banquet' ! 
 
 " The rage of hunger" being appeased', I began to think of 
 my horse. He however', like an old campaigner', had taken 
 
 good care of himself'. I found him paying assiduous attention 
 to the crib of Indian corn h , and dexterously drawing forth and 
 munching the ears that protruded between the bars. It was 
 with great regret 1 " that I interrupted his repast^, which he aban- 
 doned with a heavy sigh 1 ", or rather a rumbling groan. I was 
 anxious, however, to rejoin my travelling companions, who had 
 passed by the farm-house without stopping', and proceeded to 
 the banks of the Arkansas'", being in the hopes of arriving be- 
 fore night at the Osage Agency. Leaving the Captain and 
 his troop, therefore, amidst the abundance of the farm, where 
 they had determined to quarter themselves for the night, I bade 
 adieu to our sable hostess, and again pushed forward. 
 
 * a as in tall, 
 
262 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON LXXVI. 
 
 AN ENIGMA. 
 
 Anapestic. Two feet and four, with an iambus, or spondee 
 occasionally substituted. 
 
 1. Ye philosophers hark v ! 
 My complexion is dark' ! 
 
 Reflection and silence my character mark. 
 
 2. No record on earth' 
 Discovers my birth. 
 
 Long reigned I in solitude, silence, and dearth. 
 
 3. I travel away' 
 
 In sombre array : 
 But my turbans and sandals are silvery gray. 
 
 4. Majestic my mien'', 
 
 And my dark form is seen' 
 All sparkling in gems', like an African queen. 
 
 5. One pearl that I wear' 
 
 Is more brilliant and rare 
 Than the loveliest gem in a princess's hair. 
 
 6. My stature is talF, 
 But at seasons I crawl *, 
 
 Or shrink myself almost to nothing at all. 
 
 7. Invisibly hurled', 
 
 I traverse the world', 
 And o'er every land is my standard unfurled. 
 
 8. I silently roll' 
 
 Round the icy-bound pole : 
 And long the wide region endures my control. 
 
 9. From earliest time' 
 
 1 was grave and sublime : 
 But often am made the accomplice of crime. 
 
 10. My intellect teems' 
 
 With visions and dreams'', 
 And wild tales of terror', my favorite themes. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 263 
 
 11. Yet sorrow and pain 7 
 Oft welcome ray reign', 
 
 And eagerly watch for my coming again'' : 
 
 12. For a handmaid of mine', 
 With aspect benign', 
 
 Deals out, at my bidding, a soft anodyne. 
 
 13. My sister down there 1 ", 
 Is transcendently fair'', 
 
 But we never once happened to meet any where. 
 
 14. Advancing behold*" 
 
 Her banners of gold 4, ! 
 Then I must away with my story half told. 
 
 LESSON LXXVII. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet and three ; the latter with an additional 
 short syllable. 
 
 1. What virtue can we name, or graced 
 But men', unqualified and base, 
 
 Will boast it their possession' ? 
 
 Profusion' apes the noble part' 
 Of liberality of hearf ; 
 And dullness of discretion. 
 
 2. But as the gem of richest cost' 
 Is ever counterfeited most', 
 
 So always imitation** 
 Employs the utmost skill he can', 
 To counterfeit the faithful man 1 ", 
 
 The friend of long duration. 
 
 3. Youth', unadmonished by a guide', 
 Will trust to any fair outside : — 
 
 An error soon corrected' ; 
 For who' but learns', with riper years', 
 
264 the reader's guide. 
 
 That man', when smoothest he appears', 
 Is most to be suspected' ? 
 
 4. No friendship will abide the test' 
 That stands on sordid interest', 
 
 And mean self-love erected ; 
 Nor such', as may awhile subsist' 
 'Twixt sensualist and sensualist', 
 
 For vicious ends connected. 
 
 5. A fretful temper will divide' 
 
 The closest knot that may be tied', 
 
 By ceaseless sharp corrosion' : 
 A temper passionate and fierce 
 May suddenly your joys disperse 
 At one immense explosion. 
 
 6. How bright so'er the prospect seems', 
 All thoughts of friendship are but dreams', 
 
 |If envy chance to creep in. 
 An envious man', if you succeed', 
 May prove a dang'rous foe indeed^, 
 But not a friend worth keeping. 
 
 7. As envy pines at good possess'd', 
 So jealousy looks forth distress'd' 
 
 On good that seems approaching ; 
 And', if success his steps attend', 
 Discerns a rival in a friend h , 
 
 And hates him for encroaching. 
 
 8. Hence authors of illustrious name', 
 Unless belied by common fame', 
 
 Are sadly prone to quarrel' ; 
 To deem the wit a friend displays' 
 So much of loss to their own praise 1 ", 
 
 And pluck each other's laurel. 
 
 9. A man', renown'd for repartee',* 
 Will seldom scruple to make free' 
 
 With friendship's finest feeling' ; 
 Will thrust a dagger at your breast^ 
 And tell you 'twas a special jest^, 
 
 By way of balm for healing. 
 
 ♦ Rep-ar-tee. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 265 
 
 10. Beware of tattlers' ; keep your ear' 
 Close-stopt against the tales they bear'', — 
 
 Fruits of their own invention' : 
 The separation of chief friends' 
 Is what their kindness most intends' ; 
 
 Their sport^ is your dissension. 
 
 11. Some fickle creatures boast a soul' 
 True as the needle to the pole ; 
 
 Yet shifting', like the weather', 
 The needle's constancy forego' 
 For any novelty h , — and show' 
 
 Its variations' rather. 
 
 12. Religion should extinguish strife^, 
 And make a calm of human life ; 
 
 But even those who differ'' 
 Only on topics left at large', 
 How fiercely will they meet' and charge ! 
 
 No combatants are stiffer. 
 
 13. The man who hails you Tom, or Jack', 
 And proves by thumping on your back' 
 
 His sense of 3 r our great merit', 
 Is such a friend that one had need' 
 Be very much his friend indeed', 
 
 To pardon', or to bear it. 
 
 14. Some friends make this* their prudent plan — 
 Say little, and hear all you can' ; — 
 
 Safe policy, but hateful' ! 
 So barren sands imbibe the show'r, 
 But render neither fruit nor flowV ; — 
 
 Unpleasant', and ungrateful' ! 
 
 15 These samples', (for alas' ! at last' 
 These are but' samples', and a taste 
 
 Of evils yet unmention'd',) 
 May prove the task', a task indeed', 
 In which 'tis much if we succeed', 
 
 However well intention ; d. 
 
 16. Pursue the theme, and ynu shall find' 
 
 A disciplin'd and furnish 'd mind' 
 
 To be at least expedient' ; 
 
 23 
 
266 
 
 And, after summing all the rest', 
 Religion,' ruling in the breast' 
 A principal ingredient. 
 
 LESSON LXXVIII. 
 
 THE RETIRED CAT. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet in a line. 
 
 A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave' 
 
 As Poet well could wish to have', 
 
 Was much addicted to inquire' 
 
 For nooks to which she might retire'' ; 
 5 And where', secure as mouse in chink',, 
 
 She might repose, or sit and think. 
 
 I know not where she caught the tricks- 
 Nature perhaps herself > had cast her 
 10 In such a mould philosophique', 
 
 Or else she learned it of her master'. 
 
 Sometimes ascending, debonair', 
 
 An apple-tree or lofty pear', 
 
 Lodg'd with convenience in the fork', 
 15 She watched the gard'ner at his work' ; 
 
 Sometimes her ease and solace sought' 
 
 In an old empty wafring pot' ; 
 
 There wanting nothing', save a fan', 
 20 To seem some nymph in her sedan 4 ", — 
 
 ApparelPd in exactest sort', 
 
 And ready to be borne to court. 
 
 But love of change, it seems, has place 7 
 
 Not only in our wiser race 1 ' ; 
 25 Cats' also feel, as well as we', 
 
 That' passion's force'', and so did she. 
 
 Her climbing she began to find' 
 
 Exposed her too much to the wind' ; 
 
 And the old utensil* of tin' 
 
 * Pronounced by the poet, YQ-ten-sil; The two last syllables short, 
 and unaccented. 
 
THE RETIRED CAT. 267 
 
 30 Was cold and comfortless within : 
 
 She therefore wish'd instead of those 7 , 
 
 Some place of more serene repose', 
 
 Where neither cold might come', nor air' 
 
 Too rudely wanton with her hair'' ; 
 35 And sought it in the likeliest mode' 
 
 Within her master's snug abode. 
 A draw'r it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd' 
 
 With linen of the softest kind', 
 
 With such as merchants introduce' 
 40 From India, for the ladies' use 1 ' ; — 
 
 A draw'r impending o'er the rest', 
 
 Half open in the topmost chest', 
 
 Of depth enough^, and none to spare^, 
 
 Invited her to slumber there. 
 45 Puss with delight beyond expression', 
 
 Survey'd the scene', and took possession. 
 
 Recumbent at her ease ere long', 
 
 And lulled by her own hum-drum song', 
 
 She left the cares of life behind', 
 50 And slept as she would sleep her last' ; 
 
 When in v came', housewifely inclin'd', 
 The chambermaid', and shut it fast", — 
 
 By no malignity impell'd', 
 
 But all unconscious whom it held. 
 55 Awaken'd by the shock', (cried Puss',) 
 
 " Was ever cat attended thus v ! 
 
 The open drawer was left, I see', 
 
 Merely to prove a nest for me*" ; 
 
 For soon as I was well composed', 
 60 Then came the maid 1 ', and it was clos'd' ; 
 
 How smooth these kerchiefs', and how sweet' ; 
 
 Oh what a delicate retreat' ! 
 
 I will myself resign to rest' 
 
 Till Sol, declining in the west', 
 65 Shall call to supper' ; when', no doubt', 
 
 Susan will come and let me out." 
 
 The evening came, the Sun descended', 
 
 And Puss remain'd', still unattended'. 
 
 The night roll'd tardily away' ; 
 70 (With herS indeed, 'twas never'' day* 1 ,) 
 
 The sprightly morn her course renew'd', 
 
 The evening grey again ensued', 
 
268 
 
 And Puss came into mind no more 
 
 Than if entomb'd the day before. 
 75 With hunger pinch'd", and pinch'd for roomV 
 
 She now presag'd approaching doom', 
 
 Nor slept a single wink", or purr'd', 
 
 Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. 
 
 That night", by chance', the Poet watching', 
 80 Heard an inexplicable scratching" ; 
 
 His noble heart went pit-a-pat", — 
 
 And to himself he said', " What' 's that" ?" 
 
 He drew the curtain at his side, 
 
 And forth he peep'd', but nothing spied" ; 
 85 Yet by his ear directed', guess'd' 
 
 Something imprison'd in the chest", 
 
 And doubtful what', with prudent care', 
 Resolv'd it should continue there. 
 At length a voice', which well he knew', 
 90 A long and melancholy mew', 
 
 t c « t e ( 
 
 Saluting his poetic ears', 
 
 Consol'd him', and dispell'd his fears" ; 
 
 He left his bed', he trod the floor', 
 
 He 'gan in haste the draw'rs explore ; 
 95 The lowest first", and without stop', 
 
 The rest in order to the top". 
 
 For 'tis a truth well known to most', 
 
 That whatsoever thing is lost', 
 
 We seek it', ere it come to light', 
 100 In every cranny but the right". 
 
 Forth skipp'd the Cat", ; not now replet§ 
 
 As erst with airy self-conceit', 
 
 Nor in her own fond apprehension', 
 
 A theme for all the world's attention', 
 105 But modest", sober", cur'd of alP 
 
 Her notions hyperbolical", 
 
 And wishing for her place of rest' 
 
 Any thing" rather than a chest". 
 
 Then stept the Poet into bed' 
 110 With this reflection in his head — 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Beware of too sublime a sense 
 
 Of your own worth and consequence ! 
 
RODERICK DHU AND MALCOLM. 269 
 
 The man who dreams himself so great', 
 And his importance of such weight', 
 115 That all around', in all that's done, 
 Must move and act for him alone', 
 Will learn in school of tribulation', 
 The folly of his expectation. 
 
 LESSON LXXIX. 
 
 RODERICK DHU AND MALCOLM. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet. 
 
 Twice through the hall the chieftain strode ; 
 The wavings of his tartans broad', , 
 
 And darkened brow', where wounded pride 
 With ire and disappointment vied', 
 5 Seemed', by the torch's gloomy light', 
 Like the ill Demon of the night', 
 Stooping his pinions shadowy sway' 
 Upon the nighted pilgrim's way' : 
 But, unrequited love, thy dart' 
 
 10 Plunged deepest its envenomed smart', 
 And Roderick with thine anguish stung', 
 At length the hand of Douglas wrung' ; 
 While eyes that mocked at tears before, 
 With bitter drops were running o'er v . 
 
 15 The death-pangs of long-cherished hope', 
 Scarce in that ample breast had scope', 
 But', struggling with his spirit proud', 
 Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud', 
 While every sob' — so mute were all' — 
 
 20 Was heard distinctly through the hall' ; 
 The son's despair', the mother's look', 
 111 might the gentle Ellen brook' ; 
 She rose% and to her side there came, 
 To aid her parting steps', the Graeme.* 
 
 25 Then Roderick from the Douglas broke ; — 
 As flashes flame through sable smoke', 
 Kindling its wreaths long', dark', and low', 
 To one broad blaze of ruddy glow', 
 
 * Pronounced Grame / a as in late. 
 23* 
 
270 the reader's guide. 
 
 So the deep anguish of despair' 
 
 30 Burst, in fierce jealousy', to air' — 
 With stalwart grasp his hand he laid' 
 On Malcolm's breast, and belted plaid' ; 
 " Back', beardless boy" !" he sternly said', 
 " Back', minion' I hold'st thou thus at naught 
 
 35 The lesson I so lately taught' 1 
 
 This roof, the Douglas' and that maid'', 
 Thank thou for punishment delayed'." 
 Eager as grey-hound on his game' 
 Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme ; 
 
 49 Perish my name', if aught afford' 
 
 Its chieftain safety', save his sword' !" 
 Thus as they strove, their desperate hand' 
 Griped to the dagger or the brand' ; 
 And death had been' — But Douglas rose, 
 45 And thrust between the struggling foes' 
 
 His giant strength' :...." Chieftains forego ! 
 I hold the first who strikes', my foe. 
 Madmen', forbear your frantic jar' ! 
 What' ! is the Douglas fallen so far 1 ', 
 
 50 His daughter's hand is deemed the spoil' 
 Of such dishonorable broil' ?" 
 
 Sullen and slowly they unclasp', 
 
 As struck with shame, their desperate grasp' ; 
 
 And each upon his rival glared', 
 55 With foot advanced', and blade half bared'. 
 Ere yet the brands aloft were flung', 
 
 Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung'. 
 
 And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream', 
 
 As faltered through terrific dream'. 
 60 Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword', 
 
 And veiled his wrath in scornful word. 
 
 " Rest safe till morning' ; pity 'twere 
 
 Such cheeks should feel the midnight air' ! 
 
 Then' mayst thou to James Stuart tell', 
 65 Roderick will keep the lake and fell, 
 
 Nor lackey", with his free born clan', 
 
 The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
 
 Morej would he of Clan-Alpine know', 
 Thou canst our strength and passes show'. 
 
 Malise, what', ho !" his henchman came ; 
 70 " Give our safe conduct to the Graeme'." ; 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 Young Malcolm answered', calm and bold', 
 " Fear nothing for thy favorite hold'. 
 The spot, an angel deigned to grace, 
 Is blessed, though robbers haunt the place : 
 
 75 Thy churlish courtesy for those' 
 Reserve, who feel to be thy foes. 
 As safe to me the mountain way' 
 At midnight r , as in blaze of day^, 
 Though', with his boldest at his back', 
 
 80 Even Roderick Dhu, beset the track. 
 
 271 
 
 LESSON LXXX. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 Iambic. Five feet. 
 
 1. Roll on', thou deep and dark-blue ocean' — roll' ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain' ; 
 
 Man marks the earth with ruin' — his control' 
 
 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain' 
 
 The wrecks are all thy' deed, nor doth remain' 
 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own b , 
 
 When, for a moment', like a drop of rain', 
 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan'', 
 
 Without a graved unknell'd'', uncomVd^, and unknown. 
 
 2. His steps are not upon thy paths', — thy fields' 
 Are not a spoil for him A , — thou dost arise ^ 
 
 And shake him from thee' ; the vile strength he wields' 
 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise', 
 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies', 
 
 And send'st him shivering', in thy playful spray', 
 
 And howling', to his gods'', where haply lies' 
 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay ^ 
 
 And dashest him again to earth' : — there let him lay.* 
 
 3. The armaments which thunder-strike the walls' 
 Of rock-built cities', bidding nations quake', 
 
 And monarch's tremble in their capitals', — 
 
 * Should be lie. 
 
272 the reader's guide, 
 
 The oak leviathans', whose huge ribs make 
 
 Their clay creator the vain title take' 
 
 Of lord of thee', and arbiter of war b ; 
 
 These are thy toys'', and', as the snowy flake', 
 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves'', which mar 7 
 
 Alike the Armada's pride h , or spoils of Trafalgar'. 
 
 4. Thy shores are empires', changed in all save thee'. 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome', Carthage', what are they 1 "? 
 Thy waters wasted them', while they were free 11 , 
 
 And many a tyrant' since' ; their shores obey' 
 The stranger', slave', or savage' ; their decay' 
 Has dried up realms' to deserts' : — not so thou, 
 Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play' — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine' azure brow' — 
 
 Such as creation's dawn^ beheld', thou rollest now'. 
 
 5. Thou glorious mirror', where the Almighty's form' 
 Glasses itself in tempests 1 ' ; in all time', 
 
 Calm' or convulsed' — in breeze', or gale', or storm',* 
 
 Iceing the pole', or in the torrid clime' 
 
 Dark-heaving' ; — boundless', endless', and sublime' — 
 
 The image of eternity' — the throne 
 
 Of the Invisible' ; even from out thy slime' 
 
 The monsters of the deep are made' ; each zone' 
 
 Obeys thee' ; thou goest forth ^ dread', fathomless', alone 
 
 6. And I have loved thee', ocean' ! and my joy' 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be' 
 Borne, like thy bubbles', onward' : from a boy' 
 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers' — they to me' 
 
 Were a delight' ; and if the freshening sea 
 
 Made them a terror' — 'twas a pleasing fear' ; 
 
 For I was', as it were', a child'' of thee 1 ", 
 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near', 
 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane'' — as I do liere'. 
 
 * Emphasis often inverts the inflections. See under Emphasis. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN A CHUCHYARD. 273 
 
 LESSON LXXXI. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Iambic. Three feet and four. 
 Matt. xvii. 4. 
 
 1. Methinks it is good to be here' ; 
 
 If thou wilt' let us build'', — but for whom'? 
 
 No Elias and Moses appear', 
 But the shadows of us' that encompass the gloom', 
 The abode of the dead' and the place of the tomb 1 *. 
 
 2. Shall we build to Ambition' ? Oh, no' ! 
 Affrighted' he shrinketh away' ; 
 
 For, see' ! they would fix him below* 1 
 In a small narrow cave', and begirt with cold clay'', 
 To the meanest of reptiles a den and a prey'. 
 
 3. To Beauty' ? Ah, no' !— she forgets' 
 The charms which she wielded before' — 
 
 Nor knows the foul worm 4 that he frets' 
 The skin', which', but yesterday', fools could adore 1 ", 
 For the smoothness it held', or the tint which it wore'. 
 
 4. Shall we build to the purple of Pride 1 "-— 
 The trappings which dizen the proud' ? 
 
 Alas, they are all laid aside — 
 And here's neither dross nor adornment allow'd', 
 But the long winding- sheet'' and the fringe of the shroud' ! 
 
 5. 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'. 
 
 6. To the pleasures which mirth h can afford' — 
 
 The revel', the laugh' and the jeer'? 
 
 Ah' ! here is a plentiful board'', 
 But the guests are all mute 11 as their pitiful cheer', 
 And none but the worm 11 is a reveller here'. 
 
274 the reader's guide. 
 
 7. Shall we build to Affection and Love' ? 
 Ah, no v ! 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'. 
 
 8. 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* 1 , nor fear ;— 
 Peace', Peace', is the watch-word', the only one here'. 
 
 9. Unto Death', to whom monarchs must bow' ? 
 Ah, no' ! for his empire is known 1 ', 
 
 And here there are trophies enow' ! 
 Beneath the cold dead', and around the dark stone', 
 Are the signs of a scepter that none may disown ! 
 
 10. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build', 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise' ; 
 
 The second to Faith 1 *, which ensures it fulfill'd' — 
 
 And the third to the Lamb' of the great sacrifice', 
 Who bequeathed us them both' when he rose to the skies' 
 
 LESSON LXXXII. 
 
 eve's labientation. 
 Iambic. Epic. 
 
 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' 1 where I had hope to spend', 
 5 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 ev'n'; which I bred up with tender hand' 
 10 From the first opening bud', and gave ye names', 
 
INDOLENCE. 275 
 
 Who now shall rear ye to the sun', or rank' 
 Your tribes', and water from th' embrosial fount' ? 
 Thee lastly', nuptial bow'r', by me adorn'd' 
 With what to sight or smell was sweet', from thee^ 
 15 How shall I part', and whither wander down' 
 Into a lower world 1 ", to this'' obscure' 
 And wild' ? how shall we breathe in other air' 
 Less pure', accustom'd to immortal fruits' 1 
 
 LESSON LXXXIII. 
 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 " Hoiv long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard ? When wilt thou 
 arise out of sleep ?" 
 
 Not until you have had another' nap v , you reply' ; not till 
 there has been a little more folding of the hands' ! 
 
 Various philosophers and naturalists have attempted to define 
 man'. I never was satisfied with their labors ; absurd' to pro- 
 nounce him a two-legged', unfeathered animal', when it is ob- 
 vious' he is a sleepy' one. In this world there is business 
 enough for every individual : a sparkling sky over his head to 
 admire 1 *, a soil under his feet to till 1 ", and innumerable objects', 
 useful', and pleasant', to choose'. But such, in general, is the 
 provoking indolence of our species', that the lives of many', if 
 impartially journalized", might be truly said to have consisted 
 of a series of slumbers. Some men are infested with day- 
 dreams', as well as by visions of the night' : they travel a cer- 
 tain insipid round, like the blind horse of the mill', and', as Bo- 
 lingbroke observes', perhaps beget others to do the like after 
 them. They may sometimes open their eyes a little', but they 
 are soon dimmed by some lazy fog' ; they may sometimes 
 stretch a limb 1 *, but its efforts are soon palsied by procrastina- 
 tion. Yawning amid tobacco fumes', they seem to have no 
 hopes, except that their bed^ will soon be made', and no fears'', 
 except that their slumbers will be broken by business clamor- 
 ing at the door. 
 
 How tender and affectionate is the reproachful question of 
 Solomon, in the text', " When wilt thou arise out of sleep' ?" 
 The Jewish prince, whom we know to be an active one', from 
 
276 the reader's guide. 
 
 the temple which he erected', and the books which he com- 
 posed', saw, when he cast his eyes around the city', half his sub- 
 jects asleep. Though in many a wise proverb he had warned 
 them of the baneful effects of indolence', they were deaf to his 
 charming voice', and blind to his noble example. The men 
 servants and the maid seivants, whom he had hired', nodded 
 over their domestic duties in the royal kitchen*", and when,' in 
 the vineyards he had planted', he looked for grapes^, lo', they 
 brought forth wild* grapes, for the vintager was drowsy. 
 
 At the present time, few Solomons exist to preach against 
 pillows', and never was there more occasion for a sermon. 
 Our country being at peace', not a drum is heard to rouse the 
 slothful. But', though we are exempted from the tumult and vi- 
 cissitudes of war', we should remember that there are many 
 posts of duty', if not of danger', and at these we should vigi- 
 lantly stand. If we will stretch the hand of exertion', means to 
 acquire competent wealth, and honest fame', abound'' ; and when 
 such ends are in view', how shameful to close our eyes' ! He 
 who surveys the paths of active life, will find them so numer- 
 ous and long, that he will feel the necessity of early rising and 
 late taking rest', to accomplish so much travel. He who pants 
 for the shade of speculation', will find that literature cannot 
 flourish in the bowers of indolence and monkish gloom. Much 
 midnight oil must be consumed, and innumerable pages ex- 
 amined', by him whose object is to be really wise. Few hours 
 has that man to sleep', and not one' to loiter', who has many 
 coffers of wealth to fill', or many cells in his memory to 
 store. 
 
 Among the various men whom I see in the course of my pil- 
 grimage through this world', I cannot frequently find those who 
 are broad awake'. Sloth h , a powerful magician', mutters a 
 witching spelL% and deluded mortals tamely suffer this drowsy 
 being to bind a fillet over their eyes. All their activity is em- 
 ployed in turning themselves like the door on a rusty hinge', 
 and all the noise they make in the world' is a snore. When I 
 see one, designed by nature for noble purposes', indolently de- 
 clining the privilege', and heedless', like Esau', bartering the 
 birthright for what is of less worth than his red pottage of len- 
 tils', — for liberty to sit still and lie quietly', — I think I see', not 
 a man', but an oyster'. The drone in society', like that fish 
 on our shores^, might as well be sunken in the mud', and en- 
 closed in a shell', as stretched on a couch', or seated in a chim- 
 ney corner. 
 
 The season is now approaching fast, when some of the most 
 plausible excuses for a little more sleep must fail. Exonerated 
 
ESCAPE OF BIRCH AND WHARTON. 277 
 
 by indulgence', the slothful are of all men most impatient of 
 cold', and they deem it never more intense' than in the morn- 
 ing. But the last bitter month has rolled away', and now', 
 could I persuade to the experiment', the sluggard may discover 
 that he may toss off the bed-quilt', and try the air of early 
 day, without being congealed ! He may be assured that sleep 
 is a very stupid employment', and differs very little from death', 
 except in duration. He may receive it implicitly', upon the 
 faith both of the physician and the preacher', that morning is 
 friendly to the health' and the heart' : and if the idler is so 
 manacled by the chains of habit that he can', at first', do no 
 more, he will do wisely and well to inhale pure air', to watch 
 the rising sun', and mark the magnificence of nature. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIV. 
 
 ESCAPE OF HARVEY BIRCH AND CAPT. HENRY WHARTON. 
 
 The road which it was necessary for the peddler and the 
 English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the 
 hills, lay, for half a mile, in full view from the door of the 
 building', that had so recently been the prison of the latter ; 
 running for the whole distance over the rich plain, that spreads 
 to the very foot of the mountains, which here rise in a nearly 
 perpendicular ascent from their bases', it then turned short to the 
 right', and was obliged to follow the windings of nature', as it 
 won its way into the bosom of the Highlands. 
 
 To preserve the supposed difference in their stations', Har- 
 vey* rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and main- 
 tained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his charac- 
 ter. On their right, the regiment of foot', that we have al- 
 ready mentioned', lay in tents' ; and the sentinels', who guarded 
 their encampment', were to be seen moving, with measured 
 tread', under the skirts of the hills themselves. The first im- 
 pulse of Henry was, certainly', to urge the beast he rode to his 
 greatest speed at once', and', by a coup-de-main',")" not only to 
 accomplish his escape', but relieve himself from the toituring 
 suspense of his situation. But the forward movement that the 
 
 * Harvey is the peddler. 
 
 t Coo-de-mang ; ng as in mangle. A bold stroke. 
 
 24 
 
278 the reader's guide. 
 
 youth made for this purpose was instantly checked by the 
 peddler. 
 
 " Hold up' !" he cried', dexterously reigning his own horse 
 across the path of the other ; " would you ruin us both' ? Fall 
 into the place of a black following his master'. Did you not 
 see their blooded chargers', all saddled and bridled', standing in 
 the sun before the house' ? How long do you think that miser- 
 able Dutch horse you are on would hold his speed', if pursued 
 by the Virginians' ? Every foot that we can gain without giv- 
 ing the alarm', counts us a day in our lives. Ride steadily 
 after me, and on no account look back. They are as subtle as 
 foxes', ay', and as ravenous for blood as wolves'." 
 
 Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and followed the 
 direction of the peddler. His imagination, however, continually 
 alarmed him with the fancied sounds of pursuit' ; though Birch', 
 who occasionally looked back, under the pretence of addressing 
 his companion', assured him that all continued quiet and peace- 
 ful. 
 
 " But," said Henry', "it will not be possible for Cesar to remain 
 long undiscovered ; had we not better put our horses to the 
 gallop' ? and, by the time they can reflect on the cause of our 
 flight , we can reach the corner of the woods'." 
 
 " Ah ! you little know them, Captain Wharton'," returned 
 the peddler' ; " there is a sergeant at this moment looking after 
 us', as if he thought all was not right' ; the keen-eyed fellow 
 watches me like a tiger lying in wait for his leap' ; when I 
 stood on the horse-block', he half suspected something was 
 wrong' ; nay', check your beast' ; we must let the animal walk 
 a little, for he is laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle ; 
 if he mounts now'', we are gone, The foot soldiers could 
 reach us with their muskets.". 
 
 " What does he do ?" asked Henry', reining his horse to a 
 walk', but, at the same time', pressing his heels into the animal's 
 sides', to be in readiness for a spring. 
 
 "He turns from his charger, and looks the other way. 
 Now' trot on gently' ; not so fast', not so fast' ; observe the 
 sentinel in the field a little ahead of us ; he eyes us keenly'." 
 
 " Never mind the footman'," said Henry, impatiently' ; " he 
 can do nothing but shoot us ; whereas these dragoons may 
 make me a captive again. Surely', Harvey', there are horse- 
 men moving down the road behind us. Do you see nothing 
 particular' ?" 
 
 " Humph' !" ejaculated the peddler' ; " there is something 
 particular', indeed', to be seen behind the thicket on your left' ; 
 
ESCAPE OF BIRCH AND WHARTON. 279 
 
 turn your head a little, and you may see v and profit' by it 
 too." 
 
 Henry eagerly seized his permission to look aside, and his 
 blood curdled to the heart as he observed they were passing a 
 gallows', that had unquestionably been erected for his own ex- 
 ecution, fie turned his face from the sight in undisguised 
 horror. 
 
 " There is a warning to be prudentj in that' bit of wood'," 
 said the peddler', in that sententious manner that he often 
 adopted. 
 
 " It is a terrific sight, indeed' !" cried Henry', for a moment 
 veiling his face with his hands', as if to drive a vision from be- 
 fore him. 
 
 The peddler moved his body partly around', and spoke with 
 energetic' but gloomy bitterness' — " and yet', Captain Whar- 
 ton', you see it when the setting sun shines full upon you ; the 
 air you breathe is clear, and fresh from the hills before you. 
 Every step that you take leaves that hated gallows behind" ; 
 and every dark hollow, and every shapeless rock in the moun- 
 tains', offers you a hiding place from the vengeance of your 
 enemies. But I have seen the gibbet raised, when no place of 
 refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in torture', looking 
 forward to the morning's dawn that was to light me to a death 
 of infamy. The sweat has started from limbs that seemed al- 
 ready drained of their moisture, and if I ventured to the hole 
 that admitted air' through grates of iron, to look out upon the 
 smiles of nature, which God has bestowed for the meanest of 
 his creatures', the gibbet has glared before my eyes, like an 
 evil conscience, harrowing the soul of a dying man. Four 
 times have I been in their power, besides this last' ; but — 
 twice— twice, did I think that my hour had come. It is hard 
 to die at the best', Captain Wharton' ; but to spend your last 
 moments alone and unpitied', to know that none near 3'ou so 
 much as think'' of the fate that is to you the closing of all that 
 is earthly' ; to think that in a few hours you are to be led 
 from the gloom ^ — which', as you dwell on what follows', be- 
 comes dear to you— to the face of day^, and there to meet all 
 e3 r es upon you, as if you were a wild beast ^ ; and to lose sight 
 of every thing amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow crea- 
 tures h ; — that', Captain Wharton', that indeed' is to die." 
 
 Henry listened in amazement, as his companion utiered this 
 speech with a vehemence altogether new to him'; both seemed 
 to have forgotten their danger', and their disguises', as he 
 cried' — 
 
 " What' ! were you ever so near death as that^ ?" 
 
280 the header's guide. 
 
 " Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three 
 years past' ?" resumed Harvey' ; " and once they even led me 
 to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only by an alarm 
 from the royal troops. Had they been a quarter of an hour 
 later', I must have died. There was I placed', in the midst of 
 unfeeling men', and gaping women and children', as a monster 
 to be cursed'. When I would pray to God', my ears were in- 
 sulted with the history of my crimes' ; and when, in all that 
 multitude', I looked around for a single face that showed me any 
 pity', I could find none', — no, not even one — all cursed me as a 
 wretch who would sell his country for gold. The sun was 
 brighter to my eyes than common' — but then it was the last 
 time' I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant', and 
 every thing seemed as if this world was a kind of heaven. 
 Oh' ! how sweet life was to me at that moment' ! 'Twas a 
 dreadful hour, Captain Wharton', and such as you have never 
 known. You have friends to feel for you ; but I' had none' 
 but a father to mourn my loss when he might hear of it' ; there 
 was no pity', no consolation near to soothe my anguish. Every 
 thing seemed to have deserted me, — I even thought that he had 
 
 forgotten that I lived." 
 
 " What' ! did you feel that God'' had forsaken you, Har- 
 vey' ?" cried the youth', with strong sympathy. 
 
 " God never forsakes his servants'," returned Birch, with 
 reverence, and exhibiting naturally' a devotion that hitherto he 
 had only assumed'. 
 
 " And whom did you mean by He V 9 
 
 The peddler raised himself in the saddle to the stiff and up- 
 right posture that was suited to the outward appearance The 
 look of fire, that, for a short time glowed upon his counte- 
 nance', disappeared in the solemn lines of unbending self-abase- 
 ment', and, speaking as if addressing a negro, he replied — 
 
 " In heaven there is no distinction of color', my brother' ; 
 therefore you have a precious charge within you, that you must 
 hereafter render an account of ;" — dropping his voice', "this 
 
 is the last sentinel near the road ; look not back' as you value 
 
 CI llClt 11 I I ( ( ( I ( 
 
 your life." 
 
 Henry remembered his situation', and instantly assumed the 
 humble demeanor of his adopted character. The unaccounta- 
 ble energy of the peddler's manner was soon forgotten in the 
 sense of his own immediate danger' ; and with the recollection 
 
ESCAPE OF BIRCH AND WHARTON. 281 
 
 of his critical situation' returned all the uneasiness that he had 
 momentarily forgotten. 
 
 " What see you, Harvey'?" he cried," 1 observing the peddler 
 to gaze towards the building they had left', with ominous in- 
 terest' ; " what see you at the house ?" 
 
 " That which bodes no good to us'," returned the pretended 
 priest. " Throw aside the mask and wig v — you will need all 
 your senses without much delay'— throw them in the road' : 
 there are none before us that I dread', but there are those be- 
 hind us', who will give us a fearful race." 
 
 " Nay', then'," cried the captain', casting the implements of 
 his disguise into the highway', " let us improve our time to the 
 utmost' ; we want a full quarter to the turn' ; why not push for 
 it at once' V 3 
 
 " Be cool' — they are in alarm', but they will not mount with- 
 out an officer', unless they see us fly' — now' he comes' — he 
 moves to the stables' — trot briskly' — a dozen are in their sad- 
 dles' ; but the officer stops to tighten his girths' — they hope to 
 steal a march upon us' — he is mounted' — now ride, Captain 
 Wharton', for your life, and keep at my heels'. If you quit me 
 you will be lost." 
 
 A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Har- 
 vey put his horse to his speed', Captain Wharton was at his 
 heels', urging the miserable animal that he rode to the utmost. 
 Birch had selected the beast on which he rode, and', although 
 vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded chargers of the dra- 
 goons', still it was much superior to the little pony that had been 
 thought good enough to carry Cesar Thompson on an errand. 
 A very ^ew jumps convinced the Captain that his companion 
 was fast leaving him', and a fearful glance that he threw behind' 
 informed the fugitive that his enemies were as speedily ap- 
 proaching. With that abandonment that makes misery doubly 
 grievous', when it is to be supported alone', Henry called aloud 
 to the peddler not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up', 
 and suffered his companion to run along side of his own horse. 
 The cocked hat and wig of the peddler fell from his head the 
 moment that his steed began to move briskly', and this devel- 
 opement of their disguise', as it might be termed', was witnessed 
 by the dragoons'', who announced their observation by a bois- 
 terous shout', that seemed to be uttered in the very ears of the 
 fugitives' — so loud was the cry', and so short the distance be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " Had we not better leave our horses'," said Henry', " and 
 make for the hills across the fields on our left' ? — the fence will 
 stop our pursuers." 
 
 24* 
 
282 the reader's gihde. 
 
 " That way lies the gallows'," returned the peddler" — " these 
 fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind them fences no 
 more than we do these ruts' ; but it is a short quarter to the 
 turn', and there are two roads behind the wood'. They may 
 stand to choose until they can take the track', and we shall gain 
 upon them a little there." 
 
 "But this miserable horse is blown al ready V' cried Henry', 
 urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time 
 that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy 
 riding whip that he carried'; — "he will never stand it for half 
 a mile further." 
 
 " A quarter will do — a quarter will do," said the peddler' ; " a 
 single quarter will save us', if you follow my directions." 
 
 Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of his 
 companion', Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. 
 A few moments brought them to the desired turn', and', as they 
 doubled round a point of low underbrush', the fugitives caught 
 a glimpse of their pursuers scattered along the highway'. Ma- 
 son and the serjeant being better mounted than the rest of the 
 party', were much nearer to their heels than even the peddler 
 thought could be possible. 
 
 At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the dark val- 
 ley that wound among the mountains', a thick underwood of 
 saplings had been suffered to shoot up', when the heavier growth 
 was felled for the sake of fuel. At the sight of this cover, Hen- 
 ry again urged the peddler to dismount, and to plunge into the 
 woods' ; but his request was promptly refused. The two roads 
 before mentioned met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance 
 from the turn', and both were circuitous', so that but little of 
 either could be seen at a time. The peddler took the one which 
 led to the left', but held it only a moment', for', on reaching a 
 partial opening in the thicket', he darted across the right hand 
 path, and led the way up the steep ascent', which lay directly 
 before them. This maneuver saved them. On reaching the 
 fork', the dragoons followed the track, and passed the spot where 
 the fugitives had crossed to the other road', before they missed 
 the marks of the footsteps. Their loud cries were heard by 
 Henry and the peddler, as their wearied and breathless animals 
 toiled up the hill', ordering their comrades in the rear to ride in 
 the right direction. The captain again proposed to leave their 
 horses', and dash into the thicket. 
 
 " Not yet', — not yet'," said Birch in a low voice ; " the road 
 falls' from the top of this hill as steep as it rises' — first' let us 
 gain the top'." While speaking they reached the desired sum- 
 mit', and both threw themselves from their horses. Henry 
 
ESCAPE OF BIRCH AND WHARTON. 283 
 
 plunged into the thick underwood, which covered the side of the 
 mountain for some distance above them. Harvey stopped to 
 give each of their beasts a few severe blows of his whip', that 
 drove them headlong down the path on the other side of the em- 
 inence', and then followed his example. The peddler entered 
 the thicket with a little caution', and avoided, as much as pos- 
 sible', rustling or breaking the branches in his way. There 
 was but time only to shelter his person from view', when a 
 dragoon led up the ascent', and, on reaching the height', he cried 
 aloud' — 
 
 " I saw one of their horses turning the hill this minute." 
 
 "Drive on' — spur forward', my lads'," shouted Mason ; "give 
 the Englishman quarter', but cut down the peddler', and make 
 an end of him." 
 
 Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard', as he listened 
 in a great tremor to this cry', which was followed by the pas- 
 sage of a dozen horsemen', with a vigor and speed that showed 
 too plainly how little security their overtired steeds could have 
 afforded them. " Now," said the peddler', rising from his cover 
 to reconnoitre', and standing for a moment in suspense', " alF 
 that we gain is clear'' gain ; for', as we go up', they go down. 
 Let us be stirring." 
 
 " But will they not follow us', and surround the mountain' V 
 said Henry', rising, and imitating the labored but rapid progress 
 of his companion' ; " remember they have foot' as well as 
 horse', and at any rate we shall starve in the hills'." 
 
 " Fear nothing', Captain Wharton'," returned the peddler with 
 confidence ; " this is not the mountain that I would be on', but 
 necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among these hills. I 
 will lead you where no man will dare to follow". See, the sun 
 is already setting behind the tops of the western mountains', and 
 it will be two hours to the rising of the moon. Who', think 
 you', will follow us far', on a November night', among these 
 rocks and precipices' V 
 
 " But listen' !" exclaimed Henry'; " the dragoons are shout- 
 ing to each other' — they miss us already." 
 
 " Come to the point of this rock', and you may see them''," 
 said Harvey', composedly setting himself down to rest. "Nay', 
 
 they can see us' — notice, they are pointing up with their fingers. 
 There ! one has fired his pistol', but the distance is too great 
 for even a musket to carry upwards." 
 
 " They will pursue us'," cried the impatient Henry' ; " let us 
 be moving'." 
 " They will not think of such a thing'," returned the peddler \ 
 
284 the header's guide. 
 
 picking the chickerberries that grew on the thin soil where he 
 sat', and very deliberately chewing them, leaves and all', to re- 
 fresh his mouth'. " What progress could they make here, in 
 their boots and spurs', with their long swords', or even pistols' ? 
 No', no — they may go back and turn out the foot ; but the horse 
 pass through these defiles', when the3 r can keep the saddle^, 
 with fear and trembling. Come, follow me, Captain Whar- 
 ton' ; we have a troublesome march before us', but I will bring 
 you where none will think of venturing this night." 
 
 So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view 
 amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountains. 
 
 LESSON LXXXV. 
 
 anecdote of dr. chauncy. 
 
 Dr. Cooper, who was a man of accomplished manners, and 
 fond of society, was able, by the aid of his fine talents, to dis- 
 pense with some of the severe study that others engaged in. 
 This, however, did not escape the envy and malice of the world,' 
 and it was said, in a kind of petulant and absurd exaggeration', 
 that he used to walk to the south end of a Saturday', and if he saw 
 a man riding into town in a black coat, would stop and ask him 
 to preach the next day. Dr. Chauncy was a close student', very 
 absent' and very irritable. On these traits in the character of the 
 two clergymen, a servant of Dr. Chauncy laid a scheme for ob- 
 taining a particular object from his master. Scipio went into his 
 master's study one morning to receive some directions', which 
 the doctor having given', resumed his writing', but the servant 
 still remained. The master, looking up a few minutes after- 
 wards, and supposing he had just come in', said', " Scipio', what 
 do you want' ?" " I want a new coat', massa." " Well', go to 
 Mrs. Chauncy', and tell her to give you one of my old coats' ;" 
 and was again absorbed in his studies. The servant remained 
 fixed. After a while, the doctor, turning his eyes that way', 
 saw him again* as if for the first time, and said', " What do you 
 want Scip.' ?" "I want a new coat\ massa." " Well', go to 
 my wife, and ask her to give you one of my old coats ;" and 
 fell to writing once more. Scipio remained in the same pos- 
 ture. After a few minutes', the doctor looked towards him', 
 and repeated the former question", "Scipio', what do you 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 285 
 
 want'?" "I want anew coat v , massa." It now flashed over 
 the doctor's mind, that there was something of repetition in this 
 dialogue. "Why', have I not told you before to ask Mrs. 
 Chauncy to give you one'? get away'." " Yes', massa, but I 
 no want a black' coat." " Not want a black' coat ! why not?" 
 
 " Why', massa, — I 'fraid to tell you — but I don't want a black' 
 
 coat. " What's the reason you don't want a black coat' ? tell 
 me directly'." " O' ! massa, I don't want a black' coat but 
 I 'fraid to tell you the reason', you so passionate."— "You 
 rascal' ! will you tell me the reason' ?" " ! massa, I'm sure 
 you be angry'." "If I had my cane here', you villain', I'd 
 break your bones' : will you tell me what you mean' ?" I 'fraid 
 to tell you, massa ; I know you be angry." The doctor's im- 
 patience was now highly irritated', and Scipio', perceiving by 
 his glance at the tongs', that he might find a substitute for the 
 cane 1 ', and that he was sufficiently excited', said', " Well', mas- 
 sa, you make me tell', but I know you be angry' — I 'fraid', mas- 
 sa, if I wear another black coat', Dr. Cooper' ask me to preach 
 for him !" This unexpected termination realized the servant's 
 calculation ; his irritated master burst into a laugh', — " Go, you 
 rascal', get my hat and cane, and tell Mrs. Chauncy she may 
 give you a coat of any' color' ; a red'' one if you choose'." Away 
 went the negro to his mistress 1 ', and the doctor' to tell the story 
 to his friend', Dr. Cooper. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVI. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Iambic. Epic measure. 
 
 Sweet Auburn' ! loveliest village of the plain', 
 Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain' 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid', 
 And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delayed. 
 5 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease', 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green', 
 Where humble happiness endear'd each scene I 
 How often have I paused on every charm 1 ', 
 10 The shelter'd cot', the cultivated farm', 
 The never-failing brook', the busy mill' j 
 
286 the reader's guide. 
 
 The decent church', that topt the neighb'ring huT ; 
 The hawthorn bush', with seats beneath the shade', 
 For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 
 
 15 How often have I blest the coming day', 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play', 
 And all the village train, from labor free', 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 20 The young contending as the old survey'd' ; 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground', 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round'. 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired', 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful bandinspir'd' ; 
 
 25 The dancing pair that simply sought renown' 
 By holding out', to tire each other down 1 * ; 
 The swain', mistrustless of his smutted face', 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place'' ; 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love h ; 
 
 30 The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove^ ; 
 These were thy charms', sweet village' ; sports like these 
 With sweet succession', taught e'en toil'' to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 
 These were thy charms' — But all these charms are fled'. 
 
 35 Sweet Auburn', parent of the blissful hour', 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power\ 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds' 
 Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds', 
 And', many a year elaps'd', return to view' 
 
 40 Where once the cottage stood', the hawthorn grew', 
 Remembrance wakes*" with all her busy train', 
 Swells at my breast', and turns the past to pain'. 
 In all my wand'rings round this world of care', 
 In all my griefs' — and God has given my share' — 
 
 45 I still had hopes 1 ', my latest hours to crown', 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down' ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close', 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
 I still had hopes', (for pride attends us still',) 
 
 50 Amidst the swains to shew my book-learned skill' ; 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw', 
 And tell of all I felt', and all I saw' ; 
 And, as an hare', whom hounds and horns pursue', 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew 1 ', 
 55 I still had hopes', my long vexations past', 
 
CELADON AND AMELIA. 287 
 
 Here to return 4- — and die at home at last'. 
 O blest retirement', friend to life's decline, 
 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine', 
 
 How blest is he who crowns in shades like these' 
 60 A youth of labor', with an age of ease ! 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try', 
 
 And', since 'tis hard to combat', learns to fry' ! 
 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep', 
 
 Explore the mine', or tempt the dang'rous deep" 1 ; 
 65 No surly porter stands in guilty state' 
 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end', 
 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend' ; 
 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay', 
 70 While resignation gently slopes the way' ; 
 
 And', all his prospects bright'ning to the last', 
 
 His Heaven commences ere the world be past' ! 
 
 LESSON LXXXVII. 
 
 CELADON AND AMELIA. 
 
 Iambic. Epic. 
 
 Young Celadon 
 And his Amelia were a matchless pair ; 
 With equal virtue form'd', and equal grace, 
 The same ; distinguished by their sex alone ; 
 5 Her's' the mild lustre of the blooming morn', 
 And his' the radiance of the risen day. 
 
 They lov'd' : but such their guileless passion was, 
 As in the dawn of time inform'd the heart 
 Of innocence, and undissembling truth. 
 
 10 'Twas friendship' heightened by the mutual wish'; 
 Th' enchanting hope', and sympathetic glow', 
 Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all' 
 To love 1 ', each was to each a dearer self' ; 
 Supremely happy in th' awakened power' 
 
 15 Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades' 
 Still in harmonious intercourse they liv'd' 
 The rural day% and talk'd the flowing heart', 
 Or sigh'd' and look'd 1 ' unutterable things. 
 
288 the reader's guide. 
 
 So pass'd their life b , 
 20 By care unruffled 1 ", till in evil hour', 
 
 The tempest caught them on the tender walk', 
 
 Heedless how far 1 ", and where 1 " its mazes stray'd' ; 
 While', with each other blest', creative love 
 Still bade eternal Eden smile around. 
 
 25 Presaging instant fate', her bosom heav'd'" 
 Unwonted sighs', and stealing oft a look' 
 Of the big gloom', on Celadon her eye 
 Fell tearful', wetting her disordered cheek'. 
 In vain assuring love, and confidence' 
 
 30 In Heaven' repress'dher fear'; it grew'', and shook' 
 Her frame near dissolution'. He perceiv'd 
 Th' unequal conflict'', and as angels look' 
 On dying saints', his eyes compassion shed', 
 With love illumin'd high. " Fear not'," he said', 
 
 35 " Sweet innocence ! thou stranger to offence, 
 
 " And inward' storm ! He', who yon skies involves' 
 
 " In frowns of darkness', ever smiles on thee 1 " 
 " With kind regard'. O'er thee the secret shaft' 
 " That wastes at midnight', or th' undreaded hour' 
 
 40 " Of noon', flies harmless' ; and that very voice', 
 " Which thunders terror thro' the guilty heart', 
 " With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine. 
 " 'Tis safety to be near thee', sure, and thus'' 
 " To clasp perfection !" From his void embrace, 
 
 45 Mysterious heaven' ! that moment to the ground', 
 A blackened corse was struck the beauteous maid'. 
 But who can paint the lover'' as he stood', 
 Pierc'd by severe amazement', hating life', 
 Speechless', and fix'd' in all the death of wo ! 
 
 50 So, faint resemblance ! on the marble tomb' 
 The well -dissembled mourner stooping stands', 
 Forever silent', and forever sad'. 
 
NIGHT. 289 
 
 LESSON LXXXVIII. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Iambic. Epic. 
 
 The bell strikes one'. We take no note of time' 
 But from its loss' : to give it then a tongue' 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke' 
 I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright', 
 5 It is the knell of my departed hours'. 
 
 Where are they' ? With the years beyond the flood'. 
 It is the signal that demands despatch' : 
 How much is to be done ? My hopes and fears' 
 Start up alarmed h , and o'er life's narrow verge' 
 10 Look down' — on what*" ? A fathomless abyss'. 
 A dread eternity' ! how surely mine ! 
 
 And can eternity belong to me" 1 , 
 
 Poor pensioner' on the bounties of an hour' ! 
 
 How poor 1 ", how rich'', how abject^, how august 1 ", 
 15 How complicated how wonderful', is man' ! 
 
 How passing wonder He' who made him such' ! 
 
 Who centered in our make such strange extremes', 
 
 From different natures marvellously mixed' — 
 
 Connexion exquisite of different worlds' ! 
 20 Distinguished link' in being's endless chain' ! 
 
 Midway' from nothing^ to the Deity' 1 
 
 A beam ethereal', sullied' and absorpt' ! 
 
 Though sullied and dishonored', still divine ! 
 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 25 An heir of glory', a frail child of dust' ! 
 
 Helpless immortal' ! insect infinite ! 
 
 A worm' ! a god' ! — I tremble at myself, 
 
 And in myself am lost'. At home a stranger', 
 
 Thought wanders up' and down'', surprised', aghast', 
 30 And wondering at her own'. How reason'' reels' ! 
 
 O what a miracle to man' is man' ! 
 
 Triumphantly distressed' ! what joy' ! what dread' ! 
 
 Alternately transported' and alarmed' ; 
 
 What' can preserve my life ! or what' destroy' ! 
 35 An angel's' arm' can't snatch me from the grave ; 
 Legions' of angels' can't confine'' me there. 
 25 
 
290 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIX. 
 
 ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. 
 
 Iambic. Heroic, or epic. 
 
 But thou, false guardian of a charge too good', 
 Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood' ! 
 See on these ruby lips'' the trembling breath'' ; 
 These cheeks now fading at the blast of death" : 
 5 Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before 1 ", 
 And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. 
 Thus', if eternal Justice rules the ball', 
 Thus' shall your wives, and thus your children fall : 
 On all the line a sudden vengeance waits', 
 
 10 And frequent herses shall besiege your gates' ; 
 There passengers shall standi and pointing say 1 ", 
 (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way',) 
 Lo ! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'd', 
 And curs'd with hearts 1 " unknowing how to yield'. 
 
 15 Thus unlamented pass the proud away', 
 The gaze of fools', and pageant of a day' ! 
 So perish all', whose breast ne'er learned to glow' 
 For others' good 1 ", or melt at others' woe. 
 What can atone, (oh, ever injur'd shade !) 
 
 20 Thy fate un'piti'd', and thy rites un'paid' ? 
 
 • 
 
 No friend's complaint', no kind domestic tear', 
 Pleas'd thy p'ale ghost', or grac'd thy mournful bier'. 
 By foreign hands', thy dying eyes were clos'd', 
 By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd', 
 
 25 By foreign hands' thy humble grave adorned', 
 By strangers honor'd', and by strangers mourn'd' ! 
 What though no friends in sable weeds appear, 
 Grieve'' for an hour', perhaps', then mourn a year 1 ", 
 And bear about the mockery of woe 
 
 30 To midnight dances', and the public show^? 
 
 What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, 
 Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face^ ? 
 What though no sacred earth allow thee room', 
 Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb 1 "? 
 
 35 Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress'd', 
 And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast' : 
 
DESCRIPTION OF A DEATH SCENE. 291 
 
 There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow', 
 
 There the first roses of the year shall blow' ; 
 
 While angels' with their silver wings o'ershade 
 40 The ground*, now sacred by thy relics made. 
 So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, 
 
 That once had beauty', titles', wealth', and fame. 
 
 How lov'd', how honor'd once, avails thee not 1 ", 
 
 To whom* related', or by whom* begot ; 
 45 A heap of dust alone remains of thee ; 
 
 'Tis all thou art*, and all the proud ^ shall be ! 
 
 Poets themselves must fall like those they sung', 
 
 Deaf the prais'd ear', and mute the tuneful tongue*. 
 
 Ev'n he 1 ", whose soul now melts in mournful lays', 
 
 50 Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear' he pays ; 
 
 Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part', 
 And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart 1 " ; 
 Life's idle bus'ness at one gasp be o'er', 
 
 The muse forgot', and thou 1 " be lov'd no more ! 
 
 LESSON XC. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A DEATH SCENE. 
 
 Grace, agitated by these events', and her slight form daily 
 becoming more shadowy', seemed like a celestial spirit', which', 
 having performed its mission on earth', melts into a misty wreath'", 
 then disappears forever. Hers had always been the kind of 
 beauty that is eloquence 1 ", though it speaks not. The love she 
 inspired was like that of some fair infant, which we would fain 
 clasp to our hearts in its guileless beauty' ; and when it repays 
 our fondness with a cherub smile, its angelic influence rouses all 
 that there is of heaven within the soul. Deep compassion was 
 now added to these emotions' ; and wherever she moved, the 
 eye of pity greeted her, as it would some wounded bird 1 ", nest- 
 ling to the heart in its timid loveliness. Every one who knew 
 her felt the influence of her exceeding purity and deep pathos of 
 character' ; but very few had penetrated into its recesses', and 
 discovered its hidden treasures. Melody was there*, but it was 
 too plaintive, too delicate in its combination', to be produced by 
 
292 
 
 an unskilful hand. The coarsest minds felt its witching effect', 
 though they could not define its origin' ; — like the servant men- 
 tioned by Addison', who drew the bow across every string of 
 her master's violin 1 ', and then'' complained that she could not', 
 for her life, find where the tune was secreted. 
 
 Souls of this fine mould keep the fountain of love sealed deep 
 within its caverns ; and to one only is access ever granted. 
 Miss Osborne's affection had been tranquil on the surface — but 
 it was as deep' as it was pure. It was a pool which had grant- 
 ed its healing influence to one'', but could never repeat' the mir- 
 acle, though an angel should trouble its waters. Assuredly' he 
 that could mix death' in the cup of love which he offered to one 
 so young', so fair', and so true 1 ", was guilty as the priest who 
 administered poison in the holy eucharist. 
 
 Lucretia, now an inmate of the family', read to her', support- 
 ed her across the chamber', and watched her brief, gentle 
 slumbers with an intense interest', painfully tinged with self-re- 
 proach. She was the cause of this premature decay', — inno- 
 cent', indeed', but still the cause. Under such circumstances, 
 the conscience is morbid in its sensibility', — unreasonable in its 
 acuteness' ; and the smiles and forgiveness of those we have in- 
 jured', tear and scorch it like burning pincers. Yet there was 
 one who suffered even more than Lucretia, — though he was 
 never conscious of giving one moment's pain'' to the object of 
 his earliest affection. During the winter', every leisure moment 
 which Doctor Willard's numerous avocations allowed him', was 
 spent in Miss Osborne's sick chamber' ; and every tone, every 
 lo6k of his' went to her heart with a thrilling expression', which 
 seemed to say', " Would I could die for thee ! Oh ! would' to 
 God' I could die for thee !" 
 
 Thus pillowed on the arm of Friendship', and watched over 
 by the arm of Love, Grace languidly awaited the return of 
 spring' ; and when May' did arrive, wasted as she was 1 ", she 
 seemed to enjoy its pure breath' and sunny smile. Alas' ! that 
 the month, which dances around the flowery earth with such 
 mirthful step and beaming glance, should call so many victims 
 of consumption to their last home ! Towards the close of this 
 delightful season', the invalid', bolstered in her chair', and sur- 
 rounded by her affectionate family', was seated at the window', 
 watching the declining sun. There was deep silence for a long 
 while' ; — as if her friends feared that a breath might scare the 
 
 flitting soul from its earthly habitation. Henry and Lucretia 
 sat on either side, pressing her hands in mournful tenderness v ; 
 
DESCRIPTION OF A DEATH SCENE. 293 
 
 Doctor Willard leaned over her chair and looked up to the un- 
 clouded sky', as if he reproached it for mocking him with 
 brightness' ; and her father watched the hectic flush upon her 
 cheek with the firmness of Abraham', when he offered his only 
 son upon the altar". Oh ! how would the heart of that aged suf- 
 ferer have rejoiced within him', could he too have exchanged 
 the victim ! 
 
 She had asked Lucretia to place Somerville's' rose on the 
 window beside her. One solitary blossom was on it', and she 
 reached forth her weak hand to pluck if ; but its leaves scat- 
 tered beneath her trembling touch. She looked up to Lucre- 
 tia with an expression', which her friend could never forget', — 
 and one cold tear slowly glided down her pallid cheek. Gently 
 as a mother kisses her sleeping babe, Doctor Willard brushed it 
 away' , and turning hastily to conceal his quivering lip', he 
 clasped Henry's hand with convulsive energy as he whispered', 
 " Oh ! God of mercies', how willingly would I have wiped 
 away all tears from her eyes' !" 
 
 There is something peculiarly impressive in manly grief. 
 The eye of woman overflows as readily as her heart ; but when 
 waters gush from the rock^, we feel that they are extorted by 
 no gentle blow. 
 
 The invalid looked at him with affectionate regret', as if she 
 thought it a crime* not to love such endearing kindness' ; and 
 every one present made a powerful effort to suppress painful', 
 suffocating emotion. Lucretia had a bunch of purple violets 
 fastened in her girdle', — and with a forced smile she placed 
 them in the hands of her dying friend. She looked at them a 
 moment with a sort of abstracted attention', and an expression 
 strangely unearthly', as she said', " I have thought that wild 
 flowers might be the alphabet of angels', — whereby they write 
 on hills and fields mysterious truths', which it is not given our 
 fallen nature to understand. What think you, dear father' ?" 
 
 " I think my beloved child', that the truths we do compre- 
 hend are enough to support us through all our trials." 
 
 The confidence of the Christian was strong within him', when 
 he spoke' ; but he looked on his dying daughter', the only im- 
 age of a wife dearly beloved', — and nature prevailed'. He 
 covered his eyes'', and shook his white hairs mournfully'', as he 
 added', " God in his mercy grant', that we may find them suffi- 
 cient in this dreadful struggle." All was again still, — stiU'j in 
 that chamber of death. The birds sung as sweetly as if there 
 was no such thing as discord in the habitations of man' ; and the 
 blue sky was as bright' as if earth were a stranger to ruin', and 
 the human soul knew not of desolation'. Twilight advanced', 
 25* 
 
294 THE READERS GUIDE. 
 
 unmindful that weeping eyes watched her majestic and varied 
 beauty'. The silvery clouds', that composed her train', were 
 fast sinking into a gorgeous column of gold and purple. It 
 seemed as if celestial spirits were hovering around their mighty 
 pavilion of light', and pressing the verge of the horizon with 
 their glittering sandals. 
 
 Amid the rich variegated heaps of vapor', was one spot of 
 clear bright cerulean. The deeply colored and heavy masses 
 that surrounded it', gave it the effect of distance ; so that it 
 seemed like a portion of the inner heaven'. Grace fixed her 
 earnest gaze upon it', as a weary traveller does upon an Oasis 
 in the desert. That awful lustre which the soul beams forth at 
 its parting was in her eye, as she said', " I could almost fancy 
 there are happy faces looking down to welcome me." 
 
 " It is very beautiful'," said Lucretia in a subdued tone. " It 
 is such a sky as you loved to look upon', dear Grace." 
 
 " It is such an one as we loved'," she answered' ; " there was 
 
 a time when it would have made me very happy ; but — my 
 thoughts are now beyond it." 
 
 Her voice grew faint v , and there was a quick gasp', — as if 
 the rush of memory was too powerful for her weak frame. 
 
 Doctor Wiilard hastily prepared a cordial', and offered it to 
 her lips. Those lips were white and motionless' ; her long', 
 fair eyelashes drooped', but trembled not. He placed his hand 
 on her side ; — the heart that had loved so well', and endured so 
 much', throbbed its last. 
 
 LESSON XCI. 
 
 NATIONAL UNION. 
 
 Do not, gentlemen, suffer the rage of passion to drive reason 
 from her seat. If this law be indeed bad, let us join to remedy 
 its defects. Has it been passed in a manner, which wounded 
 your pride, or roused your resentment' 1 Have, I conjure you, 
 the magnanimity to par'don' that offence. I entreat', I implore 
 you, to sacrifice those angry passions to the interests of our 
 country. Pour out this pride of opinion on the altar of patri- 
 otism. Let it be an expiatory libation for the weal of Ameri- 
 
MISINTERPRETATION OF MOTIVES. 295 
 
 ca. Do not suffer that' pride to plunge us all into the abyss of 
 ruin. Indeed', indeed', it will be but of little, very little avail, 
 whether one opinion' or the other' be right' or wrong' ; it will 
 heal no wounds', it will pay no debts', it will rebuild no ravaged 
 towns. Do not rely on that popular will, which has brought 
 
 us' frail beings into political existence. That opinion' is but a 
 changeable thing. It will soon change. This very measure'' 
 will change it. You will be deceived. Do not', I beseech you, 
 in reliance on a foundation so frail', commit the dignity', the 
 harmony', the existence'' of our nation to the wild wind. Trust 
 not your treasure to the waves. Throw not your compass and 
 your charts into the ocean. Do not believe that its billows will 
 waft you into port. Indeed', indeed', you will be deceived. — 
 Cast not away this only anchor of our safety. I have seen its 
 progress. I know the difficulties through which it was obtained. 
 I stand in the presence of Almighty God and' of the world. I 
 declare to you, that if you lose this charter', never', no never', 
 
 will you get another. We are now perhaps arrived at the part- 
 ing point. Here, even here, we stand on the brink of fate. 
 Pause, then' — Pause. For Heaven's sake — Pause. 
 
 LESSON XCII. 
 
 MISINTERPRETATION OF MOTIVES. 
 
 I rise with reluctance on the present occasion. The lateness 
 of the hour forbids me to hope for your patient attention. The 
 subject is of great importance, as it relates to other countries, 
 and still greater to our own' ; yet we must decide on grounds 
 uncertain', because they depend on circumstances not yet arri- 
 ved. And when we attempt to penetrate into futurity, after ex- 
 erting the utmost powers of reason, aided by all the lights which 
 experience could acquire, our clearest conceptions are involved 
 in doubt. A thousand things may happen, which it is impossi- 
 ble to conjecture, and which will influence the course of events. 
 The wise Governor of all things has hidden the future from the 
 ken of our feeble understanding. In committing ourselves, 
 therefore, to the examination of what may hereafter arrive, we 
 hazard reputation on contingencies we cannot command. And 
 
296 the reader's guide. 
 
 when events shall be past', we shall be judged by them 1 ', and 
 not by the reasons' which we may now' advance. 
 
 There are many subjects which it is not easy to understand', 
 but it is always eas} r to misrepresent' ; and when arguments 
 
 cannot be controverted', it is not difficult to calumniate motives'. 
 That which cannot be confuted', may be misstated. The purest 
 intentions may be blackened by malice, and envy will ever fos- 
 ter the foulest imputations. This calumny is among the sore 
 evils of our country. It began with our earliest success in 1778, 
 and has gone on with accelerated volocity and increasing force 
 to the present hour. It is no longer to be checked', nor will it 
 terminate but in that sweep of general destruction', to which it 
 tends with a step as sure as time, and fatal as death. I know 
 that what I utter will be misunderstood', misrepresented', de- 
 formed', and distorted' ; but we must do our duty. This I be- 
 lieve is the last scene of my public life ; and it shall', like those 
 which preceded', be performed with candor and truth. Yes', 
 my noble friends', [addressing himself to the Federal Senators 
 near him,'] we shall soon part to meet no more. But, however 
 separated, and wherever dispersed', we know that we are united 
 by just principle and true sentiment' ; — a sentiment', my coun- 
 try', ever devoted to you, which will expire only with expiring 
 
 life% and beat in the last pulsation of our hearts, 
 t c < i c ( i 
 
 My object is peace. I could assign many reasons to show 
 
 that this declaration is sincere. But can it be necessary to give 
 this Senate any other assurance than my word' ? Notwithstand- 
 ing the acerbity of temper which results from party strife h , gen- 
 tlemen will believe me on ray word'. I will not pretend', like 
 
 my honorable colleague, [Mr. Clinton'.'] to describe to you the 
 waste, the ravages', and the horrors of war. I have not the 
 same harmonious periods', nor the same musical tones' ; neither 
 shall I boast of christian charity', nor attempt to display that in- 
 genuous glow of benevolence so decorous to the cheek of youth', 
 which gave a vivid tint to every sentence he uttered', and was', 
 if possible, as impressive even as his eloquence. But though 
 we possess not the same pomp of words, our hearts'' are not in.. 
 sensible to the woes of humanity. We can feel for the misery 
 of plundered towns', the conflagration of defenceless villages', 
 and the devastation of cultured fields'. Turning from these 
 features of general distress', we can enter the abodes of private 
 affliction', and behold the widow weeping' as she traces' in the 
 
SCENE IN THE BURNING OF ROME BY NERO. 297 
 
 pledges of connubial affection', the resemblance of him 11 whom 
 she has lost forever. We see the aged matron bending over 
 the ashes of her son. He was her darling', for he was generous 
 and brave, and therefore his spirit led him to the field' in defence 
 of his country. We can observe another* oppressed' with un- 
 utterable anguish. Condemned to conceal her affection', forced 
 to hide that passion which is at once the torment and delight of 
 life, she learns that those eyes which beamed with sentiment' 
 are closed in death'; and his lip', the ruby harbinger of joy', 
 lies pale and cold', the miserable appendage of a mangled corse. 
 
 Hard', hard' indeed' must be that hearty which can be insen- 
 sible to scenes like these" ; and bold the man, who dares present 
 to the Almighty Father' a conscience crimsoned with the blood 
 
 of his children. 
 
 LESSON XCIII. 
 
 SCENE IN THE BURNING OF ROME BY NERO. 
 
 Still we spurred on', but our jaded horses at length sank un- 
 der us ; and leaving them to find their way into the fields', we 
 struggled forward on foot. The air had hitherto been calm', 
 
 but now', gusts began to rise*, thunder growled', and the signs 
 of tempest thickened on'. We gained an untouched' quarter of 
 the city', and had explored our weary passage up to the gates 
 of a large patrician palace, when we were startled by a broad 
 sheet of flame rushing through the sky. The storm was come ■ 
 in its rage. The range of public magazines of wood', cordage, 
 tar', and oil', in the valley between the Ccelian and Palatine 
 hills', had at length been involved in the conflagration'. All 
 that we had seen before 1, was darkness' to the fierce splendor 
 of this burning. The tempest tore off the roofs', and swept 
 them like floating islands of fire through the sky. The most 
 distant quarters on which they fell were instantly wrapped in 
 flame. One broad mass, whirling from an immense height', 
 broke upon the palace before us. A cry of terror was heard 
 within' ; the gates were flung open', and a crowd of domestics 
 and persons of both sexes', attired for a banquet', poured out 
 
298 
 
 into the streets. The palace was wrapped in flames. My 
 guide then for the first time lost his self-possession. He stag- 
 gered towards me with the appearance of a man who had re- 
 ceived a spear-head in his bosom. I caught him before he fell' ; 
 but his head sank', his knees bent under him', and his white 
 lips quivered with unintelligible sounds'. I could distinguish 
 only the words'' — " gone, gone for ever !" 
 
 The flame had already seized upon the principal floors of 
 the palace ; and the volumes of smoke that poured through ev- 
 ery window and entrance, rendered the attempt to save those 
 still within', a work of extreme hazard. But ladders were rap- 
 idly placed', ropes were flung'', and the activity of the attend- 
 ants and retainers -,vas boldly exerted', till all were presumed to 
 have been saved', and the building was left to burn. 
 
 My overwhelmed guide was lying on the ground', when a 
 sudden scream was heard', and a figure, in the robes and with 
 the rosy crown of the banquet', — strange contrast' to her fear- 
 ful situation' — was seen flying from window to window in the 
 upper part of the mansion. It was supposed that she had faint- 
 ed in the first terror', and been forgotten. The height', the 
 fierceness of the flame which now completely mastered resist- 
 ance, the volumes of smoke that suffocated every man who ap- 
 proached', made the chance of saving this unfortunate being ut- 
 terly desperate in the opinion of the multitude. 
 
 My spirits shuddered at the horrors of this desertion'. I 
 looked round at my companion' : he was kneeling, in helpless 
 agony', with his hands lifted up to heaven. Another scream', 
 wilder than ever', pierced my senses. I seized an axe from 
 one of the domestics', caught a ladder from another', and in a 
 paroxysm of hope, fear', and pity', scaled the burning wall. A 
 shout from below followed me. I entered at the first window that 
 I could reach. All before me was cloud. I rushed on', strug- 
 gled', stumbled over furniture and fragments of all kinds', fell', 
 rose again', found myself trampling upon precious things', plate 
 and crystal', and still', axe in hand', forced my way'. I at 
 length reached the banquetting-room. The figure had van- 
 ished. A strange superstition of childhood', a thought that I 
 might have been lured by some spirit of evil into the place of 
 ruin', suddenly came over me. I stopped to gather my facul- 
 ties\ I leaned against one of the pillars' ; it was hot' ; the 
 floor shook and crackled under my tread', the walls heaved', 
 the flame hissed below', and over head' roared the whirlwind', 
 and burst the thunder-peal'. 
 
 My brain was fevered'. The immense golden lamps still 
 burning' ; the long tables disordered', yet^ glittering with the 
 
SCENE IN THE BURNING OF ROME BY NERO. 299 
 
 costly ornaments of patrician luxury' ; the scattered Tyrian 
 couches' ; the scarlet canopy that covered the whole range of 
 the tables, and gave the hall the aspect of an imperial pavilion 
 partially torn down in the confusion of the flight', all assumed 
 to me a horrid and bewildered splendor. The smokes were 
 already rising through the crevices of the floor' ; the smell of 
 flame was on my robes' ; a huge volume of yellow vapor slow- 
 ly wreathed and arched round the chair at the head of the 
 banquet. I could have imagined a fearful lord of the feast un- 
 der that cloudy veil ! Everything round me was marked 
 with preternatural fear', magnificence, and ruin. 
 
 A low groan broke my reverie. I heard the voice of one 
 in despair. I heard the broken words', " Oh, bitter fruit of 
 disobedience' ! — Oh', my mother', shall I never see your face 
 again' 1 — For one crime I am doomed'. — Eternal mercy', let 
 
 my crime be washed away' — let my spirit ascend pure. — Fare- 
 well' mother', sister', father', husband'." With the last word I 
 heard a fall\ as if the spirit had left the body. 
 
 I sprang towards the sound' : I met but the solid wall\ 
 " Horrible illusion'," I cried' — " am I mad', or the victim of the 
 powers of darkness ?" I tore away the hangings' — a door was 
 before me. I burst it through with a blow of the axe, and saw 
 stretched on the floor, and insensible — Salome ! 
 
 I caught my child in my arms' ; I bathed her forehead with 
 my tears' ; I besought her to look up', to give some sign of life, 
 to hear the full forgiveness of my breaking heart. She looked 
 not', answered not', breathed not'. To make a last effort for 
 her life, T carried her into the banquet-room. But the fire had 
 forced its way there ; the wind bursting in', had carried the 
 
 flame through the long galleries' ; and flashes and spires of 
 lurid light', already darting through the doors', gave fearful 
 evidence that the last stone of the palace must soon go down. 
 
 I bore my unhappy daughter towards the window' ; but the 
 height was deadly'; no gesture could be seen through the piles 
 of smoke ; the help of man was in vain'. To my increased 
 misery', the current of air revived Salome at the instant when 
 I hoped that', by insensibility', she would escape the final pang. 
 She breathed', stood, and, opening her eyes', fixed on me the 
 vacant stare of one scarcely aroused from sleep. Still clasped 
 in my arms', she gazed again ; but my wild face covered with 
 dust', my half-burnt hair', the axe gleaming in my hand', terri- 
 fied her ; she uttered a scream', and darted away from me 
 headlong into the centre of the burning. 
 
300 the reader's guide. 
 
 I rushed after her', calling on her name. A column of fire 
 shot up between us' ; I felt the floor sink' ; all was then suffo- 
 cation — I struggled', and fell'. — 
 
 LESSON XCIV. 
 
 KNAPP. 
 
 Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot 
 have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest 
 injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the 
 discovery, and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully 
 share in the opprobrium', how much soever it may be, which 
 is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that 
 all who had a part' in planning', or a hand' in executing' this 
 deed of midnight assassination', may be brought to answer for 
 their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. Gentlemen', 
 it is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly 
 a precedent any' where ; certainly none in our New-England' 
 history. This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited un- 
 governable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by any 
 lion-like temptation upon their virtue, overcoming it before 
 resistance could begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut sav- 
 age vengeance, or satiate long settled and deadly hate. It 
 was a cool, calculating, money-making murder. — It was all 
 " hire and salary, not revenge." It was the weighing of money' 
 against life ; the counting out of so many pieces of silver', 
 against so many ounces of blood b . 
 
 An aged man without an enemy in the world', in his own 
 house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of butcherly mur- 
 der' for mere pay'. — Truly', here is a new lesson for painters 
 and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of mur- 
 der', if he will show it as it has been exhibited in an example, 
 where such example was last to have been looked for', in the 
 very bosom of our New-England society', let him not give it 
 
 the grim visage of Moloch', the brow knitted by revenge^, the 
 face black with settled hate^, and the blood-shot eye emitting 
 livid fires of malice^ ; — let him draw', rather', a deco'rous', 
 
301 
 
 smooth-faced', bloodless' demon' ; a picture in repose, rather 
 
 than in action 1 " ; not so much an example of human nature in 
 its depravity', and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal' na- 
 ture, — a fiend' in the ordinary' display and development of his 
 character. 
 
 The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and 
 steadiness', equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. 
 The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the 
 whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined 
 
 victim', and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man'', to 
 
 t c ♦ c i 
 
 whom sleep was sweet — the first sound slumbers of the night 
 held him in their soft' but strong embrace. The assassin en- 
 ters', through the window already prepared', into an unoccupied 
 apartment. — With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall', half 
 lighted by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs', and 
 reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock', 
 by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges' ; and 
 he enters', and beholds' his victim before him. The room was 
 uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the 
 innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer', and the beams 
 of the moon', resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, 
 showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given' ! — and 
 the victim passes', without a struggle or a motion', from the re- 
 pose of sleep' to the repose of death' ! — It is the assassin's pur- 
 pose to make sure work ; and he yet'' plies the dagger', though 
 it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of 
 the bludgeon. — He even raises, the aged arm', that he may 
 not fail in his aim at the hearf ; and replaces it again' over 
 the wounds of the poniard ! To finish the picture', he explores 
 the wrist for the pulse ! he feels it', and ascertains that it beats 
 no longer' ! It is accomplished'. The deed is done'. He re- 
 treats', retraces his steps to the window', passes out through it 
 as he came in', and escapes. He has done the murder' — no eye 
 
 has seen him', no ear has heard him'. The secret is his own', 
 and it is safe ! 
 
 Ah' ! gentlemen', that was a dreadful mistake'. Such a 
 
 secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God' has 
 neither nook A nor corner', where the guilty can bestow it', and 
 
 say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances 
 through all disguises', and beholds every thing, as in the splen- 
 dor of noon', — such secrets of guilt are never safe from detec- 
 
 26 
 
302 
 
 tion', even by men'. True it is% generally speaking', that 
 "murder will out'." True it is', that Providence hath so or- 
 dained', and doth so govern things', that those who break the 
 great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood', seldom succeed 
 in avoiding discovery. Especially', in a case exciting so much 
 
 attention as this 1 *, discovery must come', and will come', sooner 
 
 or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man', 
 every thing', every circumstance', connected with the time and 
 place ; a thousand ears catch every whisper ; a thousand ex- 
 cited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their 
 light', and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a 
 blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its 
 
 own secret. It is false to itself ; or rather it feels an irresisti- 
 ble impulse of conscience to be true to itself'. It labors' under 
 its guilty possession', and knows not what to do with it. The 
 human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhab- 
 itant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it does not 
 acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it', and 
 it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from heaven' or 
 earth. The secret which the murderer possesses' soon comes 
 to possess him' ; and, like the evil spirits of which we read', it 
 
 overcomes him', and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels 
 it beating at his heart'', rising to his throat^, and demanding 
 disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face', 
 reads it in his eyes', and almost hears its workings' in the very 
 silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It be- 
 trays his discretion', it breaks down his courage', it conquers 
 his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embar- 
 rass him', and the net of circumstances to entangle him', the 
 fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. 
 
 It must be confessed', it will be confessed', there is no refuge 
 
 from confession^ but suicide, and suicide' t is confession'. 
 
ODE FOR AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 303 
 
 LESSON XCV. 
 
 ODE FOR THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 Iambic. Three feet, and four. 
 
 1. Blow ye the trumpet", blow' 
 The gladly solemn sound' ! 
 Let all the nations know' 
 To earth's remotest bound' 
 
 The year of Jubilee has corned 
 And freedom finds on earth' 4 a home'. 
 
 2. In Zion's sacred gates' 
 
 We'll raise our cheerful songs' ; 
 
 To God', our Strength and Shield', 
 
 Sublimest praise belongs'. 
 With thankful hearts let us declare 
 How wondrous all his mercies are'. 
 
 3. Arise', O mighty God', 
 In majesty divine, 
 
 And through the world make known' 
 
 That freedom's cause is thine, 
 And shall prevail', where'er the sun' 
 His circling course shall daily run'. 
 
 4. Blow ye the trumpet', blow', 
 Attentive nations hear' ; 
 
 A time by heaven foretold' 
 
 Is now approaching near', 
 (Praise to the Lord'), when there shall be 
 Through all the earth a Jubilee. 
 
304 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON XCVI. 
 
 Trochaic. Three feet and four, with an additional long syl- 
 lable. 
 
 1. Stand' ! the ground's your own, my braves', 
 Will ye give it up to slaves' 1 
 
 Will ye look for greener graves' 1 
 
 Hope ye mercy still' 1 
 What's the mercy despots' feel' ? 
 Hear' it in that battle' peal' ! 
 Read it on yon bristling steel' ! 
 
 Ask it' — ye who will v . 
 
 2. Fear ye foes who kill for hire 1 
 
 Will ye to your homes' retire ? 
 Look behind you 1 they're afire' ! 
 
 And, before you, see' 
 Who have d6ne it" ! — From the vale 
 On they come' ! — and will ye quaiP 1 — 
 Leaden rain and iron hail' 
 
 Let their welcome be' ! 
 
 3. In the God of battles trust' ! 
 
 Die we may 1, — and die we must'. — 
 But', O, where can dust to dust' 
 
 Be consigned so well', 
 As where heaven its dews shall shed' 
 On the martyred patriot's bed', 
 And the rocks shall raise their head & 
 
 Of his deeds to tell' I 
 
BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 305 
 
 LESSON XCVII. 
 
 BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 Anapestic. Four feet and three. In the first and fourth 
 stanza, each third and sixth line has an additional short syl- 
 lable. 
 
 1. Behold the moss'd corner-stone dropp'd from the wall', 
 And gaze on its date', but remember its falF, 
 
 And hope that some hand may replace it' ; 
 Think not of its pride when with pomp it was laid', 
 But weep for the ruin its absence has made, 
 
 And the lapse of the years that efface it. 
 
 2. Mourn Washington's death', when ye think of his birth'' , 
 And far from your thoughts be the lightness of mirth'', 
 
 And far from your cheek be its smile. 
 To-day he was born' — 'twas a loan'' — not a gift' ; 
 The dust of his body' is all that is left', 
 
 To hallow his funeral pile. 
 
 [ 3. Flow gently', Potomac' ! thou washest away' 
 
 The sands where he trod, and the turf where he lay'. 
 
 When youth brush'd his cheek with her wing v ; 
 Breathe softly', ye wild winds', that circle around' 
 That dearest, and purest, and holiest ground' 
 
 Ever press'd by the foot prints of Spring. 
 
 4. Each breeze be a sigh', and each dewdrop a tear', 
 Each wave be a whispering monitor near', 
 
 To remind the sad shore of his story' ; 
 And darker', and softer', and sadder the gloom' 
 Of that evergreen mourner that bends o'er the tomb', 
 Where Washington sleeps in his glory. 
 
 5. Great God' ! when the spirit of freedom shall fail', 
 And the sons of the pilgrims in sorrow bewail' 
 
 Their religion and liberty gone* 1 ; 
 
 Oh v , send back a form that shall stand as he stood', 
 Unsubdu'd by the tempest', unmov'd by the flood' ; 
 
 And to Thee, be the glory alone. 
 26* 
 
306 the reader's guide - 
 
 LESSON XCVIII. 
 
 king Richard's soliloquy. 
 
 Iambic verse, with some irregularities. 
 
 I have endeavored to mark this extract from Shakespeare so 
 as to give the true expression. Where there is such a tumult 
 of conflicting passions, however, it is not easy to express the 
 transitions, by any scheme of notation, with perfect accuracy ; 
 but it is hoped that the notation here used, will not be mate- 
 rially deficient. 
 
 Give me another horse — bind up my wounds' — 
 Have mercy v Jesu ! — Soft' ; I did but dream ; 
 
 coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! — 
 
 5 The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. 
 Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
 What do I fear 1 '? myself? there's none else by' : 
 Richard' loves' Richard' ; that is 1 ' F am I'. 
 Is there a murderer here ? No ; — Yes' ; I' am : 
 
 10 Then fly',— Whaf, from myselP ? Great reason ! Why'? 
 
 Lest 1 revenge. What^ ? Myselfj on myself? 
 
 1 love myself. Wherefore ? for any good^ 
 
 That I' myself have done unto myselF ? 
 O, no : alas', I rather hate myself, 
 
 15 For hateful deeds committed by myself. 
 I am a villain' : Yet I lie 1 ' — I am not''. 
 
 Fool', of thyself speak well' : — Fool', do not flatter'. 
 My conscience hath a thousand several tongues', 
 And every tongue brings in a several tale, 
 20 And every tale condemns me for a villain'. 
 Perjury', perjury', in the high'st degree ; 
 
 Murder', stern murder', in the dir'st degree ; 
 
 All several sins', all us'd in each degree, 
 
 Throng to the bar', crying all'', — Guilty' ! guilty' ! — 
 
 25 I shall despair'. — There is no creature' loves me; 
 
SNOW STORM. 307 
 
 And', if I die', no soul will pity me' : — 
 Nay', wherefore should they' ? since that I myself 
 Find in myself no pity to myself ? 
 Methought', the souls of all that I had murder'd' 
 Came to my tent' : and every one did threat' 
 30 To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. 
 
 LESSON XCIX. 
 
 SNOW STORM. 
 
 Iambic. Epic. 
 
 As thus the snows arise', and foul, and fierce', 
 All winter drives along the darken'd air', 
 In his own loose-revolving fields', the swain' 
 Disaster'd stands' ; sees other hills ascend', 
 5 Of unknown joyless brow' ; and other scenes', 
 Of horrid prospect', shag the trackless plain' : 
 Nor finds the river', nor the forest', hid'' 
 Beneath the formless wild' ; but wanders on' 
 From hill to dale', still more and more astray' ; 
 
 10 Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps', 
 
 Stung with the thoughts of home'' ; the thoughts of home" 
 Rush on his nerves', and call their vigor forth' 
 In many a vain attempt'. How sinks his soul' ! 
 What black despair', what horror' fills his heart' ! 
 
 15 When, for the dusky spot which fancy feign'd', 
 His tufted cottage' rising through the snow', 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste ^ 
 Far from the track, and blest abode of man' ; 
 While round him night resistless closes fast', 
 
 20 And every tempest, howling o'er his head', 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind', 
 Of cover'd pits unfathomably deep', 
 A dire descent', beyond the power of frost' I 
 
 25 Of faithless bogs' ; of precipices huge', 
 
 Smooth'd up with snow' ! and what is land unknown'* 
 What water of the still unfrozen spring', 
 
308 the reader's guide. 
 
 In the loose marsh' or solitary lake', 
 
 Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils', — 
 
 30 These check his fearful steps' ; and down he sinks' 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift', 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death', 
 Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots' 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man', 
 
 35 His wife', his children', and his friends unseen'. 
 In vain for him the officious wife prepares' 
 The fire fair-blazing', and the vestment warm' ; 
 In vain his little children, peeping out' 
 Into the mingling storm', demand their sire' 
 
 40 With tears of artless innocence. Alas'! 
 Nor wife nor children more shall he behold', 
 Nor friends', nor sacred home. On ev'ry nerve 
 The deadly Winter seizes', — shuts up sense',— 
 And', o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold', 
 
 45 Lays him along the snows astiffen'd corse', 
 
 Stretch'd out% and bleaching in the northern blast. 
 
 LESSON C. 
 
 VAIN ANTICIPATIONS. 
 
 Iambic. Epic. 
 
 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' 
 5 They one day shall not drivel'; and their pride', 
 On this reversion', takes up ready praise, — 
 At least', their own' ; their future selves applauds 
 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead' ! 
 Time lodged in their own hands', is Folly's' 'vails 
 10 Time lodged in Fate's', to wisdom r 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', 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB. 309 
 
 15 And thafj 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 t man suspects himself a fool; 
 20 Knows'' it at forty', and reforms his plan' ; 
 
 At fifty^ chides his infamous delay', 
 
 Pushes his prudent purposes to resolve ; 
 
 In all the magnanimity of thought' 
 
 Resolves', and re-resolves ; then dies the same. 
 
 25 And why' ? because he thinks himself immortal' ; 
 All men think all men mortal', but themselves' ; 
 Themselves'', when some alarming shock of Fate' 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread' : 
 But their hearts wounded', like the wounded air', 
 
 30 Soon close ; where past the shaft' no trace is found. 
 As from the wing no scar the sky retains', 
 The parted wave' no furrow from the keeP, 
 So dies in human hearts the thought of death' : 
 Even with the tender tear which nature sheds' 
 
 35 O'er those we love', we drop it' in their grave. 
 
 LESSON CI. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB. 
 
 Anapestic. Four feet. 
 
 1. The Assyrian came down* like the wolf on the fold', 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold' ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 2. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green', 
 That host' with their banners at sunset were seen' : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown", 
 That host' on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 * In the second foot there are three very short syllables and on& 
 long. It is at best a faulty foot. 
 
310 
 
 3. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast', 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill', 
 And their hearts but once heaved', and forever grew still, 
 
 4. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide', 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf', 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 5. And there lay the rider distorted and pale', 
 
 With the dew on his brow' and the rust on his mail' ; 
 And the tents were all silent', the banners alone, 
 The lances uplifted', the trumpet unblown \ 
 
 6. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail', 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal* ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 LESSON OIL 
 
 DEATH OF LE FEVRE. 
 
 The sun looked bright the morning after', to every eye in 
 the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's; the hand of 
 death pressed heavy upon his eye-lids', — and hardly could the 
 wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, — when my uncle 
 Toby, who had rose up an hour before his wonted time, en- 
 tered the lieutenant's room', and without preface or apology', 
 sat himself down upon the chair by the bed-side, and, indepen- 
 dently of all modes and customs', opened the curtain in the 
 manner an old friend or brother officer would have done it', and 
 asked him how he did', — how he had rested in the night', — what 
 was his complaint', — where was his pain',— and what he could 
 do to help him' ; — and without giving him time to answer any 
 one of the inquiries', went on and told him of the little plan 
 which he had been concerting with the corporal the night be- 
 fore for him. — 
 
 — You shall go home directly', Le Fevre', said my uncle 
 Toby', to my house, — and we'll send for a doctor to see what's 
 
 * Pronounced by the poet, Bale, but improperly. 
 
ETERNITY OF GOD. 311 
 
 the matter', — and we'll have an apothecary', — and the corporal 
 shall be your nurse ; — and I'll be your servant', Le Fevre'. 
 There was a frankness in my uncle Toby' — not the effect' of 
 
 familiarity', — but the cause' of it', — which let you at once into 
 his soul', and showed you the goodness of his nature ; to this', 
 there was something in his looks', and voice, and manner', su- 
 peradded', which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come 
 and take shelter*" under him' ; so that before my uncle Toby 
 had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father', 
 had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees', and had 
 taken hold of the breast of his coat', and was pulling it towards 
 him'. — The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing 
 cold and slow within him', and were retreating to their last ci- 
 tadel', the heart' — rallied back' ; the film forsook his eyes for a 
 moment',— he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face — 
 then cast a look upon his boy', — and that ligament', fine as it 
 was', was never broken'. — 
 
 Nature instantly ebb'd again', — the film returned to its 
 place — the pulse fluttered' — stopp'd' — went on' — throbb'd' — 
 stopp'd again' — moved' — stopp'd' — shall I go on' ? — No'. 
 
 LESSON cm. 
 
 ETERNITY OF GOD. 
 
 The eternity of God is a subject of contemplation, which, at 
 the same time that it overwhelms us with astonishment and 
 awe, affords us an immoveable ground of confidence in the 
 midst of a changing world. All things which surround us', all 
 these dying, mouldering inhabitants of time, must have had a 
 Creator', for the plain reason', that they could not have created 
 themselves. And their Creator must have existed from all 
 eternity', for the plain reason that the first cause must neces- 
 sarily be un'caused. As we cannot suppose a beginning with- 
 out a cause of existence, that which is the cause of all existence 
 must be self-existent', and could have had no beginning. And 
 as it has had no beginning', so also, as it is beyond the reach 
 of all influence and control', as it is independent and almigh- 
 ty', it will have no end. 
 
 Here then is a support', which will never fail' ; here is a 
 
312 
 
 foundation', which can never be moved' — the everlasting Crea 
 tor of countless worlds', " the high and lofty One that inhabit 
 eth eternity'." What a sublime conception' ! He inhabits 
 eternity, occupies this inconceivable duration', pervades and 
 fills, throughout', this boundless dwelling. Ages on ages be- 
 fore even the dust of which we are formed was created', he 
 had existed in infinite majesty', and ages on ages will roll away', 
 after we have all returned to the dust whence we were taken', 
 and still he will exist in infinite majesty', living in the eternity 
 of his own nature, reigning in the plenitude of his own omni- 
 potence, forever sending forth the word which forms', supports' 
 and governs all things', commanding new-created light to shine 
 on new-created worlds', and raising up new-created generations 
 to inhabit them. 
 
 The contemplation of these glorious attributes of God is 
 fitted to excite in our minds the most animating and consoling 
 reflections. Standing, as we are, amid the ruins of time, and 
 the wrecks of mortality', where every thing about us is created 
 and dependent', proceeding from nothing, and hastening to 
 destruction 1 ', we rejoice that something' is presented to our 
 view', which has stood from everlasting', and will remain for- 
 ever. When we have looked on the pleasures of life, and they 
 have vanished away' ; when we have looked on the works of 
 nature, and perceived that they were changing' ; on the monu- 
 ments of art, and seen that they would not stand' ; on our 
 friends', and they have fled while we were gazing' ; on our- 
 selves', and felt that we were as fleeting as they' ; when we 
 have looked on every object to which we could turn our anx- 
 ious eyes', and they have all told us that they could give us no 
 hope nor support', because they were so feeble themselves', — 
 we can look to the throne of God' : change and decay have 
 never reached that' ; the revolution of ages has never moved 
 it' ; the waves of an eternity have been rushing past it', but it 
 has remained unshaken' ; the waves of another eternity are 
 rushing toward it', but it is fixed', and can never be dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 And blessed be God', who has assured us by a revelation 
 from himself, that the throne of eternity' is likewise a throne of 
 mercy and love ; who has permitted and invited us to repose 
 ourselves and our hopes on that which alone is everlasting and 
 unchangeable. We shall shortly finish our allotted time on 
 earth', even if it should be unusually prolonged'. We shall 
 leave behind us all which is now familiar and beloved', and a 
 world of other days and other men will be entirely ignorant 
 that once we lived. But the same unalterable Being will still 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE PREACHING OF WHITFIELD. 313 
 
 preside over the universe, through all its changes, and from his 
 remembrance we shall never be blotted. We can never be 
 where he is not', nor where he sees, and loves, and upholds us 
 not. He is our Father and our God forever. He takes us 
 from earth' that he may lead us to heaven', that he may refine 
 our nature from all its principles of corruption', share with us 
 his own immortality', admit us to his everlasting habitation', and 
 crown us with his eternity. 
 
 LESSON CIV. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE PREACHING OF WHITFIELD. 
 
 There was nothing in the appearance of this extraordinary 
 man, which would lead you to suppose that a Felix could trem- 
 ble before him. " He was something above the middle stature, 
 well proportioned', and remarkable for a native gracefulness of 
 manner. His complexion was very fair', his features regular', 
 and his dark blue eyes' small and lively'; in recovering from 
 the measles, he had contracted a squint with one of them ; but 
 this peculiarity rather rendered the expression of his counte- 
 nance more rememberable,* than in any degree lessened the ef- 
 fect of its uncommon sweetness. His voice excelled', both in 
 melody', and compass' ; and its fine modulations were happily 
 accompanied by that grace of action, which he possessed in an 
 eminent degree, and which has been said to be the chief requi- 
 site for an orator." To have seen him when he first commen- 
 ced', one would have thought him any thing but enthusi- 
 astic and glowing; but as he proceeded', his heart warmed with 
 his subject', and his manner became impetuous and animated', 
 till', forgetful of every thing around him', he seemed to kneel at 
 the throne of Jehovah', and to beseech in agony for his fellow- 
 beings. 
 
 After he had finished his prayer', he knelt for a long time 
 in profound silence ; and so powerfully had it affected the most 
 heartless of his audience, that a stillness like that of the tomb 
 pervaded the whole house. Before he commenced his sermon', 
 long', darkening columns' crowded the bright', sunny sky' of the 
 
 * A new coined word. 
 27 
 
314 
 
 morning', and swept their dull shadows over the building in fear 
 ful augury of the storm. 
 
 His text was', " Strive to enter in at the strait gate ; for ma- 
 ny, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in', and shall not be 
 able." "See that emblem of human life," said he, pointing to 
 a shadow that was flitting across the floor'. " It passed for a 
 moment', and concealed the brightness of heaven from our 
 view' ; — but it is gone. And where will ye be, my hearers', 
 
 when your lives have passed away like the dark cloud' ? Oh, 
 my dear friends', I see thousands sitting attentive, with their eyes 
 fixed on the poor', unworthy preacher'. In a few days we shall 
 all meet at the judgment seat of Christ. We shall form a part 
 of that vast assembly that will gather before the throne ; and ev- 
 ery eye will behold the Judge. With a voice whose call you 
 must abide and answer', he will inquire whether, on earth' ye 
 strove to enter in at the strait gate ; whether you were supreme- 
 ly devoted to God' ! whether your hearts were absorbed in 
 him'. My blood runs cold when I think how many of you will 
 
 then seek*' to enter in', and shall not be able. Oh', what a plea 
 can you make before the Judge'' of the whole earth' 1 Can you 
 say it has been your whole endeavor to mortify the flesh', with 
 its affections and lusts' ? that your life has been one long effort 
 to do the will of God' ? No ! you must answer', I made myself 
 easy' in the world' by flattering myself that all would end 
 well ; but I have deceived my own soul', and am lost'. 
 
 1 1 11. 
 
 " YouS O false and hollow christian', of what avail will it be 
 that you have done many' things' ; that you have read', much', 
 in the sacred word' ; that you have made long prayers' ; that 
 you have attended religious duties', and appeared holy' in the 
 eyes of men' ? What will all this be, if, instead of loving Him 1 " 
 supremely', you have been supposing you should exalt yourself 
 in heaven', by acts' really' polluted'' and unholy' ? 
 
 " And you'', rich man', wherefore do you hazard your silver' 1 
 
 wherefore count the price you have received for him' whom 
 you every day crucify in your love of gain' ? Why', that, 
 when you are too poor to buy a drop of cold water', your be- 
 loved son'' may be rolled to hell' in his chariot' pillowed and cush- 
 ioned around him'." 
 
 His eye gradually lighted up as he proceeded', till, towards 
 the close, it seemed to sparkle with celestial fire. 
 
 " Oh, sinners' !" he exclaimed', " by all your hopes of happi- 
 
 . 
 
INTEMPERANCE. 315 
 
 ness', I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of God be 
 
 awakened. Let not the fires of eternity be kindled against you. 
 
 See there !" said he, pointing to the lightning which played on 
 
 the corner of the pulpit'. — "'Tis a glance from the angry eye of 
 
 Jehovah ! Hark' !" continued he, raising his finger in a listen, 
 c 
 
 ing attitude, as the distant thunder grew louder and louder', and 
 broke in one tremendous crash over the building'. " It was the 
 voice of the Almighty as he passed by in his anger' !" 
 
 As the sound died away', he covered his face with his hands', 
 and knelt beside his pulpit', apparently lost in inward and in- 
 tense prayer'. The storm passed rapidly away', and the sun' 
 bursting forth in his might', threw across the heavens a magni- 
 ficent arch of peace. Rising', and pointing to the beautiful ob- 
 ject', he exclaimed', " Look upon the rainbow, and praise him' 
 
 that made it. Very beautiful it is in the brightness thereof. It 
 compasseth the heavens about with glory' ; and the hands of 
 the Most High have bended it." 
 
 The effect was astonishing'. Even Somerville shaded his 
 eyes' when he pointed to the lightning', and knelt' as he listened 
 to the approaching thunder' ; while the deep sensibility of Grace, 
 and the thoughtless vivacity of Lucretia, yielded to the power- 
 ful excitement in an unrestrained burst of tears. " Who could 
 resist such eloquence V 9 said Lucretia, as they mingled with the 
 departing throng. 
 
 LESSON CV. 
 
 INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Intemperance is, in our land, emphatically the great moral 
 pestilence that walketh in darkness ; and the destruction that 
 wasteth at noon-day. In its march thousands fall at your side, 
 and ten thousand at your right hand'. If it is not stayed by 
 timely and efficient remedies', like the angel of death in the As- 
 syrian camp', it will change the living into dead corpses', and 
 sweep our country as with the besom of destruction. 
 
 Intemperance, as a source of crime, is an evil exceeding cal- 
 culation. I do not know what proportion of the yearly crimes 
 
316 
 
 of our nation are occasioned by it', — and I should scarcely dare 
 to state it', if I did'. Go, learn the fact at our houses of cor- 
 rection', from the records of our courts', from the wretched in- 
 mates of our prisons', and from the dying confessions' of our 
 criminals. Of the deaths which annually take place in our 
 country, I cannot tell what proportion of them are occasioned 
 by intemperance. Go, learn the fact from the bills of mortali- 
 ty', from the reports of societies formed for the suppression of 
 intemperance, and, especially' from the reports of medical soci- 
 eties', composed of men who are competent judges in this mat- 
 ter. If all those whose deaths are occasioned directly', or in- 
 directly', by strong drink', were to be conveyed to one common 
 cemetery', every year would make a vast Golgotha' — a place 
 literally filled' with skulls'. Will you not then come forth in 
 your strength against this merciless and destroying enemy' ? — 
 Will you not raise your standard, and call to your ranks every 
 youth who is not a prey to the mighty', and a captive in chains'? 
 In what way can you better serve your God, and your coun- 
 try', than by taking a decided stand against intemperance ? In 
 what way can you more successfully promote the happiness of 
 your feilow-men', and save so many from sufferings too great to 
 be known by any but those who feel them' 1 It is not the per- 
 sonal sufferings of the drunkar i N to which I now allude — these, 
 whatever they may be, are gratuitous on his part', and he must 
 bear them. But it is the sufferings which he brings upon the 
 innocent' ; upon those who have had no partnership with him 
 in crime. A multitude, upon whom these sufferings have not 
 yet come, may, perhaps', be saved from them by your influence 
 timely exerted. It is on their behalf I plead', and make my 
 appeal' to the best sympathies of your heart'. You pity, I 
 know you do, the child who, as often as he happens to offend 
 his playmate, is saluted with' — your father' is a drunkard'. — 
 You pity, I know you do, the fond parent whose last days are 
 filled with anguish', and whose grey hairs are brought down 
 with sorrow to the grave, by the idleness', prodigality', and cru- 
 elty of an intemperate son. You pity, 1 know you do, the hus- 
 band, who dares not invite his friend to his fireside, to be his 
 guest for an hour' or a night', lest he should find his house des- 
 olated by a besotted wife. And most of all', you pity that deli- 
 cate female, who cannot endure an unkind word' or look' from 
 the man to whom she has committed her person', her fortune, and 
 her happiness' ; who, instead of finding in him the protecting an- 
 gel she expected', finds only a raving maniac' ; and who, having 
 lived through the hurricane raised by one fit of intemperance, 
 lives but to tremble in the fearful expectation of another', and 
 
THE VALUE OF THE BIBLE. 317 
 
 another tempest' still more dreadful. Could you look into her 
 lonely dwelling at the midnight hour', deserted by him who 
 should be her companion and solace ; could you see her fast 
 falling tears as she looks on her babe, which', unconscious of 
 her grief, sleeps sweetly in the cradle by her side ; could you 
 hear the agonizing prayer which she sends up to heaven' for 
 the return of its father from his intemperate revel' ; — and O! 
 could you look into the inner sanctuary that is veiled', and wit- 
 ness the throbbings of her half distracted heart when she hears 
 his footsteps at the door', as though an enemy had come ; you 
 would pity', I know you would pity, her still more. Should 
 you see her sinking under disease occasioned by cold neglect 
 and a broken heart', you could scarcely put up a prayer for the 
 delay of her dismission'. Do you ask where such scenes may 
 be witnessed' ? I answer', in the habitations of poverty and 
 wretchedness' occasioned by drunkenness'. Say not', it is the 
 picture of fancy. Real life, think of it as you may', presents 
 many an original', of which this'' is but a half drawn portrait. 
 
 LESSON CVI. 
 
 THE VALUE OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 On casting a survey over the different orders into which so" 
 ciety is distributed, I am at an utter loss to fix on any descrip" 
 tion of persons who are likely to be injured by the most exten" 
 sive perusal of the word of God. The poor% we may be cer" 
 tain 1 *, will sustain no injury from their attention to a bookwhich'* 
 while it inculcates, under the most awful sanctions', the practice 
 of honesty', industry', frugality', subordination to lawful author- 
 ity', contentment', and resignation to the allotments of Provi- 
 dence, elevates them to " an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, 
 and that fadeth not away ;" a book', which at once secures the 
 observation of the duties which attach to an inferior condition', 
 and almost annihilates' its evils', by opening their prospects into 
 a state where all the inequalities of fortune will vanish', and the 
 obscurest' and most neglected piety' shall be crowned with eter- 
 nal glory. " The poor man rejoices that he is exalted ;" and 
 while he views himself as a member of Christ', and the heir of 
 a blessed immortality', he can look with undissembled pity on 
 27* 
 
318 THE READERS GUIDE. 
 
 the frivolous distinctions', the fruitless agitations', and the fugi- 
 tive enjoyments of the most eminent and the most prosperous of 
 those who have their portion in this world. The poor man will 
 sustain no injury by exchanging the vexations of envy' for the 
 quiet of a good conscience, and fruitless repinings' for the con- 
 solations of religious hope. The less is his portion in this life, 
 the more ardently will he cherish and embrace the promise of a 
 better', while the hope of that better' exerts a reciprocal influ- 
 ence, in prompting him to discharge the duties', and reconciling 
 him to the evils', which are inseparable from the present. The 
 Bible is the treasure of the poor',, the solace of the sick', and the 
 support of the dying' ; and while other books may amuse and 
 instruct in a leisure hour', it is the peculiar triumph of that" 
 book' to create light in the midst of darkness', to alleviate the 
 sorrow' which admits of no other alleviation', to direct a beam 
 of hope to the heart' which no other topic of consolation can 
 reach' ; while guilt', despair', and death' vanish at the touch of 
 its holy inspiration. There is something in the spirit and dic- 
 tion of the Bible which is found peculiarly adapted to arrest the 
 attention of the plainest', and most uncultivated' minds. The 
 simple structure of its sentences', combined with a lofty spirit of 
 poetry', — its familiar allusions to the scenes of nature, and the 
 transactions of common life, — the delightful intermixture of nar- 
 ration with the doctrinal and preceptive parts', — and the profu- 
 sion of miraculous' facts', which convert it into a sort of en- 
 chanted ground', — its constant advertence to the Deity',, whose 
 perfections it renders almost visible and palpable, — unite in be- 
 stowing upon it an interest which attaches to no other perform- 
 ance, and which', after assiduous and repeated perusal', invests 
 it with much of the charm of novelty' ; like the great orb of 
 day', at which we are wont to gaze with unabated astonishment 
 from infancy' to old age. What other book', besides the Bible, 
 could be heard in public assemblies from year to year, with an 
 attention that never tires', and an interest that never cloys' 1 
 With few exceptions', let a portion of the sacred volume be re- 
 cited in a mixed multitude, and though it has been heard a 
 thousand times', a universal stillness ensues' ; every eye is fix- 
 ed', and every ear is awake and attentive. Select, if you can', 
 any other composition', and let it be rendered equally familiar 
 to the mind', and see whether it will produce this effect. 
 
CHARACTER OF INFIDELITY. 319: 
 
 LESSON CVII. 
 
 CHARACTER OF INFIDELITY. 
 
 The spirit of infidelity has the heart of a wolf, the fangs of a 
 tiger', and the talons of a vulture. Blood is its proper nourish- 
 ment' : and it scents its prey with the nerves of a hound', and 
 cowers over a field of death on the sooty pinions of a fiend. 
 Unlike all other animals of prey', it feeds upon its own kind' ; 
 and, when glutted with the blood of others', turns back upon 
 those, who have been its coadjutors', and who, if either its dis- 
 position' or its measures' could admit of friendship', would have 
 been its friends'. Between ninety and a hundred of those, who 
 were leaders' in this mighty work of destruction', fell by the 
 hand of violence. Enemies of all men', they were of course en- 
 emies to each other. Butchers of the human race, they soon 
 whetted the knife for each other's' throats' : and the tremendous 
 Being who rules the Universe, whose existence they had denied 
 in a solemn act of legislation', whose perfections they had made 
 the butt of public scorn' and private insult', whose Son they 
 had crucified afresh', and whose Word they had burnt by the 
 hands of the common hangman', swept them all by the hand of 
 violence into an untimely grave. The tale made every ear 
 which heard it' tingle, and every heart chill' with horror. It 
 was', in the language of Ossian', " the song of death'." It was 
 like the reign of the plague in a populous city. Knell' tolled 
 upon knell' ; hearse followed hearse ; and coffin' rumbled after 
 coffin' ; without a mourner to shed a tear upon the corpse, or a 
 solitary attendant to mark the place of the grave. From one 
 new moon to another, and from one sabbath to another, the 
 world went forth and looked after the carcasses of the men, 
 who transgressed against God ; and they were an abhorring; 
 unto all flesh. 
 
320 the reader's guide. 
 
 LESSON CVIII. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT TO RELIGIOUS EFFORT. 
 
 We believe that improvement in intellectual' science, but 
 above all', more elevated piety,' and more ardent devotion', will 
 yet confer some new powers of suasion on the Christian teach- 
 er. Every one must be sensible, that the gospel is an instru- 
 ment which has never been wielded with its legitimate effect', 
 since the time of the Apostles. May we not hope that there 
 are forms of illustration at present untried', that there are modes 
 of appeal as yet unattempted', which', with an efficacy more cer- 
 tain than we any where now witness', will arouse the slumber- 
 ing conscience, and lead the awakened sinner to the cross of 
 Christ. 
 
 Christian Brethren', estimate if you can', the importance of 
 these facts. Consider that every law of matter', or of mind', 
 presents a separate 'argument in favor of religion' ; that the 
 providence of God is multiplying', with a rapidity beyond pre- 
 cedent', both the number and the power of such arguments' ; 
 that all classes of men are becoming more deeply imbued with 
 a knowledge of them' ; and that this knowledge, from the im- 
 proved discipline of the faculties', must produce a more certain 
 and more salutary effect' ; and then consider how the press is 
 enabling every man to exert his whole moral and intellectual 
 power upon the thoughts and opinions of mankind', and you will 
 surely say', that never have there been presented so many nor 
 so great encouragements for a universal effort to bring the whole 
 of Christendom under subjection to Jesus Christ. The predic- 
 tion seems already fulfilled', " the sons of strangers shall come 
 bending unto thee." Following in the train of every art', and 
 every science, infidel philosophy herself is beheld presenting 
 her offering at the feet of the Redeemer. Every thing waits 
 for us to move forward and take possession of the inheritance' 
 which Messiah has purchased with his own most precious blood. 
 
FINAL TRIUMPH OF THE GOSPEL. 321 
 
 LESSON CIX. 
 
 FINAL TRIUMPH OF THE GOSPEL* 
 
 If we have ' tasted that he is gracious,' if we look back with 
 horror and transport upon the wretchedness and the wrath 
 which we have escaped', with what anxiety shall we not hasten 
 to the aid of our fellow men, who are 'sitting in the region and 
 shadow of death.' What zeal will be too ardent ; what labor too 
 persevering' ; what sacrifice too costly', if by any means we may 
 tell them of Jesus' and the resurrection', and the life eternal' ! 
 Who shall be daunted by difficulties', or deterred by discour- 
 agement' ? If but one Pagan should be brought', savingly', by 
 your instrumentality to the knowledge of God', and the king- 
 dom of Heaven', will you not, my brethren', have an ample re- 
 compence ? Is there here a man who would give up all for lost 
 because some favorite hope has been disappointed' ? or who re- 
 grets the worldly substance which he has expended on so di- 
 vine an enterprise ? Shame on thy coward spirit' and thine av- 
 aricious heart' ! Do the Holy Scriptures', does the experience 
 of ages', does the nature of things justify the expectation', that 
 we shall carry war into the central regions of delusion and 
 crime, without opposition', without trial 1 Show me a plan' which 
 encounters not fierce resistance from the Prince of Darkness 
 and his allies in the human heart', and I will show you a plan 
 which never came from the inspiration of God'. If missionary 
 efforts suffer occasional embarrassments' : if impressions on the 
 heathen be less speedy', and powerful', and extensive', than fond 
 wishes have anticipated' : if particular parts of the great system 
 of operation be', at times, disconcerted'; if any of the " minis- 
 ters of grace" fall a sacrifice to the violence of those whom they 
 go to bless < in the name of the Lord'/ these are events which 
 ought to exercise our faith and patience ; to wean us from all 
 sufficiency ; to teach us where our strength lies, and where our 
 dependence must be fixed ; but not to enfeeble hope, nor re- 
 lax diligence. Let us not * despise the day of small things.' — 
 Let us not overlook, as an unimportant matter, the very exist- 
 ence of that missionary spirit which has already awakened 
 christians in different countries from their long and dishonora- 
 ble slumbers', and bids fair to produce in due season, ' a gene- 
 ral movement of the church upon earth.' Let us not for one 
 instant harbor the ungracious thought, that the prayers, and 
 
322 the reader's guide. 
 
 tears, and wrestlings of those who « make mention of the Lord,' 
 form no link in that vast chain of events by which he will estab- 
 lish', and i will make Jerusalem a praise, in the earth.' That 
 dispensation which of all others is most repulsive to flesh and 
 blood', the violent death of faithful missionaries', should animate 
 christians with new resolution. « Precious in the sight of the 
 Lord', is the death of his saints.' The cry of martyred blood 
 ascends the heavens'" ; it enters into « the ears of the Lord of 
 Sabbaoth.' It will give him no rest till he ; rain down right- 
 eousness'' upon the land where it has been shed', and which it 
 has sealed as a future conquest for Him 1 " who in his majesty 
 rides prosperously because of truth', and meekness and right- 
 eousness.' 
 
 For the world, indeed', and also for the church h , many ca- 
 lamities and trials are in store, before the glory of the Lord 
 shall be so revealed', that 'all flesh shall see it together.' ' I will 
 shake all nations', and the desire of all nations shall come.' 
 The vials of wrath which are now running', and others which 
 remain to be poured out', must be exhausted. The ' supper of 
 the great God,' must be prepared', and his < strange work' have 
 its course. Yet the missionary cause must ultimately succeed. 
 It is the cause of God', and shall prevail. The days, O breth- 
 ren', roll rapidly on', when the shout of the isles shall swell the 
 thunder of the continent', when the Thames' and the Danube', 
 when the Tiber' and the Rhine', shall call upon the Euphrates', 
 the Ganges', and the Nile ; and the loud concert shall be joined 
 by the Hudson', the Mississippi', and the Amazon' singing with 
 one heart and one voice, Alleluia ! Salvation' ! The Lord God 
 omnipotent reigneth ! 
 
 LESSON CX. 
 
 THE ROSE OF SHARON. 
 
 Iambic. Four, and three feet, alternately. 
 
 1. The rose that blooms in yonder vale' 
 With fragrance scents the air' ; 
 But Sharon's rose is sweeter still', 
 Its blossoms are more fair. 
 
 
LOVEST THOU ME. 323 
 
 2. This plant', derived from Paradise, 
 Delights in sacred ground' ; 
 
 On Zion'shill, by Silo-'s brook', 
 On Bethlem's plain 'tis found. 
 
 3. Wet with those dews of love divine', 
 Which once on Hermon fell' — 
 Warmed by the Sun of righteousness' — 
 It buds and blossoms well'. 
 
 4. Tend', then', this plant with pious care v , 
 Nor think the labor vain' ; 
 
 It is an emblem of the heart' 
 Where heavenly graces reign. 
 
 LESSON CXI. 
 
 lovest thou me ? — John xxi. 17. 
 
 Trochaic. Four feet, and three with an additional short 
 syllable. 
 
 1. Love I thee 11 , thou blest Redeemer' ? 
 Love I thee h , thou sinner's friend'? 
 Love I thee^, my soul's preserver' ? — 
 Whither can such question tend' ? 
 
 2. Well I know my heart is fickle ; 
 Well I know the force of sin' ; 
 Well I know a subtle tempter', 
 Foe to virtue', lurks within'. 
 
 3. Still, the question gives me anguish', 
 When I hear it put by thee'' ; 
 
 Dost thou, Lord', indeed suspect me' ? 
 % Dost thou some unsoundness see' ? 
 
 4. By thy Spirit's power to quicken', 
 By thine own sufficient might', 
 Set me free from all deception' ; 
 Keep me safely'— keep me right'. 
 
324 the reader's guide. 
 
 5. Grace' to lean upon thy bosom', 
 Grace' to purify and save', 
 Grace', till I arrive in heaven', — 
 Grace', eternal grace', I crave'. 
 
 LESSON CXII. 
 
 pilgrim's song. 
 
 Trochaic and iambic, alternately. Three trochaic feet with 
 a long syllable added. Three iambic. 
 
 1. Rise, my soul', and stretch thy wings', 
 
 Thy better portion trace' ; 
 Rise' from transitory things', 
 
 Tow'rds heav'n', thy native place'. 
 Sun', and moon', and stars' decay'— 
 
 Time shall soon this earth remove' 
 Rise', my soul', and haste away' 
 
 To seats prepar'd above. 
 
 2. Rivers to the ocean run', 
 
 Nor stay in all their course' : 
 Fires ascending' seek the sun' ; — 
 
 Both speed them to their source' ; 
 So a soul', that's born of God', 
 
 Pants to view his glorious face' ; 
 Upward tends to his abode', 
 
 To rest in his embrace. 
 
 3. Fly me riches', fly me cares'", 
 
 While I that coast explore ; 
 Flatt'ring world', with all thy snares', 
 
 Solicit me no more. 
 Pilgrims fix not here their home', 
 
 Strangers tarry but a night' ; 
 When the last dear morn is come, 
 
 They'll rise to joyful light'. 
 
 4. Cease', ye pilgrims', cease to mourn', 
 
 Press onward to the prize' ; 
 Soon the Saviour will return' 
 Triumphant in the skies' : 
 
SAFETY IN GOD. 325 
 
 There we'll join the heav'nly train', 
 Welcom'd to partake the bliss v ; 
 
 Fly from sorrow and from pain' 
 To realms of endless peace. 
 
 LESSON CXIII. 
 
 SAFETY IN GOD. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet. Called long meter. 
 
 1. God is the refuge of his saints', 
 When storms of sharp distress invade ; 
 Ere we can offer our complaints', 
 Behold him present with his aid. 
 
 2. Let mountains from their seats be hurl'd 
 Down to the deep', and buried' there' ; 
 Convulsions shake the solid world', 
 Our faith shall never yield to fear. 
 
 3. Loud may the troubled ocean roar ; 
 In sacred peace our souls abide ; 
 While every nation', every shore' 
 Trembles', and dreads^ the swelling tide. 
 
 4. There is' a stream whose gentle flow' 
 Supplies the city of our God' ; 
 
 Life', love', and joy' still gliding through', 
 And watering our divine abode. 
 
 5. That sacred stream — thy holy word', 
 Our grief allays', our fear controls' ; 
 Sweet peace thy promises afford', 
 
 And give new strength to fainting souls'. 
 
 6. Zion enjoys her monarch's love', 
 Secure against a threatening hour' ; 
 Nor can her firm foundations move, 
 Built on his' truth', and arm'd with power. 
 
 28 
 
326 the reader's guide. 
 
 
 LESSON CXIV. 
 
 THE LAST JUDGMENT. 
 
 Iambic. Epic measure, sometimes styled long proper meter. 
 
 1. The Lord', the sovereign', sends his summons forth", 
 Calls the south' nations', and awakes the north' ; 
 From east' to west' the sounding orders spread' 
 Through distant worlds and regions of the dead'. 
 No more shall atheists mock his long delay' ; 
 
 His vengeance sleeps no more ; — behold' the day' ! 
 
 2. Behold', the Judge descends' ! his guards are nigh' ; 
 Tempest and fire attend him down the sky. 
 
 Heav'n', earth', and hell', draw near' ; let all things come, 
 
 To hear his'' justice and the sinner's doom'. 
 
 But gather first my saints', (the Judge commands',) 
 
 Bring them', ye angels', from their distant lands. 
 
 3. Behold', my covenant stands forever good', 
 Seal'd by th' eternal sacrifice in blood', 
 
 And signed with all their names' ; the Greek', the Jew'', 
 That paid the ancient' worship', or the new'. 
 There's no distinction here ; come, spread their thrones', 
 And near me seat my favorites and my sons. 
 
 4» I their almighty Savior' and their God', 
 
 l\ am their Judge : ye heavens' proclaim abroad 
 
 My just eternal sentence, and declare 
 
 Those awful truths that sinners dread to hear. 
 
 c c « 
 
 Sinners in Zion, tremble and retire ; 
 I doom thee, painted hypocrite, to fire. 
 
 5. Not for the want of goats' or bullocks' slain' 
 Do I condemn thee ; bulls and goats are vain' 
 
 Without the flames of love 1 ' : in vain the store' 
 Of brutal offerings' that were mine before. 
 
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. 327 
 
 Mine are the tamer" beasts', and savage breed, 
 Flocks/ herds', and fields', and forests' where they feed. 
 
 6. If ' I were hungry', would I ask thee food' 1 
 When did I thirst', or drink thy bullock's blood' ? 
 
 Can I be flatter'd^ with thy cringing bows', 
 Thy solemn chatterings' and fantastic vows' ? 
 Are my eyes charm'd^ thy vestments to behold' 
 Glaring in gems', and gay in woven gold*" ? 
 
 7. Unthinking' wretch' ! how could'st thou hope to please 
 A God', a Spirit', with such toys as these ? 
 
 While with my grace and statutes on thy tongue 
 Thou lov'st deceit', and dost thy brother wrong' : 
 In vain to pious forms thy zeal pretends' ; 
 Thieves' and adulterers' are thy chosen' friends'. 
 
 8. Silent I waited with long suffering love ; 
 
 ( ( C t ( ( ( I I J c 
 
 But didst thou hope that I should ne^'er reprove ? 
 And cherish such an impious thought within ^, 
 
 That God' the righteous' would indulge thy sin^ ? 
 Behold my terrors now ; my thunders roll, 
 And thy own crimes affright thy guilty soul. 
 
 9. Sinners', awake betimes' ; ye fools', be wise ; 
 Awake before this dreadful morning rise, 
 
 Change your vain thoughts', your crooked works amend', 
 Fly to the Savior'', make the Judge your friend' ! 
 Lest', like a lion', his last vengeance tear 
 Your trembling souls, and no deliverer near. 
 
 LESSON CXV. 
 
 HAGAR AND ISHMAEL Gen. XXi. 9 — 21. 
 
 9 And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian', which 
 
 10 she had borne to Abraham', mocking'. Wherefore she 
 
 said to Abraham', Cast out' this bond-woman' and her son' ; 
 
328 
 
 for the son of this bond-woman shall not be heir with mf 
 
 11 son', even with Isaac'. And the thing was very grievous 
 
 12 in Abraham's sight', because of his son'. And God said to 
 Abraham', Let it not be grievous in thy sight because of 
 the lad', and because of thy bond- woman" ; in all that 
 Sarah hath said to thee, hearken to her voice : for in Isaac" 
 
 13 shall thy seed be called. And also of the son of the bonds- 
 woman' will I make a nation', because he is thy seed. 
 
 14 And Abraham rose early in the morning', and took bread', 
 and gave it to Hagar' (putting it on her shoulder',) and the 
 child', and sent her away ; and she departed^, and wander- 
 ed in the wilderness of Beersheba. 
 
 15 And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the 
 
 16 child under one of the shrubs'. And she went and sat down 
 over against him', a good way off', as it were a bow-shot : 
 for she said', Let me not see the death of the child. And 
 she sat over against him', and raised her voice, and wept. 
 
 17 And God heard the voice of the lad v : and the angel of God 
 called to Hagar out of heaven, and said to her', What 
 aileth thee', Hagar' ? fear not ; for God hath heard the 
 
 18 voice of the lad' where he is. Arise, lift up the lad', and 
 hold him in thy hand' : for I will make him a great nation. 
 
 19 And God opened her eyes', and she saw a well of water' : 
 and she went and filled the bottle with water', and gave the 
 
 20 lad drink. And God was with the lad' ; and he grew', and 
 
 21 dwelt in the wilderness', and became an archer.' And he 
 dwelt in the wilderness of Paran' : and his mother took for 
 him a wife out of the land of Egypt. 
 
 LESSON CXVI. 
 
 JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN. — Gen. xlii. 1 — 24. 
 
 Now when Jacob saw that there was corn in Egypt', 
 Jacob said to his sons'', Why do ye look one upon another'? 
 
 2 And he said', Behold', I have heard that there is corn in 
 Egypt' : go down thither', and buy for us from thence ; that 
 
 3 we may live, and not die. And Joseph's ten brethren 
 
 4 went down to buy corn in Egypt. But Benjamin', JosephV 
 brother', Jacob sent not with his brethren' : for he said', 
 
JOSEPH AND HIS BRETHREN. 329 
 
 5 Lest perhaps mischief shall befall him. And the sons of 
 
 Israel came to buy corn' among those that came : for the 
 famine was in the land of Canaan. 
 
 6 And Joseph was the governor over the land', and he it 
 was' that sold to all the people of the land' ; and Joseph's 
 brethren came', and bowed themselves before him with 
 
 7 their faces to the earth'. And Joseph saw his brethren', 
 and he knew them', but made himself strange to them', and 
 spoke roughly to them' ; and he said to them', Whence' 
 come ye ? And they said', From the land of Canaan' to 
 
 8 buy food'. And Joseph knew his brethren', but they' knew 
 
 9 not him'. And Joseph remembered the dreams which he 
 dreamed of them', and said to them', Ye are spies' ; to see 
 
 10 the nakedness of the land' have ye come'. And they said 
 to him', No', my lord', but to buy' food' have thy servants 
 
 11 come. We are all one*" manV sons' ; we are true men ; 
 
 12 thy servants are no spies'. And he said to them', No', but 
 
 13 to see the nakedness of the land have ye come'. And they 
 said', thy servants are twelve brethren', the sons of one' 
 man' in the land of Canaan' ; and behold', the youngest is 
 
 14 this day with our father', and one is not'. And Joseph said to 
 them', That is what V spoke to you, saying', Ye are spies': 
 
 15 By this' ye shall be proved' : By the life of Pharaoh', ye 
 shall not go forth hence', except your youngest brother shall 
 
 16 come hither'. Send one' of you, and let him bring your 
 brother', and ye' shall be kept in prison', that your words 
 may be proved', whether there is any truth in you : or 
 
 17 else', by the life of Pharaoh', surely ye are spies'. And he 
 
 18 put them all together into custody three days. And Joseph 
 said to them the third day, This do', and live' ; for I fear 
 
 19 God' : if ye are true men', let one of your brethren be 
 bound in the house of your prison' : go ye' carry corn for 
 
 20 the famine of your houses' : But bring' your youngest 
 brother to me' ; so shall your words be verified', and ye 
 
 21 shall not die. And they did so'. And they said one to 
 another,' We are verily guilty concerning our brother', in 
 that we saw the anguish of his soul', when he besought us', 
 and we would not hear' ; therefore is this distress come 
 
 22 upon us. And Reuben answered them', saying', Did I not 
 speak to you, saying', Do not sin against the young man' ; 
 and ye would not hear' ? therefore behold also his blood is 
 
 23 required. And they knew not that Joseph understood 
 
 24 them' ; for he spake to them by an interpreter'. And he 
 turned himself away from them', and wept', and returned to 
 
 28* 
 
330 the reader's guide. 
 
 them again', and communed with them', and took from them 
 Simeon', and bound him before their eves. 
 
 
 LESSON CXVII. 
 
 SUFFERINGS OF CHRIST FORETOLD. Isa. liii. 
 
 Who hath believed our report' ? 
 And to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed' ? 
 
 2 For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant', 
 And as a root out of dry ground' ; he hath no form nor 
 
 comeliness' ; 
 And when we shall see him', there is no beauty r , that we 
 should desire him'. 
 
 3 He is despised' and rejected by men' ; 
 
 A man of sorrows' and acquainted with grief: 
 And we hid as it were our faces from him' ; 
 He was despised', and we esteemed him not. 
 
 4 Surely he hath borne our griefs', and carried our sorrows' ; 
 Yet we did esteem him stricken', smitten by God', and af- 
 flicted'. 
 
 5 But he was wounded for our' transgression', 
 He was bruised for our' iniquities' : 
 
 The chastisement of our' peace was upon him" ; 
 And with his' stripes' we are healed'. 
 
 6 All we, like sheep, have gone astray' ; 
 
 We have turned every one to his own way' ; 
 And the Lord hath laid on him' the iniquity of us all'. 
 
 7 He was oppressed', and he was afflicted', yet he opened not 
 
 his mouth' ; 
 
 He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter', 
 And as a sheep before her shearers is dumb', 
 So he opened not his mouth'. 
 
 8 He was taken from prison and from judgment' : 
 And who shall declare his generation' ? 
 
 For he was cut off from the land of the living', 
 For the transgression of my people was he stricken'. 
 
 9 And he made his grave with the wicked', and with the rich'" 
 
 in his death v , 
 Because he had done no violence', neither was any deceit in 
 his mouth'* 
 
DESIRE FOR IMMORTALITY NATURAL TO MEN. 331 
 
 10 Yet it pleased the Lord to bruise him' ; he hath put him to 
 
 grief : 
 
 When thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin', 
 
 He shall see his seed', he shall prolong his days', 
 
 And the pleasure of the Lord shall prosper in his hand'. 
 
 11 He shall see of the travail of his soul', and shall be satis- 
 
 fied*: 
 By his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many' ; 
 for he shall bear their iniquities'. 
 
 12 Therefore will I divide to him a portion with the great', 
 And he shall divide the spoils with the strong', 
 Because he hath poured out his soul to death' : 
 
 And he was numbered with the transgressors' ; 
 And he bore the sin of many', and made intercession for the 
 transgressors'. 
 
 LESSON CXVIII. 
 
 DESIRE FOR IMMORTALITY NATURAL TO MEN. 
 
 The secluded peasant carves his name on the tree which hath 
 sheltered him from the summer's shower. The passing tourist 
 scratches his initials on the rock upon which he hath gazed. 
 And thus the traveller', on the journey of life', would fain leave 
 some memorial', which shall convince the crowd which shall 
 come after him', that his name stood for something that was 
 worthy of the character of man. 
 
 For who', to dull forgetfulness a prey', 
 This pleasing', anxious' being e'er resigned', 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day', 
 Nor cast one longing', lingering' look behind' ? 
 
 This desire so universal, so natural to man', revelation hath 
 no where forbidden. Let it only be directed to proper objects', 
 and she cherishes it. But how shall wealth purchase this much 
 coveted remembrance' ? Is it by pampering' these bodies', on 
 which the earth worm so soon shall revel' 1 Is it by hoarding 
 up treasures', which our children shall squander in thoughtless 
 extravagance' ? Is it by building habitations', which the men 
 who shall come after us', will level with the dust' ? O it is 
 
332 
 
 pitiful', to behold how quickly the memory of him', who boast 
 eth himself in his riches', is forgotten' ! In the very scramble 
 for his wealth', of which he himself hath set the example, his 
 name and his character are trampled under foot ! Thus', O 
 my God', dost thou pour avenging blindness over the eyes of 
 selfish men', and make their own iniquitous passions the execu- 
 tioners of thy righteous retribution. 
 
 Do you ask, then', how shall wealth acquire for you remem- 
 brance upon earth' ? We answer', write your history in deeds 
 of mercy', and your memory shall live. So long as there are 
 sick to be visited', or naked to be clothed', or ignorant to be 
 taught', or vicious to be reclaimed', or heathen to be converted', 
 you have it in your power to secure to yourself a name, which 
 shall shine with still increasing luster', when that of conquerors 
 and heroes shall long since have been s forgotten. The right- 
 eous shall be held in everlasting remembrance. The pride of 
 learning', neglected by an advancing age', sinks with its au- 
 thors into oblivion. The wreath of the victor withers'', but the 
 wreath of the philanthropist' shall bloom forever. The glory 
 of Napoleon', mightiest of the mighty though he were', is fast 
 fading away', and year after year is rapidly erasing the lines 
 which he drew up on the destinies of Europe. The glory of 
 Robert Raikes is every year growing brighter', for its record 
 is written in the moral history of man'. The one', like the 
 flaming meteor', glared wildly at Austerlitz' ; it sunk' at St. 
 Helena, and the light which marked its track'" is quickly van- 
 ishing in darkness. The other rose mildly as the morning sun', 
 and it is yet' rising. Ages will elapse ere it reaches its me- 
 ridian. There', fixed like the sun of Joshua', it shall hang 
 high in mid-heaven', until the judgment trumpet shall announce 
 that the warfare is accomplished', and the victory is won', and 
 and we shall reign forever and forever. 
 
 . 
 
 LESSON CXIX. 
 
 BENEVOLENT BEINGS HIGHER THAN OURSELVES. 
 
 Revelation informs us, that there are creatures endowed with 
 powers more exalted than our own', creatures who have never 
 sinned', and who draw near to that hallowed, uncreated light' 
 
BENEVOLENT BEINGS HIGHER THAN OURSELVES. 333 
 
 where sits enthron'd the King Eternal. Of these employments' 
 we know but little ; but we know enough to be assured' that 
 they are mainly the works of benevolence. Are they not all 
 ministering spirits', sent forth to minister to those who are 
 heirs of salvation' 1 Of their visits to our earth', rarel)^ have 
 we been conscious ; for this dull veil of materialism hides them 
 from our sight. But at times this veil has been withdrawn", 
 and then I pray you', where do we behold them' ? They are seen 
 watching over the lonely pillow of a sleeping patriarch', protect- 
 ing in the hour of his devotion a persecuted prophet', visiting in 
 prison the apostle of the Jews', communing in the hour of his 
 peril with the apostle of the Gentiles', and ministering in the de- 
 sert and in the garden unto Him', who was a man of sorrows' 
 and acquainted with grief. Such are the places of their 
 choicest visitation. Is it hot seemly for us to follow their ex- 
 ample ? 
 
 But we learn our duty from more awful examples. The 
 Deity hath revealed himself mainly to us as a God of benevo- 
 lence. I read in his word much 1 ' of his wisdom', of his power', 
 of his omniprescence' ; but I read more'' of his compassion. 
 These other attributes are but handmaids" to his mercy', for 
 God' is love. In the material world', infinite as are the exhi- 
 bitions of his incomparable skill', that' skill' is ever subservient 
 to the happiness of sensitive being. Throughout the sorrowful 
 history of this apostate world', we have beheld him every where 
 so overruling the vicissitudes of nations', and the movements of 
 society', as to hasten onward the reign of righteousness and 
 peace. The design of the work of redemption is summed up 
 in this one word', God so loved the world that he sent his only 
 begotten Son', that whosoever believeth in him', might not per- 
 ish'. We tremble at his power'. We stand in awe of his 
 omniscience. We fall prostrate before his purity'. But tell 
 me, if there be aught of his doings that fills us with so adoring 
 a veneration', as when we behold the high and lofty One', 
 stooping from the high and holy place to feed the hungry', to 
 clothe the naked', to counsel the ignorant', to be the Father to 
 the fatherless', the Judge of the widow', to comfort the cast 
 down', to speak peace to the penitent', and', drawing near to the 
 lowly couch of the humblest of his children', to whisper in the 
 ear of the departing spirit, — fear not' I am with thee ; be not 
 dismayed', I am thy God' ; I will strengthen thee', I will help 
 thee' ; yea, I will uphold thee' with the right hand of my right- 
 eousness. Brethren', let us learn a lesson of mercy of our 
 
a34 
 
 Father who is in heaven. Be ye followers', imitators of God', 
 as dear children. 
 
 But there is another example of equal authority', and of yet 
 more affecting application. You will all anticipate that to 
 which I allude. Deity himself has been an inhabitant of our 
 world. The Word was God, and dwelt among us. He came 
 hither on an errand of benevolence. He came to seek and to 
 save that which was lost. He who was the brightness of the 
 Father's glory' was bruised for our' iniquities' ; he was wound- 
 ed for our transgressions' ; the chastisement by which our' 
 peace was effected' was upon him', and by his' stripes' we are 
 healed'. Strange was the errand which brought him hither', 
 and yet more strange the manner in which that errand' was 
 accomplished'. For where', when on earth', was the Son of 
 God to be found' ? Upholding all things by the word of his 
 power', was he seen in the palaces of princes'' ? Sharing the 
 councils of eternity', was he found in the cabinets of statesmen 1 "? 
 The high possessor of heaven and earth', did he aspire after 
 the society of the honorable' and the rich' ? Ah' ! disciple of 
 Jesus Christ', thy Master was not little' enough' for this 1 ' world's 
 greatness. I blush' for thee while I speak it. Thy Redeemer 
 was found a houseless philanthropist', travelling on foot from 
 village to village', over the most despised province of the Ro. 
 man empire. His associates were fishermen and publicans', 
 and a few poor women' who ministered to him of their sub- 
 stance. He was to be seen feeding the hungry', giving sight 
 to the blind', and health to the diseased', at the bedside of the 
 sick', comforting the cast down', binding up the broken in 
 heart', and preaching the Gospel to the poor'. His history on 
 earth is thus briefly summed up', by the pen of inspiration' — He 
 went about doing good. Thus hath God taught us how he 
 himselP would live' were he such an one as we. Brethren', 
 you see this part of my subject is exhausted. I can say no 
 more. 
 
ADVANTAGE OF HAVING CHRIST FOR OUR KING. 335 
 
 LESSON CXX. 
 
 ADVANTAGE OF HAVING CHRIST FOR OUR KING. 
 
 Nay, the present moment', and every' moment when present', 
 is fraught with consequences incapable of being estimated by 
 any finite understanding. On time', Eternity' hangs. As we 
 live here', we shall live hereafter'. If our time be well employ- 
 ed', and our talents well used', it will be well with us in the end. 
 But if we abuse both here', it will be ill' with us hereafter'. — 
 The present moment' is important', chiefly', as it affects those 
 which are future ; begins' or strengthens' an evil', or virtuous^ 
 habit ; depraves' or amends' the soul : hardens' or softens' the 
 heart ; and contributes', in this way', to advance us towards 
 heaven', or towards hell'. There is no man who is not better' 
 or worse' to day^, by means of what he thought', designed', or 
 did', yesterday. The present day', therefore, is not only im- 
 portant in itself^, as a season for which we must give an ac- 
 count', but because of the influence which it will have on the 
 events of the morrow. Thus circumstanced', frail', irresolute, 
 wandering', wicked', exposed to immense dangers', and yet ca- 
 pable of immense enjoyments' ; how infinitely desirable is it', 
 that we should have such a friend as Christ'. In his' mind are 
 treasured up all the means of happiness', which we need' ; the 
 immense power', knowledge' and goodness', the unchangeable 
 truth', faithfulness' and mercy', which', and which only', can 
 provide and secure for us immortal blessings', or preserve us 
 from evils' which know no end. In all places', he is present' ; 
 over all things' he rules with an irresistible dominion'. No be- 
 ing', no event', can be hidden from his' eye. No enemy', how- 
 ever insidious', or however powerful' can escape from his' hand. 
 His disposition is written in letters of blood on the cross. He 
 who died', that sinners might live' ; he who prayed for his mur- 
 derers', while imbruing their hands in his blood'' ; can need', can 
 add', no proofs of his compassion for men'. This glorious Re- 
 deemer is', also, the same yesterday', to-day', and forever. Such 
 a friend to man', as he was when he hung on the cross', he will 
 be throughout eternity' ; and to every one who sincerely desires 
 an interest in his good will', he will manifest his friendship in an 
 endless succession of blessings. 
 
 While we wander through the wilderness of life amid so ma- 
 ny wants', how desirable must it be to find a friend', able and 
 willing to furnish the needed supplies' ? Amid so many enemies 
 
336 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 and dangers', how desirable must it be to find a friend', able and 
 willing to furnish the necessary protection' 1 Amid so many- 
 temptations', to watch over us' ? amid so many sorrows, to re- 
 lieve us' ? in solitude to be our companion' ? in difficulties' our 
 helper' ? in despondence', our support' ? in disease', our physi- 
 cian' ? in death', our hope', resurrection' and life ? In a word, 
 how desirable must it be to find a friend, who, throughout all 
 the strange', discouraging' state of the present life', will give us 
 peace', consolation' and joy v , and cause all things^, even the 
 most untoward and perplexing', to work together for our good' ? 
 
 On a dying bed especially', when our flesh and our hearts 
 must fail of course ; our earthly friends yield us little consola- 
 tion', and no hope ; and the world itself retire from our view' ; 
 how delightful will such a friend be' 1 Then the soul', uncer- 
 tain', alone, hovering over the form which it has so long inhab- 
 ited', and stretching its wings for its flight into the unknown 
 vast', will sigh' and pant' for an arm' on which it may lean', and 
 a bosom' on which it may safely recline. But there, Christ is 
 present' with all his tenderness', and all his power. With one 
 hand' he holds the anchor of hope ; and with the other' he points 
 the way to heaven. 
 
 In the final resurrection', when the universe shall rend asun- 
 der, and the elements of this great world shall rush together 
 with immense confusion and ruin', how supporting', how ravish- 
 ing' will it be, when we awake from our final sleep', and ascend 
 from the dust in which our bodies have been so long buried', to 
 find this glorious Redeemer re-fashioning our vile bodies like 
 unto his glorious body', and re-uniting them to our minds', puri- 
 fied' and immortal' ? With what emotions shall we arise, and 
 stand', and behold the Judge descend in the glory of his Father', 
 with all his holy Angels'? With what emotions shall we 
 see the same unchangeable and everlasting friend', placing 
 us on his right hand in glory and honor', which kings will covet 
 in vain', and before which all earthly grandeur shall be forgot- 
 ten' ? With what melody will the voice of the Redeemer burst 
 on our ears', when he proclaims', Come ye blessed of my Fa- 
 ther', inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation 
 of the world' 1 How will the soul distend with transport', when', 
 accompanied by the Church of the first-born', and surrounded 
 by Thrones', Principalities', and Powers', it shall begin its flight 
 towards the highest heavens', to meet his' Father' and our' Fa- 
 ther', his' God' and our' God' ? What an internal heaven will 
 dawn in the mind', when we shall be presented before the throne 
 of Jehovah', and settled amid our own brethren in our immortal 
 inheritance, and our final home ; and behold all our sins wash- 
 
DYING. 337 
 
 ed away', our trials ended', our dangers escaped', our sorrows 
 left behind us', and our reward begun', in that world', where all 
 things are ever new', delightful and divine. 
 
 LESSON CXXI. 
 
 DYING. 
 
 The hour is rapidly approaching, my friends', when each one 
 of us shall not only know that he must die'', but shall feel 1 " that 
 he is dying'. I will suppose this hour to arrive under circum- 
 stances most favorable for forming a correct and unbiassed es- 
 timate of the value of every earthly possession. I will suppose 
 you in a full possession of your reason as you are at this mo- 
 ment. I will suppose all uncertainty respecting the event to be 
 done away', that medical skill has announced the hour of your 
 decease', and that you already feel that' indescribable some- 
 thing'', which assures you that the soul is already breaking 
 loose' from her tabernacle of clay. I will suppose moreover', 
 that you have some adequate conceptions of the strictness of the 
 law by which you must be judged', of the holiness of that Be- 
 ing before whom you must stand', of the unutterable bliss in 
 reserve for the righteous', and of the unutterable agonies which 
 await the wicked. I will also suppose you to be perfectly 
 aware', that the time for repentance is past' ; and that all which 
 now remains for yofi, is to ascertain from the facts of your 
 past history', whether your life has' or has not been spent in 
 preparation for eternity. At that solemn moment', every pow- 
 er of thought within you will be concerned upon the question', 
 Am I a disciple of Jesus Christ' 1 The soul asks', and the holy 
 oracle answers^ Unless a man deny himself, and take up hi» 
 cross and follow me', he cannot' be my disciple. The dying 
 man calls up in review the days' and weeks' and months' and 
 years' that are past'' ; and in an agony demands of each', Have 
 I denied myself, have I taken up my cross', have I followed 
 Christ' 1 Ah', who can describe the despair of him', who, from 
 one and from all of them', receives the stern', the all-deciding 
 answer', No. 
 
 The die is cast'. But who can tell the horrors of the coming 
 interval' 1 Terrified at the gulf before her', the soul looks back 
 
 29 
 
& 
 
 338 
 
 upon the past" ; but all is filled with horrible visions'. Power', 
 rank', applause, learning', all' have bidden her adieu in the hour 
 of her calamity', and have left her to her Judge. Her very- 
 amusements' have turned traitors', and accused her' of self de- 
 struction. The card table, the theater', the ball-room', speak 
 now' only of murdered time and wasted opportunity'. That 
 pampered body', that vacant mind', those ungoverned passions', 
 that hoarded gold', all declare that she hath lived unto her- 
 self. Behind' all is condemnation' ; before her', naught is seen 
 but the terrific effulgence of the long suffering', most merciful', 
 but abused', insulted', thrice holy' Lord God Almighty'. — 
 Speech' fails' ; but the glare of those sightless eyeballs tells' that 
 the spirit^ seeth visions' which language cannot utter. An un- 
 earthly groan', and all is still. The affrighted ghost', in all 
 
 the horrors of self condemnation', stands before her Judge. 
 
 LESSON CXXI1. 
 Psalm xviii. 1 — 16. 
 
 1 I will love thee, O Lord/ my strength'. 
 
 2 The Lord is my rock and my fortress', and my deliverer', 
 My God', my strength', in whom I will trust' : 
 
 My buckler', and the horn of my salvation', and my high 
 tower. 
 
 3 I will call upon the Lord', who is worthy to be praised', 
 
 4 So shall 1 be saved from my enemies. 
 The sorrows of death compassed me, 
 
 And the floods of ungodly men, made me afraid. 
 
 5 The sorrows of hell encompassed me, 
 The snares of death seized me. 
 
 6 In my distress I called upon the Lord', 
 And cried to my God ; 
 
 He heard my voice out of his temple', 
 
 And my cry came before him', even into his ears'. 
 
 7 Then the earth shook and trembled ; 
 The foundations also of the hills' moved' 
 And were shaken' because he was wroth. 
 
 8 There went up a smoke out of his nostrils', 
 
god's omnipotence. 339 
 
 And fire out of his mouth devoured' ; 
 Coals were kindled by it'. 
 9 He bowed the heavens also, and came down', 
 And darkness was under his feet'. 
 
 10 And he rode upon a cherub, and flew ; 
 Yea, he flew upon the wings of the wind. 
 
 11 He made darkness his secret place ; 
 His pavilion around him', were dark waters' 
 And thick clouds of the skies'. 
 
 12 At the brightness that was before him' his thick clouds pass- 
 ed' ; 
 
 Hail stones' and coals of fire. 
 
 13 The Lord also thundered in the heavens, 
 And the Highest gave his voice ; 
 Hail stones' and coals of fire. 
 
 14 Yea, he sent out his arrows and scattered them', 
 And he shot out lightnings', and discomfited them' : 
 
 15 Then the channels of waters were seen, 
 And the foundations of the world were discovered 
 At thy rebuke, O Lord', 
 At the blast of the breath of thy nostrils'. 
 
 16 He sent from above', he took me, 
 He drew me out of many waters'. 
 
 17 He delivered me from my strong enemy', 
 And from them who hated me', 
 For they were too strong for me. 
 
 18 They attacked me in the day of my calamity 7 , 
 But the Lord was my stay. 
 
 LESSON CXXIII. 
 Isaiah xl. 12—31. 
 
 12 Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand', 
 And measured heaven with the span', 
 
 And comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, 
 And weighed the mountains in scales', and the hills in a 
 balance' ? 
 
 13 Who hath directed the Spirit of the Lord', 
 Or being his counsellor hath taught him' ? 
 
 14 With whom took he counsel', and who instructed him', 
 
) 
 
 340 
 
 And taught him in the path of judgment', 
 And taught him knowledge', and showed to him the way of 
 understanding' 1 
 
 15 Behold', the nations are as a drop of a bucket', 
 And are counted as the small dust of a balance : 
 Behold he taketh up the isles' as a very little thing' ; 
 
 16 And Lebanon' is not sufficient to burn', 
 
 Nor the beasts' of it' sufficient for a burnt offering. 
 
 17 All nations before him' are as nothing' ; 
 
 And they are counted to him less' than nothing' and vani- 
 ity'. 
 
 18 To whom then will ye liken God' ? 
 
 Or what likeness will ye compare to him' ? 
 
 19 The workman melteth a graven image', 
 
 And the goldsmith spreadeth it over with gold', and casteth 
 
 silver chains. 
 He that is so impoverished that he hath no oblation', choos- 
 
 eth a tree that will not rot'. 
 
 20 He seeketh for himself a skilful workman' 
 
 To prepare a graven image that shall not be moved'. 
 
 21 Have ye not known 1 ' ? have ye not heard ^ 1 
 Hath it not been told you from the beginning 1 ' 1 
 
 Have ye not understood 1 ' from the foundations of the earth' 1 
 
 22 It is he' that sitteth upon the circle of the earth', 
 And its inhabitants are as grasshoppers' ; 
 That stretcheth out, the heavens as a curtain', 
 And spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in', — 
 
 23 That bringeth the princes to nothing' ; 
 
 He maketh the judges of the earth as vanity'. 
 
 24 Yes', they shall not be planted' ; yes', they shall not be 
 
 sown' : 
 Yes', their stock shall not take root in the earth' : 
 And he shall also blow upon them', and they shall wither' ; 
 And the whirlwind shall take them away as stubble'. 
 
 25 To whom then will ye liken me', 
 
 Or shall I be equaled' 1 saith the Holy One'. 
 
 26 Lift up your eyes on high', and behold' who created these 
 
 things', — 
 
 That bringeth out their host by number' ; he calleth them 
 all by names', 
 
 By the greatness of his might', for that he is strong in pow- 
 er' ; not one faileth'. 
 
 27 Why sayest thou, O Jacob', and speakest, O Israel'* 
 My way is hid from the Lord', 
 
DEDICATION HYMN. 341 
 
 And my judgment is passed over from my God' ? 
 
 28 Hast thou not known', hast thou not heard' 
 That the everlasting God', the Lord', 
 
 The Creator of the ends of the earth', fainteth not', neither 
 
 is weary' ? 
 There is no searching of his understanding'. 
 
 29 He giveth power to the faint', 
 
 And to them that have no might' he increaseth strength. 
 
 30 Even the youths shall faint and be weary', 
 And the young men shall utterly fall ; 
 
 31 But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength'; 
 They shall mount up with wings' as eagles' ; 
 
 They shall run', and not be weary', 
 They shall walk' and not faint'. 
 
 LESSON CXXIV. 
 
 DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet. L. M. 
 
 1. The perfect world by Adam trod' 
 Was the first temple' — built by God v : 
 His fiat laid the corner stone, 
 
 And heaved its pillars', one by one. 
 
 2. He hung its starry roof on high' — 
 The broad illimitable sky' ; 
 
 He spread its pavement, green and bright', 
 And curtained it with morning light. 
 
 3. The mountains in their places stood' — 
 The sea — the sky' — and " all' was good' ;" 
 And, when its first pure praises rang', 
 The" morning stars together sang." 
 
 4. Lord 'tis not ours' to make the sea, 
 And earth', and sky', a house for thee ; 
 But in thy sight our offering stands' — 
 
 A humbler' temple—" made' with hands." 
 
 20* 
 
342 
 
 THE READER'S GUIDE. 
 
 LESSON CXXV. 
 
 RESURRECTION OF CHRIST. 
 
 Iambic. Three feet, and two. Called also, Hallelujah meter* 
 
 1. Yes v , the Redeemer rose ; 
 The Saviour left the dead', 
 And o'er our hellish foes' 
 High rais'd his conquering head' ; 
 
 In wild dismay' 
 The guards around' 
 Fall to the ground' 
 And sink away\ 
 
 2. Lo ! the angelic bands' 
 In full assembly meet', 
 To wait his high commands'* 
 And worship at his feet v ; 
 
 Joyful they come', 
 And wing their way' 
 From realms of day' 
 To Jesus' tomb\ 
 
 3. Then back to heaven they fly', 
 The joyful news to bear v ; 
 Hark v ! as they soar on high', 
 What music fills the air v ! 
 
 Their anthems say', 
 " Jesus who bled', 
 " Hath left the dead' ; 
 " He rose to day V 
 
 4. Ye mortals', catch' the sound', 
 Redeem'd by him from helP ; 
 And send the echo round' 
 The globe, on which you dwell ; 
 
 Transported cry', 
 " Jesus who bled' 
 " Hath left the dead', 
 " No more to die." 
 
 5. All hail\ triumphant Lord', 
 Who sav'st us with thy blood v ! 
 
DIVINE PROTECTION. 343 
 
 Wide be thy name ador'd', 
 Thou rising', reigning God' I 
 
 With thee we rise, 
 
 With thee we reign', 
 
 And empires gain' 
 
 Beyond the skies'. 
 
 LESSON CXXVI. 
 
 DIVINE PROTECTION. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet. L. M. 
 
 1. Up to the hills I lift mine eyes', 
 
 Th' eternal hills' beyond the skies' ; 
 Thence all her help my soul derives' ; 
 There my Almighty refuge lives'. 
 
 2. He lives', the everlasting God', 
 
 That built the world', that spread the flood' ; 
 The heavens with all their hosts he made', 
 And the dark regions of the dead. 
 
 3. He guides our feet', he guards our way' ; 
 His morning smiles bless all the day' : 
 He spreads the evening veil', and keeps' 
 The silent hours while Israel sleeps. 
 
 4. Israel', a name divinely blest', 
 May rise secure', securely rest' ; 
 Thy holy Guardian's wakeful eyes' 
 Admit no slumber' nor surprise. 
 
 5. No sun shall smite thy head by day', 
 Nor the pale moon with sickly ray' 
 Shall blast thy couch' ; no baleful star' 
 Dart his malignant fire' so far'. 
 
 6. Should earth and hell with malice burn', 
 Still thou shalt go, and still return' 
 Safe in the Lord' ; his heavenly care' 
 Defends thy life from every snare. 
 
 . 
 
344 the reader's guide. 
 
 7. On thee foul spirits have no power' ; 
 And in thy last', departing hour', 
 Angels', that trace the airy road', 
 Shall bear thee homeward' to thy God' 
 
 LESSON CXXVII. 
 
 GOING TO CHURCH. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet alternating with three feet. C. M. 
 
 1. How did my heart rejoice to hear' 
 
 My friends devoutly say', 
 " In Zion let us all appear', 
 " And keep the solemn day' ! " 
 
 2. I love her gates', I love the road' : 
 
 The church adorn'd with grace 
 Stands like a palace built for God' 
 To show his milder face. 
 
 3. Up to her courts with joys unknown' 
 
 The holy tribes repair' ; 
 The Son of David holds his throne, 
 And sits in judgment there. 
 
 4. He hears our praises and complaints' ; 
 
 And while his awful voice' 
 Divides the sinners from the saints', 
 We tremble' and rejoice. 
 
 5. Peace be within this sacred place, 
 
 And joy' a constant guest' ; 
 With holy gifts' and heavenly grace' 
 Be her attendants blest'. 
 
 6. My soul shall pray for Zion still', 
 
 While life or breath remains' ; 
 There my best friends', my kindred dwell,' 
 There God', my Savior', reigns'. 
 
THE REDEEMER'S MESSAGE. 345 
 
 LESSON CXXVIII. 
 
 THE REDEEMER'S MESSAGE. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet alternating with three. C. M 
 
 1. Hark', the glad sound', the Saviour comes', 
 The Saviour' promis'd long' ! 
 Let every heart' prepare a throne', 
 And every voice' a song'. 
 
 2. On him the Spirit', largely pour'd', 
 
 Exerts his sacred fire ; 
 Wisdom' and might', and zeal' and love 
 His holy breast inspire. 
 
 3. He comes' the prisoners to release', 
 
 In Satan's bondage held' ; 
 The gates of brass before him burst', 
 The iron fetters yield'. 
 
 4. He comes', from thickest films of vice', 
 
 To clear the mental ray' ; 
 And on the eyes opprest with night', 
 To pour celestial day. 
 
 5. He comes', the broken heart to bind', 
 The bleeding soul to cure ; 
 
 And with the treasures of his grace' 
 T' enrich the humble poor. 
 
 6. Our glad Hosannas', Prince of Peace'* 
 
 Thy welcome shall proclaim' ; 
 And heaven's eternal arches ring' 
 With thy beloved name. 
 
346 
 
 THE READER S GUIDE. 
 
 LESSON CXXIX. 
 
 PROCLAMATION OF THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Iambic. Every third line in a stanza has four feet ; the oth- 
 er lines have three feet each. S. M. 
 
 1. How beauteous are their feet', 
 
 Who stand on Zion's hill' ; 
 Who bring salvation on their tongues', 
 And words of peace reveal' ! 
 
 2. How charming' is their voice, 
 
 How sweet' the tidings are ! 
 Zion', behold thy Saviour King', 
 " He reigns and triumphs here." 
 
 3. How happy are our ears' 
 
 That hear this joyful sound', 
 Which kings and prophets waited for, 
 And sought', but never found' ! 
 
 4. How blessed are our eyes', 
 
 That see this heavenly light' ; 
 Prophets and kings desir'd it long', 
 But died' without the sight'. 
 
 5. The watchmen join their voice, 
 
 And tuneful notes employ' ; 
 Jerusalem breaks forth in songs', 
 And deserts learn the joy. 
 
 6. The Lord makes bare his arm' 
 
 Through all the earth abroad' ; 
 Let every nation now' behold' 
 Their Saviour' and their God'. 
 
GALATIANS CHAPTER HI. 347 
 
 LESSON CXXX. 
 
 Galatians — Chapter iii. 
 
 1 O Foolish Galatians', who hath bewitched you, that ye 
 should not obey the truth', before whose eyes Jesus Christ' 
 
 2 hath been evidently set forth', crucified' among you ? This 
 only would I learn from you, Received ye the Spirit by the 
 
 3 works of the law', or by the hearing of faith' ? Are ye so- 
 foolish' ? having begun in the Spirit', are ye now' made per- 
 
 4 feet' by the flesh' 1 Have ye suffered so many things in vain'? 
 
 5 if it is 1 * yet' in vain 1 '. He therefore that ministereth to you 
 the Spirit', and worketh miracles among you, doeth he this 
 
 6 by the works of the law', or by the hearing of faith' ? Even 
 
 as Abraham believed God', and it was accounted to him for 
 
 7 righteousness'. Know ye therefore, that they who are of 
 
 8 faith', the same are the children of Abraham'. And the 
 scripture foreseeing that God would justify the heathen 
 through faith', preached before' the gospel to Abraham', 
 
 9 saying', in thee shall all nations be blessed'. So then they' 
 
 10 who are of faith' are blessed with faithful Abraham'. For 
 as many as are of the works of the law', are under the curse: 
 for it is written', Accursed is every one that continueth not 
 in all things which are written in the book of the law' to do 
 
 11 them. But that no man is justified by the law in the sight 
 
 12 of God', is evident' ; for', The just shall live by faith'. And 
 the law' is not' of faith' : but The man that doeth them' shall 
 
 13 live' by them. Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of 
 the law', being made a curse for us' ; — for it is written', 
 
 14 Accursed is every one that hangeth on a tree' ; — That the 
 blessing of Abraham might come on the Gentiles through 
 Jesus Christ' ; that we might receive the promise of the 
 
 15 Spirit through faith'. Brethren', I speak after the manner 
 of men' ; though it is but a man's' covenant', yet if it is con- 
 
 16 firmed', no man disannulleth', or addeth to it.' Now to 
 Abraham' and his' seed' were the promises made. He saith 
 not', and to seeds', as of many', but as of one ; — And to thy' 
 
 17 seed', which is Christ'. And this I say', that the covenant' 
 that was confirmed before by God in Christ', the law' which 
 was four hundred and thirty years after', cannot disannul' 
 
 1 8 that it should make the promise' of no effect'. For if the in- 
 
848 the reader's guide. 
 
 heritance is by the law^ it is no more' by promise; but 
 God gave it to Abraham'' by promise'. 
 
 19 What purpose then serveth the law' ? It was added be- 
 cause of transgressions', till the seed should come to whom 
 the promise was made ; and it was ordained by angels' in 
 
 20 the hand of a mediator'. Now a mediator' is not a media- 
 
 21 of one ; but God 1 ' is one. Is the law then against the 
 promises of God' ? By no means' : for if there had been a 
 law given' which could give life, verily' righteousness 1 ' would 
 
 22 have been by the law'. But the scripture hath concluded 
 all under sin', that the promise by faith of Jesus Christ' 
 
 23 might be given to them that believe. But before faith' 
 came'', we were kept under the law 1 ', shut up' to the faith 
 
 24 which should afterwards be revealed'. Wherefore the law 
 was our schoolmaster' to bring us to Christ^, that we might 
 
 25 be justified by faith'. But after faith' is come, we are no 
 
 26 longer under a schoolmaster'. For ye all are children of 
 
 27 God' by faith' in Christ Jesus'. For as many of you as have 
 
 28 been baptized into Christ', have put on Christ'. There is 
 neither Jew' nor Greek', there is neither bond' nor free, 
 there is neither male nor female ; for ye are all one in 
 
 29 Christ Jesus'. And if ye are Christ's', then are ye Abra- 
 ham's' seed', and heirs' according to the promise. 
 
 LESSON CXXXI. 
 
 PROFANITY REPROVED. 
 
 How wonderful a specimen of human corruption is presented 
 in the so general profanation of the Name of God', exhibited in 
 light-minded cursing and swearing ! How perfectly at a loss is 
 Reason for a motive to originate, and explain this conduct ! 
 
 Why should the Name of the Creator' be treated with irreve- 
 rence' ? Why should not any' thing else', be uttered by man', 
 if we consider him merely as a rational' being' without recur- 
 ring at all' to his moral' and accountable character', rather than 
 language of this nature' 1 Certainly', it contributes not in the 
 least degree', to the advancement of any' purpose*" ; unless that 
 purpose is mere profaneness'. I know well that passion is often 
 
PROFANITY REPROVED. 349 
 
 pleased for the use of this language. But why should passion' 
 prompt to profaneness' ? Anger", one would suppose, would na- 
 turally vent itself in expressions of resentment againt the person" 
 who had provoked us'. But this person is always a fellow crea- 
 ture ; a man" like ourselves'. In what way', or in what de- 
 gree, is God" concerned in this matter' ? What ho s the passion 1 ', 
 what has the provocation 11 , to do with Him, his name' or his 
 character"! Why do we affront and injure him, because a crea- 
 ture 4 , infinitely unlike'' him', has affronted and injured us 1 ' ? I 
 know that custom, also, is pleaded as an extenuation'', and per- 
 haps as an explanation 1 ", of this crime'. But how came'' such a 
 custom to exist 1 "? How came any ""rational" being' ever to think 
 of profaning the name of God'? Flow came any other'' rational'' 
 being 1 " to follow him in this wickedness' ? Whence was it' that 
 so many millions of those who ought to be rational beings', have 
 followed them both/ ? What end can it have answered' ? What 
 honor'', gain'', or pleasure 1 " can it have furnished 1 " ? What taste'' 
 can it have gratified' ? What desire 4 ", what affection'', can it 
 have indulged 1 ? What end 4, can 4 " the profane person' have pro- 
 posed' to himself 1 "? 
 
 Can any explanation be given of this conduct', except that it 
 springs from love' - to wickedness itself? From a heart'' fixedly 
 opposed to its' Maker'; pleased with affronting 4, him 1 ; loving to 
 abuse 4 his character', and to malign'' his'' glorious agency'? A 
 heart 4 in which sin is gratuitous' ; by which', in juster' language 1 " 
 nothing'' is gained', much' is plainly lost'', and every 1 " thing is 
 hazarded' 1 What', beside the love'' of sinning 1 " ; what', but the 
 peculiar turpitude'' of the character 1 ", can 4 " be the source, or the 
 explanation', of this conduct' ? 
 
 Ask 4 " yourselves what' you gain ; what you expect 4 " to gain' ; 
 what 1 " you do not lose 1 ". Remember that you lose 4, your repu- 
 tation', at least' in the minds of all the wise and good', and all 
 the blessings' of their company' and friendship' ; that you sacri- 
 fice your peace 4 " of mind'; that you break down all those prin- 
 ciples on which virtue 4 " may be grafted', and with them 4 ' every 
 rational hope of eternal life ; that you are rapidly becoming 
 more and more corrupted', day' by day' ; and that with this de- 
 plorable character', you are preparing to go to the judgment. — 
 Think what it will be to swear'', and curse 4 ', to mock God 4 ", and 
 insult your Redeemer' through life; to carry your oaths and 
 curses to a dying bed' ; to enter eternity 4 ' with blasphemies in 
 
 30 
 
350 
 
 your mouths' ; and to stand before the final bar', when the last 
 sound of profaneness has scarcely died upon your tongues'. 
 
 LESSON CXXXII. 
 
 PRAISE TO GOD FOR HIS GOODNESS AND TRUTH. 
 
 Iambic. Four feet in each line. Long proper meter. 
 
 1. I'll praise my Maker with my breath' ; 
 And when my voice is lost in death' 
 
 Praise shall employ my nobler powers' ; 
 My days of praise shall ne'er be past' 
 While life, and thought, and being last', 
 
 Or immortality endures'. 
 
 2. Why should I make a man my trust' ? 
 Princes must die' and turn to dust' ; 
 
 Vain is the help of flesh and blood' ; 
 Their breath departs', their pomp and power', 
 And thoughts all vanish in an hour', 
 
 Nor can they make their promise good. 
 
 3. Happy the man whose hopes rely' 
 On Israel's God v ; he made the sky', 
 
 And earth and seas', with all their train' ; 
 His truth forever stands secure ; 
 He saves th' opprest', he feeds the poor', 
 
 And none shall find his promise vain'. 
 
 4. The Lord hath eyes to give the blind' ; 
 The Lord supports the sinking mind' ; 
 
 He sends the labouring conscience peac£; 
 He helps the stranger in distress', 
 The widow' and the fatherless', 
 
 And grants the prisoner' sweet release'. 
 
 5. He loves his saints', he knows them well^ 
 
 But turns the wicked down to hell' ; 
 
 Thy God', O Zion', ever reigns' ; 
 Let every tongue', let every age 
 
IN THAT DAY, &C. 351 
 
 In this exalted work engage' ; 
 
 Praise him' in everlasting strains'. 
 
 6. I'll praise him' while he lends me breath , 
 And when my voice is lost in death', 
 
 Praise shall employ my nobler powers' ; 
 My days of praise shall ne'er be past', 
 While life', and thought, and being last'. 
 
 Or immortality endures'. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIII. 
 
 IN THAT DAY, &C. — Zech. xiti. 1. 
 
 Trochaic. First and third lines of each stanza contain four 
 feet each. Second, fourth and sixth contain three feet each, 
 and a long syllable added ; the fifth line has but two feet. 
 
 1. See from Zion's sacred mountain' 
 
 Streams of living water flow' ; 
 God has opened there a fountain' ; 
 This supplies the plains below'. 
 
 They are blessed' 
 Who its sovereign virtues know. 
 
 2. Through ten thousand channels flowing', 
 
 Streams of mercy find their way' ; 
 Life and health and joy bestowing', 
 Making all around look gay : 
 
 O', ye nations', 
 Hail the long expected day'. 
 
 3. Gladdened by the flowing treasure, 
 
 All enriching as it goes', 
 Lo, the desert smiles with pleasure', 
 
 Buds' and blossoms' as the rose. 
 Every object' 
 Sings for joy where'er it flows. 
 
 4. Trees of life the bank adorning' 
 
 Yield their fruit to all around' ; 
 Those who eat are saved from mourning', 
 
352 the reader's guide. 
 
 Pleasure comes', and hopes abound' ; 
 
 Fair their portion', — 
 Endless life with glory' crown'd. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIV. 
 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN. 
 
 Iambic. Every third line has four fept. All the other lines 
 have three feet, each, and a short syllable added. 
 
 1. Father of earth and heaven', 
 
 Whose arm upholds creation', 
 To thee we raise the voice of praise', 
 
 And hend in adoration'. 
 We praise the power that made us', 
 
 We praise the love that blesses' ; 
 While every day that rolls away' 
 
 Thy gracious care confesses'. 
 
 2. Life is from thee', blessed Father' ; 
 
 From thee' our breathing spirits' ; 
 And thou dost give to all that live, 
 
 The bliss that each inherits'. 
 Day', night', and rolling seasons', 
 
 And all that life embraces', 
 With bliss are crowned', with joy abound', 
 
 And claim our thankful praises'. 
 
 3. Though trial and affliction' 
 
 May cast their dark shade o'er us', 
 Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow' 
 Of light' on all before us'. 
 
 o 
 
 That love has smiled from heaven' 
 
 To cheer our path of sadness', 
 And lead the way', through earth's dull day', 
 
 To realms of endless gladness'. 
 
 4. That light of love and glory' 
 
 Has shone through Christ, the Saviour', 
 The holy Guide, who lived and died' 
 
 That we might live forever' : 
 And since thy great compassion 
 
GOD S UNIVERSAL DOMINION. 353 
 
 Thus brings thy children near thee', 
 May we to praise' devote our days' 
 And love as well as fear thee. 
 
 And when Death's final summons' 
 
 From earth's dear scenes shall move us', — 
 
 From friends', from foes', from joys', from woes', 
 From all that know and love us', — 
 
 O, then', let hope attend us' ; 
 Thy peace to us be given', 
 
 That we may rise above the skies', 
 And sing thy praise in heaven' ! 
 
 LESSON CXXXV. 
 
 god's universal dominion. 
 
 Trochaic. Three feet to each line, with a syllable added. 
 
 1. Hark' ! the song of Jubilee, 
 
 Loud as mighty thunders roar', 
 Or the fulness of the sea, 
 
 When it breaks upon the shore : — 
 Hallelujah' ! for the Lord' 
 
 God omnipotent shall reign' ; 
 Hallelujah' ! let the word' 
 
 Echo round the earth and main'. 
 
 2. Hallelujah ! hark' ! the sound', 
 
 From the depth unto the skies', 
 Wakes above, beneath', around', 
 
 All creation's harmonies' : — 
 See Jehovah's banner furl'd', 
 
 Sheath'd' his sword' : he speaks', — 'tis done ; 
 And the kingdoms of this world' 
 
 Are the kingdoms of his Son. 
 
 3. He shall reign from pole to pole 
 
 With illimitable sway x : 
 He shall reign, when like a scroll', 
 Yonder heavens have pass'd away' : — 
 30* 
 
354 the reader's guide. 
 
 Then the end v ; — beneath his rod r 
 Man's last enemy shall fair ; 
 
 Hallelujah' ! Christ' in God', 
 God' in Christ' is all in all. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVI. 
 
 HYMN TO GOD. 
 
 Iambic. Epic. 
 
 Nature', attend'! join', every living soul' 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky', 
 In adoration join', and ardent raise 
 One general song' ! To Him', ye vocal gales', 
 
 5 Breathe soft', whose Spirit' in your freshness breathes' : 
 Oh ! talk of him' in solitary glooms' 
 Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine' 
 Fills the brown shade with a delicious awe ; 
 And ye', whose bolder note is heard afar', 
 
 10 Who shake the as'onish'd world', lift high to heaven' 
 Th' impetuous song', and say' from whom you rage* ; 
 His praise, ye brooks', attune, ye trembling rills', 
 And let me catch it' as I muse along'. 
 Ye headlong torrents', rapid' and profound' ; 
 
 15 Ye softer floods', that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale' ; and thou', majestic main', 
 A secret world of wonders in thyselP, 
 Sound his' stupendous praise', whose greater voice' 
 Or bids you roar', or bids your roarings fall'. 
 
 20 Soft — roll your' incense, herbs', and fruits', and flowers', 
 In mingled clouds to Him', whose sun exalts' 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
 Ye forests' bend', ye harvests' wave, to Him' ; — 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's heait', 
 
 25 As home he goes beneath the joyous moon'. 
 Ye that keep watch in heaven', as earth asleep' 
 Unconscious lies', effuse your mildest beams', 
 Ye constellations', while your angels strike, 
 Amid the spangled sky', the silver lyre ; 
 
 30 Great source of day', best image', here below', 
 
HYMN TO GOD. 355 
 
 Of thy Creator', ever pouring wide', 
 From world to world', the vital ocean round', 
 On Nature write, with every beam' his praise'. 
 The thunder rolls' : be hushed the prostrate world', 
 
 35 While eloud' to cloud' returns the solemn hymn. 
 Bleat out afresh', ye hills' ; ye mossy rocks', 
 Retain the sound' : the broad responsive lovve',* 
 Ye valleys', raise', for the great shepherd reigns', 
 And his suffering' kingdom yet will come'. 
 
 40 Ye woodlands all' awake' ; — a boundless song' 
 
 Burst' from the groves' ; and when the restless day', 
 Expiring', lays the warbling world asleep', 
 Sweetest of birds', sweet Philomela, charm' 
 The listening shades', and teach the night'' his praise". 
 
 45 Ye', chief, for whom the whole creation smiles', 
 At once the head', the heart', and tongue of all', 
 Crown' the great hymn' ! in swarming cities vast', 
 Assembled men', to the deep organ join' 
 The long-resounding voice', oft breaking clear', 
 
 50 At solemn pauses', through the swelling bass' ; 
 And', as each mingling flame increases each', 
 In one united ardor' rise to heaven'. 
 Or if you rather choose the rural' shade', 
 And find a fane in every sacred grove, — 
 
 55 There let the shepherd's flute', the virgin's lay', 
 The prompting seraph', and the poet's lyre', 
 Still sing' the God of Seasons', as they roll'. 
 For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
 Whether the blossom blow^', the summer ray' 
 
 60 Russets the plain', inspiring Autumn gleams', 
 Or Winter' rises in the blackening east', 
 Be my tongue mute, may Fancy paint' no more', 
 And', dead' to joy', forget my heart to beat' ! 
 Should Fate command me to the farthest verge 
 
 65 Of the green earth', to distant barb'rous climes', 
 Rivers' unknown' to song', where first the sun' 
 Gilds Indian' mountains', or his setting beam' 
 Flames' on the Atlantic Isles', 'tis nought' to me, 
 Since God' is ever present', ever felt', 
 
 70 In the void waste, as in the city full'. 
 
 And where he vital breathes', there must be joy'. 
 When even at last the solemn hour shall com6, 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds', 
 
 * The bleating of an ox. Lowing is commonly used for the noun. 
 
356 the reader's guide. 
 
 I cheerful will obey' ; there with new pow'rs' 
 75 Will rising wonders sing v : I cannot go 
 Where Universal Love not smiles around', 
 Sustaining all yon orbs' and all their suns' ; — 
 From seeming' evil' still educing good', 
 And better' thence again', and better' still', 
 SO In infinite progression'. But I lose 
 Myself in Him', in Light' Ineffable ; 
 Come then', expressive silence', muse His praise. 
 
 
VOCABULARY. 
 
 The following vocabulary is intended for younger classes of learners, 
 and explains the meaning of difficult words which occur in those Les- 
 sons which are designed more particularly for such persons.* In giving 
 it I have conformed more to the opinions of others, than my own. If 
 the general scope and meaning of a passage is understood, it may be 
 lead with propriety though the exact import of a single word should be 
 obscure. Asa general rule, we best learn the meaning ol language by 
 hearing it spoken, and by reading at large ascertaining the sense of 
 words by their mutual connections and dependences. 
 
 * The explanations are carried through Lesson 71. 
 
 Alleviate. To ease, lessen, lighten. 
 
 Appall. To fright so as to dishearten. 
 
 Antipathy. Opposition of feeling. 
 
 Annals. Histories of events arranged according to years. 
 
 Aristocrat. One who favors a government of nobles. 
 
 Adroit. Active, skilful, dexterous. 
 
 Aphorism. A maxim or precept in few words ; a short saying. 
 
 Anticipate. To taste, enjoy, or think of, beforehand. 
 
 Aperture. An opening. 
 
 Assailable. That maybe attacked or set upon. 
 
 Alert. Quick, nimble, brisk, ready. 
 
 Ambrosia. A plant. The fabulous food of heathen gods. 
 
 Auspice; auspices. Omen, token, patronage. 
 
 Avalanche. A slide of snow and ice from a mountain, or of earth, 
 caused by rains. 
 
 Antipode. On the opposite side of the earth. Antipodes, plural, some- 
 times denotes that which is opposite. 
 
 Apex. The top, summit. 
 
 Barrier. Boundary, limit. 
 
 Burgundy. A kind of wine named from the place where made. 
 
 Bent. A kind of grass. 
 
 Bedight, or bedighted. Decked, ornamented; but little used. 
 
 Burlesque, burlesk ; adj. Tending to excite laughter. 
 
 Burgher. Inhabitant of a borough. 
 
 Borough. A corporation. town, a company. 
 
 Barque, bark. A ship with three masts without a mizen topmast. 
 
 Basket-hilt A hilt which covers and defends the hand. 
 
 Bastion, pronounced baschun. . A mass of earth standing out from a 
 rampart, or wall. 
 
 Carnage, slaughter, great destruction of lives. 
 
 Coxcomb. A fop. 
 
 Countess. Wife of a count, or earl. Female title of nobility. 
 
 Corridor. A gallery rou d a house. 
 
 Cony. A rabbit; a small four-footed animal. 
 
358 
 
 VOCABULARY. 
 
 Con. To know. 
 Coeval. Equal in age. 
 Compunctious. Giving pain for offences. 
 Copse, copice. A wood of small growth. 
 Cadaverous. Like a dead body. 
 Cathedral. The principal church in a diocese. 
 Curmudgeon. A miser, niggard, churl. 
 
 Court. The inclosure round a house; in vulgar language, court-yard, 
 door-yard, a space inclosed by houses ; there are also other meanings. 
 Callow. Without feathers. 
 Capricious. Whimsical, freakish, inconstant. 
 Custodian. A keeper, a guardian. (A new coined word.) 
 Culinary. Belonging to a kitchen. 
 Coterie; pronounced co-te-re. A fashionable party. 
 Congregate. To assemble, to bring together. 
 Climacteric. Denoting a critical period of life. 
 Commensurate. Of equal, or befitting measure. 
 Dentist. One who cleans, sets, and extracts teeth. 
 Debauch. To seduce, to corrupt, to make morally bad. 
 Dissonance. Disagreement, jarring of sounds. 
 Donkey. A nickname for an ass. 
 Distend. To swell, to stretch in all directions. 
 Dormitory. A sleeping place. 
 Dame. A lady, a woman. 
 
 Druid. A priest and poet among the ancient Britons. 
 Ducat. A foreign coin of various values. 
 Defunct. Deceased, dead. Noun; a dead body. 
 Diploma. A deed of privilege. 
 
 Diplomatic. Pertaining to public ministers, or diplomas. 
 -Dilate. To widen, to swell, to expand. 
 Dedalion. Various, variegated, intricate. 
 Doughty. Brave, illustrious. 
 
 Equipage. Furniture; attendance, as horses, carriages, &c. 
 Extricate. To set free, to disentangle. 
 Elapse. To pass away, to go by, to escape. 
 Ether. The fluid supposed to fill space ; a light volatile fluid. 
 Ethereal. Consisting of ether, refined. 
 Ecstacy. Rapture, transport. 
 Expatiate. To rove, wander, enlarge. 
 Effluvium; plural, effluvia. An exhalation. 
 Ermine, ermin. An animal, or its fur. Dress worn by judges in Eng 
 
 land. 
 Envelopement. A wrapping, inclosing. 
 Flabby. Soft, yielding, shrivelled. 
 
 Fairy; pronounced fa-ry. An imaginary spirit, enchantress. 
 Fairy, adj. Belonging to fairies. 
 Fragrance. Sweetness of smell. 
 Frigidity. Coldness, dulness. 
 
 Forage. To go in search of provisions, properly for horses. 
 Fascinate. To charm, to enchant, to bewitch. 
 Factotum. A servant employed to do all manner of work. 
 Glazier. One who sets glass. 
 Gratis. Without pay, freely. 
 Glutton. A very great eater. 
 Gregarious. Herding, keeping in flocks. 
 Gossip; verb. To go about tattling.' 
 
VOCABULARY. 359 
 
 Gossip, noun. One that goes about and talks 
 
 Gem. A bud, a precious stone. 
 
 Glade. An opening through a wood, or in ice. 
 
 Garner, A place for putting grain. 
 
 Garnered. Placed or stowed away in a garner. 
 
 Gipsy. A strolling, stealing vagabond, or wanderer, pretending to tell 
 
 fortunes. 
 Gorgeous. Very fine or showy, glittering. 
 
 Gymnastics. The art of performing athletic exercises. {G like J.) 
 Hind. A female red deer; a rustic. 
 
 Host. One who entertains a stranger. Hostess, a female entertainer. 
 Impotent. Weak, powerless, unavailing. 
 Impotence, impotency. Weakness, feebleness, insufficiency, want of 
 
 power. 
 Immure. To inclose with walls, to confine. 
 Impregnate. To mix with, infuse, fill with. 
 Inexpressibles. Cant word for breeches, or small clothes. 
 Immunity. Peculiar privilege, charge, tax. 
 Impromptu. Off hand, without previous study. 
 Jagg. To notch — Noun, a notch — Jagged, adj. notched. 
 Knight. A title of honor; he who wears the title. 
 Knell. The sound of a bell; a funeral tolling. 
 Libertine. A dissolute man ; one given to fleshly appetites. 
 Lawn. A plain. Fine linen. 
 Lone. Lonely, forsaken. 
 
 Mustaches. (Ch as in charm.) Long hair on the upper lip. 
 Martinet. A strict disciplinarian ; (a military term.) 
 Mercurial. Formed of quicksilver ; having a warm, ardent temperament. 
 Mummery. Sport in masks, a farcical show. 
 Marshal. To arrange in due order. 
 Meager. Thin, lean, poor. 
 Matin. Used in the morning. 
 Matins. Morning worship, or service. 
 Nether. Lower, under. 
 
 Nauseous. Loathsome, disgusting, bad tasted. 
 Obsequies. Plur. Funeral solemnities. 
 Ordeal. A trial of guilt by fire or water ; a trial simply. 
 Posse ; posse. In common speech, a rabble, a multitude. 
 Potentate. One who has great power. 
 Pragmatical. Ready to intermeddle/impertinently busy. 
 Paragon. A pattern, a model of excellence. 
 Ponderous. Heavy, weighty. 
 Pyre ; pronounced pire. A funeral pile. 
 Portray. To paint, draw, describe. 
 Procrastinate. To put off, to delay. 
 Protestation. A solemn declaration. 
 Passport. Permission to pass. 
 
 Plume, verb. To put feathers in order; to adjust ; to value. 
 Propitious. Favorable, kind, merciful. 
 
 Plebeian ; phbee an. One of the common people ; one having no title. 
 Prairie; pra-re. An extensive tract of land without trees. 
 Portal. Agate, a kind of arch. 
 Pugnacious. Given to fighting. 
 Pigmy. A very little person ; adj. very small. 
 Phantom. An apparition. 
 Precinct. Boundary. 
 
360 VOCABULARY. 
 
 Pest. A plague, mischief, bane. 
 
 Pathos. Warmth or tenderness of feeling ; that which excites it 
 
 Punctilio. A nice point in conductor ceremony. 
 
 Petrel ; pet-rel. A water f wl. 
 
 Patter. To strike as drops of rain, or hail. 
 
 Panorama. A complete view, a painting. 
 
 Querulous. Habitually complaining. 
 
 Ravin, ravine. A long deep hollow. 
 
 Revolution. A turning over, an over-turning. 
 
 Remorse. Painful sense of guilt. 
 
 Remorseless. Having no remorse ; insensible to distress. 
 
 Relentless. Unmoved by pity. 
 
 Reynard. Ra-nard. A fox. 
 
 Raree-show. A show curried in a box. 
 
 Revelry. A carousing, noisy merriment. 
 
 Radiance. Brightness shouting in rays, splendor. 
 
 Recreant. Cowardly, wanting in spirit, or fidelity. 
 
 Sympathize. To feel in common with others. 
 
 Stile. A step, or set of steps, for climbing a wall or fence. 
 
 Sanguinary. Bloody, murderous, cruel. 
 
 Stimulus. That which excites, that arouses to action. 
 
 Speculative. Contemplative, given to thought, fanciful. 
 
 Snip. To cut off the end or nib, to clip. 
 
 Scath. To damage, injure. 
 
 Suffocation. A choking 
 
 Sycophant. A base flatterer. 
 
 Shrine. A case or b >x. as for relics. 
 
 Sedge. A narrow ring, a coarse grass. 
 
 Sedgy. Overrun with sedge. 
 
 Surplice. A white garment for clergymen. 
 
 Sphere. A globe, ball, orb, circuit. 
 
 Soal ; pronounced sole. A kind of fish. 
 
 Sprat. A small fish. 
 
 Sparse. Thin, rare. 
 
 Saturnine. Grave, heavy, dull. 
 
 Stolidity. Dulness of intellect, stupidity. 
 
 Topple. Used here for head, or tuft of head feathers. (New coined 
 
 word ) 
 Temporary. Continuing for a time, not long as to time. 
 Traverse. To cross, wander over. 
 Trill. To quaver, or shake ; to flow. 
 Tablet. A little table, a flat surface. 
 
 Twitter. A small intermitted noise like that of a swallow. 
 Transit. A passing over, through, or beyond. 
 Toledo. A Spanish sword manufactured at Toledo in Spain. 
 Lnetherealized. Unrefined, sluggish. 
 Vehicle. A carriage, a means of conveyance. 
 Veteran. One long exercised, or practiced ; an old soldier. 
 Vault. A continued arch, a cellar, cavern, place for the dead. 
 Viands. Meat dressed, victuals. 
 Volumned. In form of a will. 
 Veto. A forbidding ; a right to forbid. 
 Warble. To quaver notes, to sing. 
 Wicker, wickered. Made of small willows or twigs. 
 Wince. To shrink. 4^ick, flounce. 
 
 nrT 13 v. '■' 
 
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