UC-NRLF 
 
Education Library 
 
3 
 
 ci_jct**j&*-~ 
 
 NATIONAL READER; 
 
 A 
 
 
 
 SELECTION OF EXERCISES 
 
 / 
 
 IN 
 
 READING AND SPEAKING, 
 
 DESIGNED 
 
 TO FILL THE SAME PLACE 
 
 IN THE . 
 
 SCHOOLS OF THE UNITED STATES, 
 
 THAT IS HELD IN 
 
 THOSE OF GREAT BRITAIN 
 
 BY THE COMPILATIONS OF 
 * V ' 
 
 MURRAY, SCOTT, ENFIELD, MYLIUS, THOMPSON, 
 EWING, AND OTHERS. 
 
 BY JOHN PIERPONT, 
 
 COMPILER OF THE 'AMERICAN FIRST CLASS-BOOK, THE 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE NATIONAL READER, 
 
 AND THE YOUNG READER. 
 
 BOf 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
ANA/Mj, 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835, by 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 Extract from the Records of the School- Committee of Boston. 
 
 At a meeting of the School-Committee of the City of Boston, holden at 
 the Mayor and Aldermen's Room, July 2d, 1829, Voted, That "Pierpout's 
 NATIONAL READER" be introduced into the public grammar schools of 
 this city, in lieu of " Murray's English Reader," after the visitation of the 
 Schools in August. 
 
 f 
 
 Wl . fl 
 
631 
 
 . 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE favour shown by the public to the P American First Class- 
 has encouraged me to proceed to the executitm of a purpose, that I formed 
 while preparing that book for the press the compilation of a Reader, for 
 the Common Schools of the United States, which should be, \vhat no school- 
 book compiled in Great Britain is, in some degree at least, American. 
 
 It cannot, indeed, be urged as an objection to a British school-book, that 
 it is not adapted to American schools ; that it consists exclusively of the 
 productions of British authors ; that it abounds in delineations of British 
 manners, in descriptions of British scenery, in eulogies of British heroes 
 and statesmen, in selections from British history, and in pieces, of winch 
 it is the direct aim to impress the mind of the reader with a deep sense of 
 the excellence of British institutions, and of the power and glory of the 
 British empire. A book of this character is moving in its proper sphere, 
 and accomplishing the purpose of its author, when it is passing from hand 
 to hand, among the children of Great Britain, introducing them to an ac- 
 quaintance with their native land, and with those who have adorned it by 
 their genius or their virtues, and thus exciting within them a love of their 
 country, and a resolution to become its ornaments in their turn. That efiect 
 produced by the book, its author has gained his object, and has established 
 his character, and secured his reward, as a benefactor of his country in one 
 of its most valuable interests : and it derogates nothing from his merit or 
 fame, to say that his book is not well adapted to those for whose use he did 
 not intend it ; for this is but saying that he has not done what he has not 
 attempted to do. It is no disparagement to English laws, to say that they 
 will not do for us. They were not made for us. Nor is it a disparagement 
 to English school-books, to say that they are not adapted to American 
 schools. There is not one, among them all, that was designed for Ameri- 
 can schools. To the compiler of an American School -Reader, it would, no 
 doubt, be flattering, to know that his book had found such 'favour in Eng- 
 land, as to be introduced extensively into common schools there. But, 
 though this might be a little flattering to him, it would, probably, seem to 
 him not a little strange, that they had not books of their own in England, 
 better fitted to the schools, under a monarchical form of government, than 
 the compilation of a republican foreigner, which was never intended for 
 them. And would it be to the honour of English literature, or of those men 
 in England, who feel an interest in the prosperity of the state, and, con- 
 sequently, an interest in seeing the young so educated, that they may worthi- 
 ly fill its places of honour and trust, to admit, by the general introduction 
 of foreign compilations into their schools, that there is no man in England 
 able to make a good school-book, and, at the same time, willing to submit 
 to the labour of making one ? 
 
 This country has political institutions of its own; institutions which the 
 men of each successive generation must uphold. But this they cannot do, 
 unless they are early made to understand and value them. It has a history 
 of its own, of which it need not be ashamed ; fathers, and heroes, and 
 sages, of its own whose deeds and praises are worthy of being "said or 
 
 M289998 
 
17 PREFACE. 
 
 sung" by even the "mighty masters of the lay," and with whose deeds and 
 praises, by being made familiar in our childhood, we shall be not the less 
 qualified to act well our part, as citizens of a republic. Our country, both 
 physically and morally, has a character of its own. Should not something 
 of that character be learned by its children while at school 1 Its mountains, 
 and prairies, and lakes, and rivers, and cataracts, its shores and hill-tops, 
 that were early made sacred by the dangers, and sacrifices, and deaths, of 
 the devout and the daring it does seem as if these were worthy of being 
 held up, as objects of interest, to the young eyes that, from year to year, 
 are opening upon them, and worthy of being linked, with all their sacred 
 associations, to the young affections, which, sooner or later, must be bound 
 to them, or they must cease to be what they now are the inheritance and 
 abode of a free people. 
 
 It has been my object to make this book what it is called a National 
 Reader. By this I do not mean that it consists, entirely, of American pro- 
 ductions, or that the subjects of the different lessons are exclusively Ameri- 
 can. I do not under c tand that a national spirit is an exclusive spirit. The 
 language of pure moral sentiment, the out-pourings of a poetical spirit, the 
 lessons of genuine patriotism, and of a sublime and catholic religion, let 
 them have proceeded from what source they may, not a few pieces, espe- 
 cially, which have long held a place in English compilations, I have 
 adopted freely into this collection, and believe that I have enriched it by 
 them. I trust that there will be found in it not a line or a thought, that 
 shall offend the most scrupulous delicacy, or that shall give any parent 
 occasion to tremble for the morals of either a son or a daughter ; and I hope 
 that a regard for my own interest, if no higher consideration, may have 
 prevented my being unmindful of that section of the late law of this com- 
 monwealth, which provides, that no committee of a public school shall ever 
 " direct any school-books to be purchased, or used in any of the schools 
 under their superintendence, which are calculated to favour any particular 
 religiovs sect or tenet." 
 
 In regard to rules or directions for reading, the same considerations which 
 prevented my filling up any part of the " American first Class-Book" with 
 them, have induced me to introduce none of them into this collection of 
 exercises. Three things only are required to make a good reader. He 
 must read so that what he reads shall, in the first place, be heard; in the 
 second, that it shall be understood ; and, in the third, that it shall be felt. 
 If a boy has voice, and intelligence, and taste enough to do all this, then, 
 under the personal guidance and discipline of a teacher who can read well, 
 he will learn to read well ; but if he has not, he may study rules, and pore 
 over the doctrine of cadences and inflections, till "chaos come again," 
 lie will never be a good reader. 
 
 In the humble hope that this compilation may contribute something to 
 the accomplishing of the young, in this country, in the art of reading and 
 speaking well, something to the improvement of their taste, the cultiva- 
 tion of their moral sense and religious affections, and, thus, something to 
 their preparation for an honourable discharge of their duties in this life, and 
 for "glory, honour, and immortality/' in the life that is to come, I submit 
 it to the disposal of the public, and ask for it only the favour of which it 
 may be thought worthy. 
 
 Boston. June 1827. J. P. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 LESSONS IN PROSE. 
 
 The names of American authors are in small capitals. 
 Lesson- Pag. 
 
 1 . Discovery of America, abridged from Robertson. 9 
 
 2. A good Scholar May. 14 
 
 3. The good Schoolmaster Fuller. 16 
 
 4. Attention and Industry rewarded Berquin. 18 
 
 5. On Lying Chesterfield. 20 
 
 6. Portrait of a Patriarch, selected from Job, by Addison. 21 
 
 7. An uncharitable Spirit rebuked A Rabbinical Tale. 22 
 
 1 1 . Religious Contemplation of the Works of God Moodie. 26 
 
 12. Criminality of Intemperance H. WARE, Jr. 27 
 
 13. The Worm J. RUSSELL. 29 
 
 14. Debt and Credit TRENTON EMPORIUM. 31 
 
 15. The Indians of North America . .CINCINNATI NAT. REPUBLICAN. 33 
 
 16. Story and Speech of Logan JEFFERSON. 35 
 
 20. Grandeur and Interest of American Antiquities T. FLINT. 43 
 
 22. The American Indian, as he was, and as ne is . . . C. SPRAGUE. 47 
 
 23. The Grave a Place of Rest Mackenzie. 49 
 
 28. Obedience to the Commands of God rewarded Moodie. 56 
 
 29. Promises of Religion to the Young Alison. 57 
 
 30. On the Swiftness of Time Johnson. 58 
 
 33. Obidah. the Journey of a Day Id. 62 
 
 34. The Vision of Mirza . Addison. 66 
 
 37. The Widow and her Son C. Edwards. 72 
 
 38. The Little Man in Black W. IRVING. 75 
 
 93. The same, concluded IBID. 78 
 
 40. Danger of being a good Singer . . . . London Literary Chronicle. 82 
 
 45. The Voice of the Seasons Alison. 90 
 
 46. Anecdote of Richard Jackson .... London Quarterly Review. 91 
 
 47. Description of Niagara Falls Hoicison. 92 
 
 49. Cataract of Tend ANONYMOUS. 98 
 
 50. A West -Indian Landscape Malte-Brun. 101 
 
 51. Devotional Influences of Natural Scenery . Blackwood's Ed. Mag. 102 
 62. Passage of the Shenandoah through the Blue Ridge . JEFFERSON. 105 
 
 58. The Funeral of Maria Mackenzie. Ill 
 
 59. A Leaf from " The Life of a Looking-Glass" . . Miss J. Taylor. 113 
 
 64. Industry necessary to Genius V. Knox. 121 
 
 65. Story ol Matilda Goldsmith. 123 
 
 67. Early Recollections New Monthly Magazine. 126 
 
 72. Cruelty to Animals reproved Manor. 135 
 
 73. Excessive Severity in Punishments censured . . . . Goldsmith. 137 
 
 77. Religion the Basis of Society CHANNING. 142 
 
 78. Punishment of a Liar , . Bible. 143 
 
 1* 
 
Ti CONTENTS. 
 
 Lesson. Paga 
 
 79. Claims of the Jews Noel. 145 
 
 80. Happiness of Devotional Habits and Feelings . . . Wcllbeloved. 147 
 
 86. Folly of deferring Religious Duties Ibid. 156 
 
 87. Religion the best Preparation for Duty in Life NORTON. 158 
 
 88. The Young of every Rank entitled to Education . .GREENWOOD. 160 
 
 93. The Bells of St. Mary's, Limerick . . . London Literary Gazette. 163 
 
 94. Jerusalem and the surrounding Country 
 
 Letters from the East, Banks. 172 
 
 95. The same, concluded Ibid. 176 
 
 98. Mount Sirai Ibid. 180 
 
 100. Religious Education necessary GREENWOOD. 185 
 
 101. Importance of Science to a Mechanic G. B? EMERSON. 188 
 
 102. Story of Rabbi Akiba From Hurwitz's Hebrew Tales. 190 
 
 107. First Settlement of the Pilgrims in New England, abridged 
 
 and compiled from Robertson and Neal. 196 
 
 108. Extract. from an Oration delivered at Plymouth . . E. EVERETT. 200 
 
 109. Extract from the same IBID. 201 
 
 110. Claims of the Pilgrims to the Gratitude and Reverence of 
 
 their Descendants O. DEWEY. 205 
 
 114. Character of the Puritan Fathers GREENWOOD. 213 
 
 115. The same, concluded IBID. 216 
 
 116. Extract from a Speech on the American Colonies . Lord. Chatham. 219 
 
 117. Extract from a Speech on British Aggressions . PATRICK HENRY. 221 
 
 118. Account of the Battles of Lexington and Concord Botta. 223 
 
 119. The same, concluded Ibid. 227 
 
 120. Extract from an Oration delivered at Concord . . . E. EVERETT. 229 
 
 127. Account of the Battle of Bunker's Hill Botta. 242 
 
 128. The same, concluded Ibid. 246 
 
 130. Extract from an Address on Bunker's Hill . . . . D. WEBSTER. 250 
 
 131. Extract from the same *. . . . IBID. 252 
 
 134. Extract from a Speech on Dinas Island. Phillips. 257 
 
 135. Nature of True Eloquence. Extract from a Discourse in 
 
 commemoration of Adams and Jefferson . . . D. WEBSTER. 260 
 
 136. Extract from the same Discourse IBID. 261 
 
 137. Extract from the same IBID. 2G3 
 
 LESSONS IN POETRY. 
 
 8. Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm Addison. 23 
 
 9. Morning Meditations Hawkesworth. 24 
 
 10. Nature's Music " Anonypious. 25 
 
 17. Geehale. An Indian Lament NEW- YORK STATESMAN. 36 
 
 IS. Fall of Tecumseh . ... ID. 3* 
 
 19. Monument Mountain BRYANT. 3< 
 
 21. Mounds on the Western Rivers M.FLINT. 46 
 
 24. On planting Flowers on the Graves of Friends . Blackwood's Mag. 51 
 
 25. Thoughts in Prospect of Death Henry K. White. 52 
 
 26. The Grave Bernard Barton. 53 
 
 27. The Fall of the Leaf. ....... Milonov, translated by Bowring. 54 
 
 31. Lines on returning to one's Native Country Anonymous. 60 
 
 32. " He shall fly away as a Dream" Ancn. 62 
 
 35. The World we have not seen Anon. 70 
 
CONTENTS. vu 
 
 Lesson. Pag- 
 
 36. The Better Land Mrs. Hemans. 71 
 
 41. The Country Clergyman Goldsmith. 84 
 
 42. Parody on " The Country Clergyman" . . Blackwood's Ed. Mag: 86 
 
 43. Elegy'on Mrs. Mary Blaize Goldsmith. 88 
 
 44. The Sick Man and the Angel . Gay. 89 
 
 48. Niagara Falls, from the Spanish T. T. PAYNE. 96 
 
 53. The Blind Boy Bloomfeld. 106 
 
 54. A Thought on Death Mrs. Barbauld. 107 
 
 65. The Old Man's Funeral BRYANT. 107 
 
 56. Sunday Evening Bowring. 109 
 
 57. The Star of Bethlehem J. G. PERCIVAL. 110 
 
 60. The silent Expression of Nature Anonymous. 117 
 
 61. A Thought Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. 118 
 
 62. Fidelity Wordsworth. 119 
 
 63. Solitude Henri/ K. White. 121 
 
 66. The Man of Ross Pope. 125 
 
 68. On visiting a Scene of Childhood . . BlacJcwood's Ed. Magazine. 129 
 
 69. The little Graves Anonymous. 131 
 
 70. Life and Death New Monthly Magazine. 133 
 
 71. The Burial of Arnold WILLIS. 134 
 
 74. Address to Liberty Cowper. 138 
 
 75. The Hermit - * Beattie. 139 
 
 76. Hymn to the Stars Monthly Repository. 1 U 
 
 81. The Seasons Mrs. Barbauld. 1 y 
 
 82. March BRYANT. 151 
 
 S3. April LONGFELLOW. 152 
 
 84. May J. G. PERCIVAL. 153 
 
 85. The Voice of Spring Mrs. Hemans. 153 
 
 89. Childhood and Manhood. An Apologue Cr&bbe. 162 
 
 90. The Skies BRYANT. 164 
 
 91. Address to the Stars" New Monthly Magazine. 165 
 
 92. Song of the Stars . .BRYANT. 166 
 
 96. "Tliat ve, through his poverty, might be rich 3 ... W. Russell. 178 
 
 97. Elijah led by B.a vens Grahame. 179 
 
 99. The Summit of Mount Sinai Montgomery. 184 
 
 103. Alice Fe-11 Wordsicorth. 191 
 
 104. The jEolian Harp European Magazine. 193 
 
 105. Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 194 
 
 106. War unnatural and unchristian MELLEN. 195 
 
 111. Song of the Pilgrims . . , T. C. UPHAM. 210 
 
 112. Landing- of the Pilgrims Mrs. Hemans. 211 
 
 113. The Pilgrim Fathers PIERPONT. 212 
 
 121. Elegy, in a flue ' v\/yKurchyard Gray. 231 
 
 122. The Grave o >T1]n : f^j . . ." Mrs. Hemans. 235 
 
 123. God's First Temples ," * ~n .... BRYANT. 236 
 
 124. Hymn of Nature . J Q us ' PEABODY. 239 
 
 125. Lines on revisiting the Country BRYANT. 241 
 
 126. Lines on a Beehive Monthly Repository. 242 
 
 129. Warren's Address before the Battle of Bunker's Hill . PIERPONT. 250 
 
 132. Hymn, commemorative of the Battle of Bunker's Hill . . . . ID. 254 
 
 133. "What's hallowed Ground ?" Campbell. 255 
 
 138. The School-Boy Amulet. 266 
 
 139. Stanzas addressed to the Greeks Anonymous. 267 
 
 140. Spanish Patriot's Song .... Anon. 268 
 
 141. The Three Warnings Mrs. Thralc. 269 
 
 142. The Mariner's Dream Dimond. 272 
 
 143. Absalom . WILLIS. 274 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 The names of jSmerican authors are in Italic. 
 
 Lessons. 
 
 Addison 6,8,34. 
 
 Alison 29, 45. 
 
 Amulet 138. 
 
 Anonymous . . 10, 31, 32, 35, 49, 60, 
 69, 139, 140. 
 
 Banks 94, 95, 98. 
 
 Barbauld, Mrs. L 54,81. 
 
 Barton, Bernard 26. 
 
 Beattie 75. 
 
 Berquin 4. 
 
 Bible 6, 78. 
 
 Bloomfield 53. 
 
 Botta 118,119,127,128. 
 
 Bowring 27, 56. 
 
 Bryant. . 19,55,82,90,92,123,125. 
 
 Campbell 133. 
 
 Channinfr, W. E 77. 
 
 Chatham, Lord, W. Pitt . . . 116. 
 
 Chesterfield 5. 
 
 Chronicle, London Literary . . . 40. 
 
 Cowper 74. 
 
 Crabbe 89. 
 
 Dewey, Orville 110. 
 
 Dimohd 142. 
 
 Edwards, Charles 37. 
 
 Emerson, G. B 101. 
 
 Letsoni. 
 
 Knox, Vicesimus 64 
 
 Longfellow, II. W. 83. 
 
 Mackenzie 23, 58. 
 
 Magazine, New Monthly 67, 70, 91. 
 
 , Blackwood's Edin. . . 24, 
 
 42,51,61,68. 
 
 , European 104. 
 
 Malte-Brun 60. 
 
 Mavor 72. 
 
 May 
 
 Mdlen 106. 
 
 Milonov, translated by Bowring . 27. 
 
 Montgomery 99. 
 
 Moodie 11,28. 
 
 Neal and Robertson (abridged) . 107. 
 
 Noel 79. 
 
 Norton, A 87. 
 
 Payne, T. T. 48. 
 
 Peabody, W.O.B 124. 
 
 Perdval, J. G 57, 84. 
 
 Phillips 134. 
 
 Pierpont,J. 113,129,132. 
 
 Pope 66. 
 
 Rabbinical Tales 7, 102. 
 
 Repository, Monthly . 
 
 76, 126. 
 
 , and Neal (abridged) . 107. 
 
 Russell. John 13. 
 
 96. 
 
 ! r 
 
 Emporium, (Trenton) 14. Republican, Nat. (Cincinnati) . .15. 
 
 Everett, Edward . . . 108, 109, 120. j Review, London Quarterly . . .46. 
 
 Robertson, (abridged) 1, 
 
 Flint, T. 20. 
 
 ,M. 21. 
 
 Fuller 3. 
 
 Gay 44. 
 
 Gazette, London Literary .... 93. 
 
 Goldsmith 41,43,65,73. 
 
 Grahame 97. 
 
 Gray 121. 
 
 Greenwood, F. W.P. 83,100,114,115. 
 
 Hawkesworth 9. 
 
 Hemans, Mrs. F. . . 36, 85, 112, 122. 
 
 Henry, Patrick 117. 
 
 Howison 47. 
 
 Irving, Washington 
 
 .'. 38,39. 
 
 Jefferson, Thomas ...... 16,52. 
 
 Jolmson, Dr. Samuel . . , 30, 33. 
 
 "Charles 22. 
 
 Statesman, New- York . . . . 17, 18. 
 
 Taylor, Miss Jane 59, 
 
 Thrale, Mrs 141 
 
 Upham,T.C 111. 
 
 Ware,H. Jr 12. 
 
 Webster, D. . 130, 131, 135, 136, 137. 
 Wellbeloved ........ 80, 86. 
 
 White, Henry K 25.63. 
 
 Willis 71, 143. 
 
 Wolfe, Charles 105 
 
 Wordsworth 62, 103. 
 
NATIONAL READER, 
 
 LESSON I. 
 
 Discovery of America. Abridged from ROBERTSON. 
 
 ON Friday, the third day of August, in the year one thou- 
 sand four hundred and ninety-two, Columbus set sail from 
 Palos, in Spain, a little before sunrise, in presence of a vast 
 crowd of spectators, who sent up their supplications to Hea- 
 ven for the prosperous issue of the voyage ; which they 
 wished, rather than expected. 
 
 His squadron, if it merit that name, consisted of no more 
 than three small vessels, the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and 
 the Nigna, having on board ninety men, mostly sailors, 
 together with a few adventurers, who followed the fortune 
 of Columbus, and some gentlemen of the Spanish court, 
 whom the queen appointed to accompany him. 
 
 He steered directly for the Canary Islands ; from which, 
 after refitting his ships,- and supplying himself with fresh 
 provisions, he took his departure on the sixth day of Sep- 
 tember. Here the voyage of discovery may properly be 
 said to have begun ; for Colurnbus, holding his course due 
 west, left immediately the usual track of navigation, and 
 stretched into unfrequent'ed and unknown seas. 
 
 The first day, as it was very cairn, he made but little 
 way ; but, on the second, he lost sight of the Canaries ; and 
 many of the sailors, already dejected and dismayed, when 
 they contemplated the boldness of the undertaking, began to 
 beat their breasts, and to shed tears, as if they were never 
 more to behold land. Columbus comforted them with as- 
 surances of success, and the prospect of vast wealth in those 
 opulent regions, whither he was conducting them. * 
 
 This early discovery of the spirit of his followers taught 
 Columbus that he must prepare to struggle, not only with 
 
10 NATIONAL READER, 
 
 the unavoidable difficulties which might be expected from 
 the nature of his undertaking, but with such as were likely 
 to arise from the ignorance and timidity of the people under 
 his command ; and he perceived, that the art of governing 
 the mindr, of men would be no less requisite for accomplish- 
 ing the discoveries, which he had in view, than naval skill 
 und an enterprising courage. N| 
 
 Happily for himself, and fo^ the country by which he was 
 employed, he joined to the ardent temper and inventive 
 genius of a projector, virtues of another species, which are 
 rarely united with them. He possessed a thorough know- 
 ledge of -mankind, an insinuating address, a patient perse- 
 verance in executing any plan, the perfect government of 
 his own passions, and the talent of acquiring the direction 
 of those of other men. 
 
 All these qualities, which formed him for command, were 
 accompanied \vith that superior knowledge of his profession 
 which begets confidence, in times of difficulty and danger. 
 To unskilful Spanish sailors, accustomed only to coasting 
 voyages in the Mediterranean, the maritime science of 
 Columbus, the fruit of thirty years' experience, appeared 
 immense. As soon as they put to sea, he regulated every 
 thing by his sole authority; he superintended the execution 
 of every order, and, allowing himself only a few hours foi 
 sleep, he was, at all other times, upon deck. 
 
 As his course lay through seas which had not been visit- 
 ed before, the sounding line, or instruments for observation, 
 were continually in his hands. He attended to the motion 
 of the tides and currents, watched the flight of birds, the 
 appearance of fishes, of sea-weeds, and of every thing that 
 floated on the waves, and accurately noted every occurrence 
 in a journal that he kept. 
 
 By the fourteenth day of September, the fleet was above 
 two hundred leagues to the west of the Canary Isles, a 
 greater distance from land than any Spaniard had ever been 
 before that time. Here the sailors were struck with an 
 appearance no less astonishing than new. They observed 
 that the magnetic needle, in their compasses, did not point 
 exactly to the north star, but varied towards the west. 
 
 This appearance, which is now familiar, filled the com- 
 panions of Columbus with terror. They were in an ocean 
 boundless and unknown, nature itself seemed to be altered, 
 and the only guide, which they had left, was about to fail 
 them. Columbus, with no less quickness than ingenuity, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 11 
 
 invented a reason for this appearance, which, though it did 
 not satisfy himself, seemed so plausible to them, that it dis- 
 pelled their fears, and silenced their murmurs. 
 
 On the first of October, they were about seven hundred 
 and seventy leagues west of the Canaries. They had now 
 been above three weeks at sea : all their prognostics of dis- 
 covery, drawn from the flight of birds, and other circumstari- 
 ces ; had proved fallacious, and their prospect of success seem- 
 ed now to be as distant as ever. The spirit of discontent 
 and of mutiny began to manifest itself among the sailors, 
 and, by degrees, the contagion spread from ship to ship. 
 
 All agreed, that Columbus should be compelled, by force, 
 to return, while their crazy vessels were yet in a condition 
 to keep the sea; and some even proposed to throw him 
 overboard, as the most expeditious method of getting rid 
 of his remonstrances, and of securing a seasonable return to 
 their native land. 
 
 Columbus was fully sensible of his perilous situation. He 
 perceived . that it would be of no avail to have recourse to 
 any of his former expedients, to lead on the hopes of his 
 companions, and that it was impossible to rekindle any zeal 
 for the success of the expedition, among men, in whose 
 breasts fear had extinguished every generous sentiment. 
 
 He found it necessary to soothe passions, which he could 
 no longer command, and to give way to a torrent too im- 
 petuous to be checked. He accordingly promised his men, 
 that he would comply with their request, provided they 
 would accompany him, and obey his commands, for three 
 days longer ; and if, duri'ng that time, land were not dis- 
 covered, he would then abandon the enterprise, and direct 
 his course towards Spain. 
 
 Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient as they were 
 of returning to their native country, this proposition did not 
 appear to them unreasonable: nor did Columbus hazard 
 much in confining himself to a time so short; for the pres'- 
 ages of discovering land had become so numerous and pro- 
 mising, that he deemed them infallible. 
 
 For some days, the sounding line had reached the bot- 
 tom ; and the soil, which it brought up, indicated land to be 
 at no great distance. The flocks of birds increased, and 
 were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such land birds 
 as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. 
 
 The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which 
 seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of 
 timber, artificially carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna 
 
12 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 took up the branch of a tree, with red berries, perfectly fresh. 
 The clouds, around the setting sun, assumed a new appear- 
 ance ; the air was more mild and warm ; and, during night, 
 the wind became unequal and variable. 
 
 From all these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of 
 being near land, that, on the evening of the eleventh of 
 October, after public prayers for success, he ordered the 
 sails to be furled, and strict watch to be kept, lest the ship 
 should be driven ashore in the night. During this interval 
 of suspense and expectation, no man shut his eyes ; all kept 
 upon deck, gazing intently towards that quarter where thev 
 expected to discover the land, which had been so long the 
 object of their wishes. 
 
 About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on 
 the forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately 
 pointed it out to two of his people. All three saw it in 
 motion, as if it were carried from place to place. A little 
 after midnight, the joyful sound of Land! Land! was heard 
 from the Pinta. But, having been so often deceived by fal- 
 lacious appearances, they had now become slow of belief, 
 and waited, in all the anguish of uncertainty and impatience, 
 for the return of day. 
 
 As soon as morning dawned, their doubts and fears were 
 dispelled. They beheld an island about two leagues to the 
 north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, 
 and watered with many rivulets, presented to them the 
 aspect of a deJightful country. The crew of the Pinta 
 instantly began a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were 
 joined, by those of the other ships, with tears of joy, and 
 transports of congratulation. 
 
 This office of gratitude to Heaven was followed by an act 
 of justice to their commander, They threw themselves at 
 the feet of Columbus, with feelings of self-condemnation, 
 mingled with reverence. They implored him to pardon 
 their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had creat- 
 ed him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often 
 obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan ; and 
 passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one ex- 
 treme to another, they now pronounced the man, whom 
 they had so lately reviled and threatened, to be a person 
 inspired, by Heaven, with sagacity and fortitude more than 
 human, in order to accomplish a design so far beyond the 
 ideas and conceptions of all former ages. 
 
 As soon as the sun arose, all the boats were manned and 
 armed. They rowed towards the island with their colours 
 
NATIONAL READER. 13 
 
 displayed, warlike music, and other martial pomp ; and, as 
 they approached the coast, they saw it covered with a mul- 
 titude of people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had 
 drawn together, and whose attitudes and gestures expressed 
 wonder and astonishment at the strange objects which pre- 
 sented themselves to their view. 
 
 Columbus was the first European who set foot in the New 
 World which he had discovered. He landed in a rich dress, 
 and with a naked sword in his hand. His men followed, 
 and, kneeling down, they all kissed the ground which they 
 had long desired to see. 
 
 They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves 
 before it, returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage 
 to such a happy issue. They then took solemn possession 
 of the country for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all 
 the formalities with which the Portuguese were accustomed 
 to take possession of their new discoveries. 
 
 The Spaniards, while thus employed, were surrounded by 
 many of the natives, who gazed, in silent admiration, upon 
 actions which they could not comprehend, and of which 
 they did not foresee the consequences. The dress of the 
 Spaniards, the whiteness of their skins, their beards, their 
 arms, appeared strange and surprising. 
 
 The vast machines, in which they had traversed the 
 ocean, that seemed to move upon the water with wings, and 
 uttered a dreadful sound, resembling thunder, accompanied 
 with lightning and smoke, struck them with such terror, 
 that they began to respect their new guests as a superior 
 order of beings, and concluded that they were children of 
 the sun, who had descended to visit the earth. 
 
 The Europeans were hardly less amazed at the scene 
 DOW before them. Every herb, and shrub, and tree, was 
 different from those which flourished in Europe. The soil 
 seemed to be rich, but bore few marks of cultivation. The 
 climate, even to Spaniards, felt warm, though extremely 
 delightful. 
 
 The inhabitants were entirely naked: their black hair, 
 long and uncurled, floated upon their shoulders, or was 
 bound in tresses around their heads : they had no beards ; 
 their complexion was of a dusky copper colour; their fea- 
 tures singular, rather than disagreeable ; their aspect gentle 
 and timid. 
 
 ^ Though not tall, they were well shaped and active. 
 Their faces, and other parts of their body were fantasti- 
 2 
 
*4 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 cally painted with glaring colours. They were shy at first, 
 through fear, but soon became familiar with the Spaniards, 
 and, with transports of joy, received from them hawks' bells, 
 glass beads, and other baubles ; in return for which, they 
 gave such provisions as they had, and some cotton yarn, the 
 only commodity of value which they could produce. 
 
 Towards evening, Columbus returned to his ships, accom- 
 panied by many of the islanders in their boats, which they 
 called canoes; and, though rudely formed out of the trunk of 
 a single tree, they rowed them with surprising dexterity. 
 
 Thus, in the first interview between the inhabitants of the 
 Old World and those of the New, every thing was conduct- 
 ed amicably, and to their mutual satisfaction. The former, 
 enlightened and ambitious, formed already vast ideas with re- 
 spect to the advantages which they might derive from those 
 regions that began to open to their view. The latter, simple 
 and undiscerning, had no foresight of the calamities and de- 
 solation, which were now approaching their country. 
 
 LESSON II. 
 
 A good Scholar. MAY. 
 
 A GOOD scholar is known by his obedience to the rules o\" 
 the school, and to the directions of his teacher. He does 
 not give his teacher the trouble of telling him the same 
 thing over and over again ; but says or does immediately 
 whatever he is desired. His attendance at the proper time 
 of school is always punctual. Fearful of being too late, as 
 soon as the hour of meeting approaches, he hastens to the 
 school, takes his place quietly, and instantly attends to his 
 lesson. He is remarkable for his diligence and attention. 
 He reads no other book than that which he is desired to 
 read by his master. He studies no lessons but those which 
 are appointed for the day. 
 
 He takes no toys from his pocket to amuse himself or 
 others ; he has no fruit to eat, no sweetmeats to give away. 
 If any of his companions attempt to take off his eye or his 
 mind from his lesson, he does not give heed to them. If 
 they still try to make him idle, he bids them let him alone, 
 and do their own duties. And if, after this, they go on to 
 disturb and vex him, he informs the teacher, that, both for 
 
NATIONAL READER. 15 
 
 their sake and for his own, he may interfere, and, by a wise 
 reproof, prevent the continuance of such improper and hurt- 
 ful conduct. 
 
 When strangers enter the school, he does not stare rudely 
 in their faces ; but is as attentive to his lesson as if no one 
 were present but the master. If they speak to him, he 
 answers with modesty and respect. When the scholars in 
 his class are reading, spelling, or repeating any thing, he is 
 very attentive, and studies to learn by listening to them. 
 His great desire is to improve, and therefore he is never 
 idle, not even when he might be so, and yet escape detec- 
 tion and punishment. 
 
 He minds his business as well when his teacher is out of 
 sight, as when he is standing near him, or looking at him. 
 If possible, he is more diligent when his teacher happens for 
 a little to be away from him, that he may show " all good 
 fidelity" in this, as in every thing else. He is desirous of 
 adding to the knowledge he has already gained, of learning 
 something useful every day. And he is not satisfied if a 
 day passes, without making him wiser than he was before, 
 in those things which will be of real benefit to him. 
 
 When he has a difficult lesson to learn, or a hard task to 
 perform, he does not fret or murmur at it. He knows that 
 his master would not have prescribed it to him, unless he 
 had thought that he was able for it, and that it would do 
 him good. He therefore sets about it readily; and he en- 
 courages himself with such thoughts as these :. " My parents 
 will be very glad when they hear that I have learned this 
 difficult lesson, and performed this hard task. My teacher, 
 also, will be pleased with me for my diligence. And I my- 
 self shall be comfortable and happy when the exercise is 
 finished. The sooner and the more heartily I apply myself 
 to it, the sooner and the better it will be done." 
 
 When he reads, his words are pronounced so distinctly, 
 that you can easily hear and understand him. His copy 
 book is fairly written, and free from blots and scrawls. His 
 letters are clear and full, and his strokes broad and fine. 
 His figures are well made, accurately cast up, and neatly 
 put down in their regular order ; and his accounts are, in 
 general, free from mistakes. 
 
 He not only improves himself, but he rejoices in the im- 
 provement of others. He loves to hear them commended, 
 and to see them rewarded. " If I do well," he says, " I shall 
 be commended and rewarded too ; and if all did well, 
 
16 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 what a happy school would ours be ! We ourselves would 
 be much more comfortable ; and our master would have a 
 great deal less trouble and distress than he has on account 
 of the idleness and inattention, of which too many of us 
 are guilty." 
 
 His books he is careful to preserve from every thing that 
 might injure them. Having finished his lesson, he puts 
 them in their proper place, and does not leave them to be 
 tossed about, and, by that means, torn and dirtied. He never 
 forgets to pray for the blessing of God on himself, on his 
 school-fellows, and on his teacher ; for he knows that the 
 blessing of God is necessary to make his education truly use- 
 ful to him, both in this life, and in that which is to come. 
 
 And, finally, it is his constant endeavour to behave well 
 when he is out of school, as well as when he is in it. He 
 remembers that the eye of God is ever upon him, and that 
 he must at last give an account of himself to the great Judge 
 of all. And, therefore, he studies to practise, at all times, 
 the religious and moral lessons that he receives from his 
 master, or that he reads in the Bible, or that he meets with 
 in the other books that are given him to peruse ; and to 
 " walk in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord, 
 blameless." 
 
 LESSON III. 
 
 The good Schoolmaster. FULLER. 
 
 THERE is scarce any profession in the commonwealth 
 more necessary, which is so slightly performed, as that of 
 a schoolmaster : the reasons whereof I conceive to be these. 
 First, young scholars make this calling their refuge ; yea, 
 perchance, before they have taken any degree in the uni- 
 versity, commence schoolmasters in the country, as if no- 
 thing else were required to set up this profession, but only 
 a rod and a ferule. 
 
 Secondly, others, who are able, use it only as a passage to 
 better preferment, to patch the rents in their present fortune, 
 till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves to 
 some more gainful calling. 
 
 Thirdly, they are disheartened from doing their best with 
 the miserable reward which, in some places, they receive; 
 
NATIONAL READER. 17 
 
 * 
 
 being masters to the children, and slaves to their parents* 
 But see how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. 
 
 He studieth his scholars natures as carefully as they 
 their books, and ranks their dispositions into several 
 forms. And, though it may seem difficult for him, in a great 
 school, to descend to all particulars, yet experienced school- 
 masters may quickly make a grammar of boys' natures, and 
 reduce them all (saving some few exceptions) to these genera] 
 rules : 
 
 1. Those that are ingenious and industrious. The con- 
 junction of two such planets in a^ youth presa'ges much 
 good unto him. To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, 
 and a whipping a death ; yea, where his master whips him 
 once, shame whips him all the week after. Such natures 
 he useth \vith j \ gentleness. 
 
 2. Those that are ingenious and idle. These think, with 
 the hare in the fable, that, running with snails, (so they 
 count the rest of their school-fellows,) they shall come soon 
 enough to the post ; though sleeping a good while before their 
 starting. O, a good rod would finely take them napping. 
 
 3. Those that be dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger 
 they be, the more lees they have w r hen they are new. Many 
 boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and 
 such afterwards prove ihe best. Bristol diamonds are both 
 bright, and squared, and pointed, by nature, and yet are soft 
 and worthless ; whereas orient ones in India are rough and 
 rugged naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth 
 acquit themselves afterwards the jewels of the country ; and 
 therefore their dulness is at first to be borne with, if they be 
 diligent. That schoolmaster deserves to be beaten himself, 
 who beats nature in a boy for a fault. 
 
 4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. 
 Correction may reform the latter, not amend the former. 
 All the whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge 
 on that which hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth 
 over to other professions. Shipwrights and* boatmakers will 
 choose those crooked pieces of timber, which other carpen- 
 ters refuse. 
 
 He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching; not 
 leading them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces 
 his precepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the 
 nimbleness of his own soul, that his scholars may go along 
 with him. He is moderate in inflicting* even deserved cor- 
 rection. 
 
18 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 > 
 
 Many a schoolmaster seemeth to understand that school 
 ing his pupils meaneth scolding and scoring them; and 
 therefore, in bringing them forward, he useth the lash more 
 than the leading string. 
 
 Such an Orbilius^ mars more scholars than he makes, 
 The tyr'anny of such a man hath caused the tongues of 
 many to stammer, which spake plainly by nature, arid whose 
 stuttering, at first, was nothing else but fears quavering on 
 their speech at their master's presence. 
 
 LESSON IV. 
 
 Attention and Industry rewarded. JUERQULN. 
 
 A RICH husbandman had two sons, the one exactly a year 
 older than the other. The very day the second was born, 
 he set, in the entrance of his orchard, two young apple-trees, 
 of equal size, which he cultivated with the same care, and 
 which grew so equally, that no person could perceive the 
 least difference between them. 
 
 When his children were capable of handling garden, tools, 
 he took them, one fine morning in spring, to see these two 
 trees, which he had planted for them, and called after their 
 names ; and, when they had sufficiently admired their growth, 
 and the number of blossoms that covered them, he said, " My 
 dear children, I give you these trees : you see they are in 
 good condition. They will thrive as much by your care, as 
 they will decline by your negligence ; and their fruit will 
 reward you in pioporlion to your labour." 
 
 The youngest, named Edmund, was industrious and 
 attentive. He busied himself in clearing his tree of insects 
 that would hurt it, and he propped up its stem, to prevent its 
 taking a wrong bent. He loosened the earth about it, that 
 the warmth of the sun, and the moisture of the dews, might 
 cherish the roots. His mother had not tended him more 
 carefully in his infancy, than he tended his young apple- 
 tree. 
 
 His brother, Moses, did not imitate his example. He 
 spent a great deal of time on a mount that was near, throw- 
 
 * Orbilius, a grammarian of Beneventum, who was the first instructor 
 of the poet Horace. He was naturally of a severe disposition, of which his 
 pupils often felt the effects. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 19 
 
 ing stones at the passengers in the road. He went among 
 all the little dirty boys in the neighbourhood, to box witb 
 them ; so that he was often seen with broken shins and 
 black eyes, from the kicks and blows he received in his 
 quarrels. 
 
 In short, he neglected his tree so far, that he never 
 thought of it, till, one day in autumn, he, by chance, saw 
 Edmund's tree so full of apples, streaked with purple and 
 gold, that, had it not been for the props which supported its 
 branches, the weight of its fruit must have bent it to the 
 ground, 
 
 StrucK with the sight of so fine a tree, he hastened to his 
 own, hoping to find as large a crop upon it ; but, to his great 
 surprise, he saw scarcely any thing, except branches covered 
 with moss, and a few yellow, withered leaves. s Full of pas- 
 sion and jealousy, he ran to his father, and said, " Father, 
 what sort of a tree is that which you have given me ? It is 
 as dry as a broomstick ; and I shall not have ten apples on 
 it. My brother you have used better : bid him, at least, 
 share his apples with me." 
 
 " Share with you !" said his father : " so, the industrious 
 must lose his labour to feed the idle ! Be satisfied with 
 your lot ; it is the effect of your negligence ; -and do not 
 think to accuse me of injustice, when you see your brother's 
 rich crop. 
 
 " Your tree was as fruitful, and in as good order as his : 
 it bore as many blossoms, and grew in the same soil : only 
 it was not fostered with the same care. Edmund has kept 
 his tree clear of hurtful insects ; but you have suffered them 
 to eat up yours in its blossoms. 
 
 * As I do not choose to let any thing which God has given 
 me, and for which I hold myself accountable to him, go to 
 ruin, I shall take this tree from you, and call it no more by 
 your name. It must pass through your brother's hands, 
 before it can recover itself; and, from this moment, both it, 
 and the fruit it may bear, are his property. 
 
 " You may, if you will, go into my nursery, and look for 
 another, and rear it, to make amends for your fault ; but, if 
 you neglect it, that too shall be given to your brother for 
 assisting me in my labour." 
 
 Moses felt the justice of his father's sentence, and the 
 wisdom of his design. He, therefore, went that moment 
 into the nursery, and chose one of the most thriving apple- 
 trees he could find. Edmund assisted him, with his advice, 
 
20 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 in rearing it ; Moses embraced every occasion of paying 
 attention to it. 
 
 He was now never out of humour with his comrades,^ and 
 still less with himself; for he applied cheerfully to work ; 
 and, in autumn, he had the pleasure of seeing his tree fully 
 answer his hopes. Thus he had the double advantage of 
 enriching himself with a splendid crop of fruit, and, at the 
 same time, of subduing the vicious habits he had contracted. 
 
 His father was so well pleased with this change, that, the 
 following year, he divided the produce of a small orchard 
 between him and his brother. 
 
 LESSON V. 
 
 On Lying. CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 I REALLY know nothing more criminal, more mean, and 
 more ridiculous, than lying. It is the production either of 
 malice, cowardice, or vanity ; and generally misses of its 
 aim in every one of these views ; for lies are always de- 
 tected sooner or later. If I tell a malicious lie, in order to 
 affect any man's fortune or character, I may indeed injure 
 him for some time ; but I shall be sure to be the greatest 
 sufferer at last : for, as soon as I am detected, (and detected 
 I most certainly shall be,) I am blasted for the infamous 
 attempt; and whatever is said afterwards to the disadvan- 
 tage of that person, however true, passes for calumny. 
 
 If I lie, or equivocate, (for it is the same thing,) in order 
 to excuse myself for something that I have said or done, 
 and to avoid the danger or the shame that I apprehend from 
 it, I discover, at once, my fear, as well as my falsehood ; 
 and only increase, instead of avoiding, the danger and the 
 shame ; I show myself to be the lowest and meanest of 
 mankind, and am sure to be always treated as such. Fear, 
 instead of avoiding, invites danger ; for concealed cowards 
 will insult known ones. If one has had the misfortune to 
 be- in the wrong, there is something noble in frankly owning 
 it ; it is the only way of atoning for it, and the only way of 
 being forgiven. 
 
 Equivocating, evading, shuffling, in order to remove a 
 present danger or inconveniency, is something so mean, and 
 betrays so much fear, that whoever practises them always 
 
 * Pron. cum'-rades. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 21 
 
 deserves to be, and often will be, kicked. There is another 
 sort of lies, inoffensive enough in themselves, but wonder- 
 fully ridiculous : I mean those lies which a mistaken vanity 
 suggests, that defeat the very end for which they are calcu- 
 lated, and terminate in the humiliation and confusion of 
 their author, who is sure to be detected. These are chiefly 
 narrative and historical lies, all intended to do infinite ho- 
 nour to their author. 
 
 He is always the hero of his own romances ; he has been 
 in dangers, from which nobody but himself ever escaped ; he 
 has seen with his own eyes whatever other people have 
 heard or read of; and has ridden more miles post in one 
 day, ihan ever courier went in two. He is soon discovered, 
 ancl as soon becomes the object of universal contempt and 
 ridicule. 
 
 Remember, then, as long as you. live, that nothing but 
 strict truth can carry you through the world, with either 
 your conscience or your honour unwounded. It is not only 
 your duty, but your interest : as a proof of which, you may 
 always observe, that the greatest fools are the greatest liars. 
 For my own part, I judge, by every man's truth, of his 
 degree of understanding. 
 
 LESSON VI. 
 
 Portrait of a Patriarch. ADDISON. 
 
 I CANNOT forbear making an extract of several passages, 
 which I have always read with great delight, in the book of 
 Job. It is the account, which that holy man gives, of his 
 behaviour in the days of his prosperity, and, if considered 
 only as a human composition, is a finer picture of a charita- 
 ble and good-natured man than is to be met with in any 
 other author. 
 
 " Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when 
 God preserved me ; when his candle shined upon my head, 
 and when, by his light, I walked through darkness ; when 
 the Almighty was yet with me ; when my children were 
 about me ; when I washed my steps with butter, and the 
 rock poured out rivers of oil. 
 
 " When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when 
 the eye saw me. it gave witness to me ; because I delivered 
 
2 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had 
 none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to 
 perish came upon me ; and I caused the widow's heart to 
 sing for joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the 
 lame ; I was a father to the poor ; and the cause which I 
 knew not I searched out. 
 
 " Did not I weep for him that was in trouble ? Was not 
 my soul grieved for the poor ? Let me be weighed in an 
 even balance, that God may know mine integrity. If I did 
 despise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant, 
 when they contended with me, what then shall I do when 
 God riseth up ? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer 
 him ? Did not he that made me make him also ? 
 
 " If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have 
 caused the eyes of the widow to fail, or have eaten my 
 morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten there- 
 of; if I have seen any perish for want of clothing, or any 
 poor without covering ; if his loins have not blessed me, 
 and if he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep ; if 
 I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw 
 my help in the gate ; then let mine arm fall from my shoul- 
 der-blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone. 
 
 "I rejoiced not at the destruction of him that hated me, 
 nor lifted up myself when evil found him ; neither have I 
 suffered my mouth to sin, by wishing a curse to his soul. 
 The stranger did not lodge in the street ; but I opened my 
 doors to the traveller. If my land cry against me, or the 
 furrows thereof complain ; if I have eaten the fruits thereof 
 without money, or have caused the owners thereof to lose 
 their life ; let thistles grow instead of wheat, and cockles 
 instead of barley." 
 
 LESSON VII. 
 
 An uncharitable Spirit rebuked. RABBINICAL. 
 
 AND it came to pass, after these things, that Abraham sat 
 in the door of his tent, about the going down of the san. 
 And behold, a man, bent with age, came from the way of 
 the wilderness, leaning on a staff! And Abraham arose, 
 and met him, and said unto him, " Turn in, I pray thee, 
 and wash thy feet, and tarry all night ; and thou shaft arise 
 
NATIONAL READER. 23 
 
 early in the morning, and go on thy way." And the man 
 said, " Nay ; for I will abide under this tree." 
 
 But Abraham pressed him greatly : so he turned, and 
 they went into the tent: and Abraham 'baked unleavened 
 bread, and they did eat. And when Abraham saw that the 
 man blessed not God, he said unto him, " Wherefore dost 
 thou not worship the most high God, Creator of heaven and 
 earth ?" And the man answered, and said, " I do not wor- 
 ship thy God, neither do I call upon his name ; for I have 
 made to myself a god, which abideth always in my* house, 
 and pro vide th me with all things." 
 
 And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man, and he 
 arose, and fell upon him, and drove him forth, with blows, 
 into the wilderness. And God called unto Abraham, say- 
 ing, " Abraham, where is the stranger ?" And Abraham 
 answered, and said, " Lord, he would not worship thee, nei- 
 ther would he call upon thy name ; therefore have I driven 
 him out from before my face into the wilderness." 
 
 And God said, " Have I borne with him these hundred and 
 ninety and eight years, and nourished him, and clothed him, 
 notwithstanding his rebellion against me ; and couldst not 
 thou, who art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night ?" 
 
 LESSON VIII. 
 
 Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm. ADDISON. 
 
 THE spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim : 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty Hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 And nightly, to the listening earth, 
 Repeats the story of her birth ;* 
 
 *Pron. bSrth. 
 
24 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Whilst all the stars, that round her burn, 
 And all the planets, in their turn, 
 Confirm the tidings, as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round this dark terrestrial ball ! 
 What though nor real voice, nor sound. 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 For ever singing, as they shine, 
 " The Hand that made us is Divine." 
 
 LESSON IX. 
 
 Morning Meditations. H AWKE s WORTH 
 
 IN sleep's serene oblivion laid, 
 I've safely passed the silent night ; 
 
 Again 1 see the breaking shade, 
 Again behold the morning light. 
 
 New-born, I bless the waking hour ; 
 
 Once more, with awe, rejoice to be ; 
 My conscious soul resumes her power, 
 
 And soars, my guardian God, to thee. 
 
 O guide me through the various maze 
 My doubtful feet are doomed to tread ; 
 
 And spread thy shield's protecting blaze 
 Where dangers press around my head. 
 
 A deeper shade shall soon impend 
 A deeper sleep mine eyes oppress : 
 
 Yet then thy strength shall still defend ; 
 Thy goodness still delight to bless. 
 
 'That deeper shade shall break away; 
 
 That deeper sleep shall leave mine eyes 
 Thy light shall give eternal day ; 
 Thy love, the rapture of the skies. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 25 
 
 LESSON X. 
 
 Nature's Music. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 NAY, tell me not of lordly halls ! 
 
 My minstrels are the trees ; 
 The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls, 
 
 Earth's sounds my symphonies. 
 
 There's music sweeter to my soul 
 
 In the weed by the wild wind fanned, 
 In the heave of the surge, than ever stole 
 
 From mortal minstrel's hand. 
 
 There's mighty music in the roar 
 
 Of the oaks on the mountain's side, 
 When the whirlwind hursts on their foreheads hoar, 
 
 And the lightning flashes wide. 
 
 There's music in the city's hum 
 
 Heard in the noontide glare, 
 When its thousand mingling voices come 
 
 On the breast of the sultry air. 
 
 There's music in the forest stream, 
 
 As it plays through the deep ravine,^ 
 Where never summer's breath or beam 
 
 Has pierced its woodland screen. 
 
 There's music in the thundering sweep 
 
 Of the mountain waterfall, 
 As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap 
 
 From the brow of its marble wall. 
 
 There's music in the dawning morn, 
 
 Ere the lark his pinion dries 
 In the rush of the breeze through the dewy corn, 
 
 Through the garden's perfumed dyes. 
 
 There's music on the twilight cloud, 
 
 As the clanging wild swans spring ; 
 As homeward the screaming ravens crowd, 
 
 Like squadrons on the wing. 
 
 * Pron* ra-yeen'. 
 3 
 
26 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 There's music in the depth of night, 
 When the world is still and dim, 
 
 And the stars flame out in their pomp of light, 
 Like thrones of the cherubim ! 
 
 LESSON XL 
 
 Religious Contemplation of the Works of God. MOODIE. 
 
 CONTEMPLATE the great scenes of nature, and accustom 
 yourselves to connect them with the perfections of God. All 
 vast and unmeasurable objects are fitted to impress the soul 
 with awe. The mountain, which rises above the neigh- 
 bouring hills, and hides its head in the sky ; the sounding 1 , 
 unfathomed, boundless deep ; the expanse of heaven, where, 
 above, and around, no limit checks the wondering eye ; 
 these objects fill and elevate the mind they produce a 
 solemn frame of spirit, which accords with the sentiment 
 of religion. 
 
 From the contemplation of what is great and magnificent 
 in nature, the soul rises to the Author of all. We think of 
 the time which preceded the birth of the universe, when no 
 being existed but God alone. While unnumbered systems 
 arise in order before us, created by his power, arranged by 
 his wisdom, and filled with his presence, the earth, and the 
 ,^n, with all that they contain, are hardly beheld amidst the 
 immensity of his works. In the boundless subject the soul 
 is lost. " It is he who sitteth on the circle of the earth, and 
 the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers. He weigheth 
 the mountains in scales. He taketh up the isles as a very 
 little thing. Lord, what is man that thou art mindful 
 of him !" 
 
 Pause for a w r hile, ye travellers on the earth, to contem'- 
 plate the universe in which you dwell, and the glory of him 
 who created it. What a scene of wonders is here present- 
 f ed to your view ! If beheld with a religious eye, what 
 ' a temple for the worship of the Almighty ! The earth is 
 spread out before you, reposing amidst the desolation of 
 winter, or clad in the verdure of the spring : smiling m the 
 beauty of summer, or loaded with autumnal fruit; open- 
 ing, to an endless variety of beings, tlie treasures of iheir 
 
NATIONAL READER. 27 
 
 Maker's goodness, and ministering subsistence and comfort 
 to every creature that lives. 
 
 The heavens, also, declare the glory of the Lord. The 
 sun cometh forth from his chambers to scatter the shades of 
 night, inviting you to the renewal of your labours, adorning 
 the face of nature, and, as he advances to his meridian 
 brightness, cherishing every herb and every flower that 
 springe th from the bosom of the earth. Nor, when he re- 
 tires again from your view, doth he leave the Creator with- 
 out a witness. He only hides his own splendor for a while, 
 to disclose to you a more glorious scene ; to show you the 
 immensity of space filled with worlds unnumbered, that your 
 imaginations may wander, without a limit, in the vast crea- 
 tion of God. 
 
 What a field is here opened for the exercise of every 
 pious emotion ! and how irresistibly do such contemplations 
 as these 'awaken the sensibility of the soul ! Here is infinite 
 power to impress you with awe ; here is infinite wisdom to 
 fill you with admiration ; here is infinite goodness to call 
 forth your gratitude and love. The correspondence between 
 these great objects and the affections of the human heart, is 
 established by nature itself ; and they need only to be placed 
 before us, that every religious feeling may be excited. 
 
 LESSON XII. 
 
 Criminality of Intemperance. H. WARE, JR. 
 
 I DO not mean to say, that the habit of intemperance is 
 ever formed without temptation, or persisted in without 
 what may be thought an excuse. The temptation is gradual, 
 and insinuating; the habit is formed insensibly. It is an 
 established custom for men to drink while they labour. The 
 poor man is taught, absurdly, to think a glass necessary 
 for his strength ; he finds another necessary for good com- 
 panionship. He cannot go abroad without finding a lure in- 
 vitingly held out beneath the license of the law. Before he 
 is aware of -it, a certain stimulus has become necessary to 
 his constitution. If he try to amend, he is pressed by 
 this necessity, and, in a manner, compelled to maintain the 
 vice ; though he would give the world to renounce it. And 
 
28 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 where, we are asked, is the sin in all this ? Is there not 
 rather a call for compassion than for censure ? 
 
 Undoubtedly there is a call for compassion ; for deep and 
 earnest compassion. So there is in the case of every sin, 
 when we reflect on the circumstances of trial and tempta- 
 tion. The case of t^e drunkard is not, in this respect, dif- 
 ferent from that of other criminals. The man who, impel- 
 led by want, or the unprincipled habits of a bad education, 
 robs on the high way, is driven by as imperious a necessity 
 as the drunkard. The temptation is as strong, the habit is 
 as irresistible. 
 
 The sudden passion of the murderer is as irresistible as 
 the appetite of the tippler. The cherished revenge of the 
 assassin is as strong an incitement as the cherished thirst 
 of the intemperate. But who, in these cases, excuses the 
 crime because of the temptation ? Who thinks it a pallia- 
 tion of the offence, that the state of the offender's mind and 
 heart is such as necessarily to lead to it ? 
 
 Who excuses the two-fold crime of David, because of 
 the greatness of the lust by which he was drawn away and 
 enticed? Compassionate, therefore, as you please, the con- 
 dition of the miserable man who is the slave of intemperate 
 habits ; but remember that, after all, his apology is but the 
 same with that of other criminals, and quite as strong for 
 them as for him. 
 
 Indeed, may we not fairly go further, and say, that there 
 are some circumstances which bring a peculiar aggravation 
 to his guilt ? . When we consider the powerful dissuasive s 
 from this sin, is there not an aggravation in that state of 
 mind, which is not at all affected by them ? When we 
 reflect on the misery it occasions, must there not be a sin- 
 gular guilt in that deadness of mind, which allows one cool- 
 ly to produce that misery, without any malice or bad inten- 
 tion ? How thoroughly must the good affections be palsied, 
 and the moral sense destroyed, when this brutalizing enjoy- 
 ment has become more desirable to a man, than all the rich 
 pleasures which flow from home, friendship, health, and 
 reputation ! 
 
 What an enormity of sin must he have to answer for, who 
 has depraved himself so far, that, when all the felicities of a 
 rational and social being are put in the one scale, and those 
 of a beastly self-indulgence in the other, he chooses the last, 
 strips himself of decency and honour, puts out the light of 
 reason, flings off the attributes of a man, and rushes into all 
 
NATIONAL READER. 29 
 
 the wickedness of voluntary insanity, disgusting idiocy, and 
 profane beastliness disgraces his friends, beggars his fami- 
 ly, initiates his children in the dispositions and pathway of 
 hell, becomes the corrupter of youthful purity, and a public 
 teacher of debauchery with no disposition to engage in 
 good pursuits, and no power to attend to the things which 
 concern his peace, or to take one step toward the salvation 
 of his soul ! 
 
 What can be said of such a man, but that his present and 
 eternal ruin are complete ! Earth curses him, while he is 
 upon it ; and beyond it he can see no prospect but that of 
 the blackness of darkness. A drunkard cannot inherit the 
 kingdom of heaven. 
 
 I arn aware that many are ready to start back with incre- 
 dulity and displeasure, when we speak of the eternal ruin 
 of any human being : and rightly, if it be denounced by 
 human wrath with insufficient authority. But, in the pre- 
 sent case, let any considerate man reflect on the nature of 
 this vice, and consider how it deforms arid brutalizes the 
 whole man ; how it destroys the intellectual faculties ; how 
 it palsies the moral affections ; how it unfits for duty, inca- 
 pacitates for improvement, disqualifies for the pure and 
 elevated sentiments of devotion, and renders one as little 
 capable of religion as of reason ; does he not perceive that 
 it is impossible for such a man to relish the pure, intellectual, 
 spiritual joys of heaven ? and that his future prospects are, 
 therefore, fearful and dark ? 
 
 If pure affections, penitent humility, and devout habits, 
 be essential to its bliss, has he not dreadfully ruined the 
 hope of his soul ? If preparation be necessary, has he not 
 refused his happiness, by refusing to be prepared ? Does 
 not reason take up the language of scripture, and repeat, 
 with earnest conviction, A drunkard cannot inherit the king' 
 dom of God ? 
 
 LESSON XIII. 
 
 The Worm. J. RUSSELL. 
 "'Outvenoms all the worms of Nile." Shcikspeare. 
 
 WHO has not heard of the rattle-snake or copperhead ? 
 An unexpected sight of either of these reptiles will make 
 
30 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 even the lords of creation recoil : but there is a species of 
 worm, found in various parts of this state, which conveys a 
 poison of a nature so deadly, that, compared with it, even 
 the venom of the rattle-snake is harmless. To guard our 
 readers against this foe of human kind, is the object of this 
 communication. 
 
 This worm varies much in size. It is frequently an nch 
 through, but, as it is rarely seen, except when coiled, its 
 length can hardly be conjectured. It is of a dull lead colour, 
 and generally lives near a spring or small stream of water, 
 and bites the unfortunate people, who are in the habit of 
 
 fnng there to drink. The brute creation it never molests, 
 hey avoid it with the same instinct that teaches the ani- 
 mals of Peru to shun the deadly coya. 
 
 Several of these reptiles have long infested our settle- 
 ments, to the misery and destruction of many of our fellow 
 citizens. I have, therefore, had frequent opportunities of 
 being the mela *choly spectator of the effects produced by 
 the subtle poison which this worm infuses. 
 
 The symptoms of its bite are terrible. The eyes of the 
 patient become red and fiery, his tongue swells to an immo- 
 derate size, and obstructs his utterance ; and delirium, of the 
 most horrid character, quickly follows. Sometimes, in his 
 madness, he attempts the destruction of his nearest friends. 
 
 If the sufferer has a family, his weeping wife and helpless 
 infants are not unfrequently the objects of his frantic fury. 
 In a word, he exhibits, to the life, all the detestable passions 
 that rankle in the bosom of a savage ; and, such is the spell 
 in which his senses are locked, that, no sooner has the 
 unhappy patient recovered from the paroxysm of insanity, 
 occasioned by the bite, than he seeks out the destroyer, for 
 the sole purpose of being bitten again. 
 
 I have seen a good old father, his locks as white as snow, 
 his steps slow and trembling, beg in vain of his only son to 
 quit the lurking place of the worm. My b$&rt bled when 
 he turned away ; for I knew the fond hope, that his son 
 would be the " staff of his declining years," had supported 
 him through many a sorrow. 
 
 Youtbs of Missouri, would you know the name of this 
 reptile? It is called the Worm of the Still. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 81 
 
 LESSON XIV. 
 
 Debt and Credit. EMPORIUM, Trenton. 
 
 I DISLIKE the whole matter of debt and credit from my 
 heart I dislike it ; and think the man, who first invented a 
 leger, should be hung in effigy, with his invention tied to 
 his feet, that his neck might support him and his works 
 together. My reason for thus sweeping at the whole system 
 is, not that I believe it totally useless, but that I believe it 
 does more mischief than good, produces more trouble than 
 accommodation, and destroys more fortunes than it creates 
 honestly. 
 
 These opinions are not of a recent date with me : they 
 are those upon which I set out in early life, and, as I grew 
 older, I became more and more confirmed in them : not that 
 I changed my practice, while I held fast my profession, and 
 got my fingers burned at last, by trusting my name in a 
 day-book ; for I never did it, because I saw the evil effects 
 of credit around me, in every shape and form. 
 
 A visit, this morning, to my old friend, Timothy Coulter, 
 called the subject up so forcibly, that I concluded to write 
 you a line upon it. His last cow was sold this very morn- 
 ing, by the constable, for six dollars, though she cost him 
 sixteen ; and they have not left an ear of corn in his crib, 
 or a bushel of rye in his barn, much less any of his stock : 
 It was what was called the winding up of the concern ; and 
 he is now on his good behaviour ; for I heard one of his 
 creditors say, that, if he did not go on very straight, he 
 would walk him off to the county prison-ship. Thus has 
 ended Timothy's game of debt and credit. 
 
 When he first commenced farming, he was as industrious 
 and promising a young man as was to be found ; he worked 
 day and night, counted the cost, and pondered on the pur- 
 chase of every thing. For a year or two, he kept out of 
 debt, lived comfortably and happy, and made money : every 
 merchant, that knew him, was ready to make a polite bow : 
 each knew him as one of your cash men, and liked his 
 custom. The mechanic shook him by the hand, and begged 
 hie company to dinner, hoping to get a job from him; and 
 even the lawyer, in contemplation of his high character, 
 lipped his beaver as he passed him, with a sigh, as much as 
 to say, " Tim, you have more sense than half the world* * 
 hut that's no consolation to us." 
 
32 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 By some fatality, Timothy found out, however, that there 
 was such a thing as credit. He began soon to have many 
 running accounts, and seldom paid for what he got ; it soon 
 followed, that the inquiry, " Do I really want this article ?" 
 before he bought it, was neglected ; then the price was fre- 
 quently not asked ; then he began to be careless about pay- 
 day ; his accounts stood, he disputed them when rendered, 
 was sued, charged with costs, and, perhaps, slyly, with 
 interest too ; and he became a money-borrower before long ; 
 but his friends, after a lawsuit had brought them their 
 money, \vere ready to trust him again, and he was as ready- 
 to buy. The same farce was played over and over, until 
 now the end of these things has come ; and, poor fellow, he 
 is turned out upon the wide world, without a friend, save a 
 wife and six miserable babes. 
 
 I asked the constable for a sight of the execution, and he 
 shoAved it to me. It \vas issued by young 'squire Bell, and 
 I could not but recollect how different was the history of 
 this man from that of Timothy. Young Bell was a poor 
 boy, and commenced his life with nothing but health and 
 trade ; but he adopted, as a sacred maxim, " Pay as you go ;" 
 and he frequently told me, he found little difficulty in stick- 
 ing to his text. 
 
 The necessaries of life are few, and industry secures 
 them to every man : it is the elegancies of life that empty 
 the purse : the knick-knacks of fashion, the gratification of 
 pride, and the indulgence of luxury, make a man poor. To 
 guard against these, some resolution is necessary ; and the 
 resolution, once formed, is much strengthened and guarded 
 by the habit of paying for every article we buy, at the time. 
 If we do so, we shall seldom purchase what our circumstan* 
 ces will not afford. 
 
 This was exactly the manner in which Jack Bell pro- 
 ceeded. Habit, strengthened by long continuance, and 
 supported by reason, became second nature. His business 
 prospered ; his old purse became filled with Spanish dollars ; 
 all his purchases, being made for cash, were favourable ; and, 
 by always knowing how he stood with the world, he avoided 
 all derangement in his affairs. He is now the 'squire of a 
 little village, with a good property, a profitable business, and 
 the respect of all who know him. 
 
 Young reader, who hast not entered on the stage of busi- 
 ness, when you come forward in the world, go and do like- 
 .wjse, and you shall have like reward. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 33 
 
 LESSON XV. 
 
 The Indians. NATIONAL REPUBLICAN, Cincinnati. 
 
 THERE are many traits of the Indian character highly 
 interesting to the philosopher and Christian. Their uncon- 
 querable attachment to their pristine modes and habits of 
 life, which counteracts every effort towards civilization, fur- 
 nishes to the philosopher a problem too profound for solution. 
 Their simple and unadorned religion, the same in all ages, 
 and free from the disguise of hypocrisy, which they nave 
 received, by tradition, from their ancestors, leads the mind 
 to a conclusion, that they possess an unwritten revelation 
 from God, intended for their benefit, which ought to induce 
 us to pause before we undertake to convert them to a more 
 refined and less explicit faith. 
 
 The religion of the Indian appears to be fitted for that 
 state and condition, in which his Maker has been pleased to 
 place him. He believes in one Supreme Being with all 
 the mighty attributes which we ascribe to God whom he 
 denominates the Great and Good Spirit, and worships in a 
 devout manner, and from whom he invokes blessings on 
 himself and friends, and curses on his enemies. 
 
 Our Maker has left none of his intelligent creatures with- 
 out a witness of himself. Long before the human mind is 
 capable of a course of metaphysical reasoning upon the 
 connexion which exists between cause and effect, a sense of 
 Deity is inscribed upon it. It is a revelation which the 
 Deity has made of himself to man, and which becomes 
 more clear and intelligible, according to the manner and 
 degree in which it is improved. In the Indian, whose mind 
 has never been illumined by the light of science, it appears 
 weak and obscure. 
 
 Those moral and political improvements, which are the 
 pride and boast of man in polished society, and which result 
 from mental accomplishments, the savage views with a jea- 
 lous sense of conscious inferiority. Neither his reason, nor 
 his invention, appears to have been exercised for the high 
 and noble purposes of human excellence ; and, while he 
 pertinaciously adheres to traditional prejudices and passions, 
 he improves upon those ideas only, which he has received 
 through the senses. 
 
 Unaided by any other light than that which he has re- 
 
34 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 ceived from the Father of lights, the Indian penetrates the 
 dark curtain, which separates time and eternity, and believes 
 in the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection of the 
 body, not only of all mankind, but of all animated nature, 
 and a state of future existence, of endless duration. It is, 
 therefore, their general custom to bury, with the dead, their 
 bows, arrows, and spears, that they may be prepared to com- 
 mence their course in another state. 
 
 Man is seldom degraded so low, but that he hopes, and 
 believes, that death will not prove the extinction of his being. 
 Is this a sentiment resulting from our fears or our passions ? 
 Or, rather, is it riot the inspiration of the Almighty, which 
 gives us this understanding, and which has been imparted to 
 all the children of men ? A firm belief in the immortality 
 of the soul, with a devout sense of the general superintending 
 power, essentially supreme, constitutes the fundamental arti- 
 cle of the Indian's faith. 
 
 His reason, though never employed in high intellectual 
 attainments and exertions, is less corrupted and perverted 
 while he roams in his native forests than in an unrestricted 
 intercourse with civilized man. ^ ^ ^ He beholds, in 
 the rising sun, the manifestation of divine goodness, and 
 pursues the chase with a fearless and unshaken confidence 
 in the protection of that great and good Spirit, whose watch- 
 ful care is over all his works. 
 
 Let us not, then, attribute his views of an omniscient and 
 omnipresent Being to the effect of a sullen pride of inde- 
 pendence, and his moral sense of right and wrong to a heart- 
 less insensibility. Deprived, by the peculiarities of his 
 situation, of those offices of kindness and tenderness, which 
 soften the heart, and sweeten the intercourse of life, in a 
 civilized state, we should consider him a being doomed to 
 suffer the evils of the strongest and most vigorous passions, 
 without the consolation of those divine and human virtues, 
 which dissipate our cares, and alleviate our sorrows. 
 
 It is now two hundred years since attempts have been 
 made, and unceasingly persevered in, by the pious and 
 benevolent, to civilize, and Christianize, the North American 
 savage, until millions of those unfortunate beings, including 
 many entire tribes, have become extinct. The few, who 
 remain within the precincts of civilized society, stand as 
 human monuments of Gothic grandeur, fearful and tremu- 
 lous amidst the revolutions of time. 
 
 Neither the pride of rank, the allurements of honours, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 35 
 
 nor the hopes of distinction, can afford to the Indian a ray 
 of comfort, or the prospect of better days. He contemplates 
 the past as the returnless seasons of happiness and joy, and 
 rushes to the wilderness as a refuge from the blandishments 
 of art, and the pomp and show of polished society, to seek, 
 in his native solitudes, the cheerless gloom of ruin and 
 desolation. 
 
 LESSON XVI. 
 
 Story and Speech of Logan. JEFFERSON. 
 
 THE principles of society, among the American Indians, 
 forbidding all compulsion, they are to be led to duty, and to 
 enterprise, by personal influence and persuasion. Hence, 
 eloquence in council, bravery and address in war, become the 
 foundations of all consequence with them. To these ac- 
 quirements all their faculties are directed. Of their bravery 
 and address in war, we have multiplied proofs, because we 
 have been the subjects on which they were exercised. 
 
 Of their eminence in oratory, we have fewer examples, 
 because it is displayed, chiefly, in their own councils. 
 Some, however, we have of very superior lustre. I may 
 challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes and Cicero 
 and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has furnish- 
 ed more eminent, to produce a single passage, superior to 
 the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunmore, when 
 governor of Virginia. And, as a testimony of their talents 
 in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, first stating the inci- 
 . dents necessary for understanding it. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was committed 
 by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the rivel 
 Ohio. The whites, in that quarter, according to their cus- 
 tom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary way. 
 Captain Michael Cresap, and a certain Daniel Greathouse, 
 leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, travel- 
 ling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their women 
 and children with them, and murdered many. Among 
 these were, unfortunately, the family of Logan, a chief, 
 celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished as the 
 friend of the whites. 
 
M NATIONAL READER. 
 
 This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He ac- 
 cordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In 
 the autumn of the same year, a decisive battle was fought at 
 the mouth of the Great Kenhaway, between the collected 
 forces of the Shawanese, Mingoes, and Delawares, and a 
 detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians were de- 
 feated, and sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to 
 be seen among the suppliants. But, lest the sincerity of a 
 treaty should be distrusted, from which so distinguished a 
 chief absented himself, he sent, by a messenger, the follow- 
 ing speech, to be delivered to lord Dunmore. 
 
 " I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered 
 Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat : if ever 
 he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During 
 the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained 
 idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love 
 for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, 
 and said, 'Logan is the friend of white men.' I had 
 even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of 
 one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, 
 and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not 
 even sparing my women and children. There runs not a 
 drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This 
 called on me for revenge. I have sought it : I have killed 
 many : I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my coun- 
 try, I rejoice at the beams of peace : but do not harbour a 
 thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. 
 He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there 
 to mourn for Logan ? Not one." 
 
 LESSON XVII. 
 
 Geehale An Indian Lament. STATESMAN, JY. York. 
 
 THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 
 As sweetly and gaily as ever before ; 
 For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, 
 And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. 
 The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, 
 And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light, 
 As it ever reflected, or ever expressed, 
 When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best 
 
NATIONAL READER. 37 
 
 The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, 
 
 Ketire to their dens on the gleaming of light, 
 
 And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, 
 
 For they know that their mates are expecting them back. 
 
 Each bird, and each beast, it is blest in degree : 
 
 All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. 
 
 I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; 
 f will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; 
 I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, 
 And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; 
 I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, 
 For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead ; 
 But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay ; 
 The steel of the white man hath swept them away. 
 
 This snake-skin, that once T so sacredly wore, 
 I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore ; 
 Its charms I no longer obey, or invoke ; 
 Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
 I will raise up my voice to the source of the light; 
 I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night ; 
 I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, 
 And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ; 
 And will take a new Manito such as shall seem 
 To be kind and propitious in every dream. 
 
 Oh ! then I shall banish these cankering sighs, 
 And tears shall no longer gu.sh salt from my eyes ; 
 I shall wash from my face every cloud-coloured stain, 
 Red red shall, alone, on my visage remain ! 
 I will dig up rny hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 
 By night, and by day, I will follow the foe ; 
 Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows ;-- 
 His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose. 
 
 They came to my cabin, when heaven was black : 
 I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; 
 But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, 
 They were people engendered beyond the big seas : 
 My wife, and my children, oh spare me the tale! 
 For ^ho is there left that is kin to GEEHALE ! 
 
38 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XVIII. 
 
 Fall of Tecumseh. STATESMAN, IV. York. 
 
 WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, 
 To the war-blast indignantly tramping ? 
 
 Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, 
 The steel bit impatiently champing. 
 
 'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, 
 
 Conducting the free and the fearless. 
 Ah ! see them rush forward, with wild disdain, 
 
 Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. 
 
 From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, 
 
 Announcing that chivalrous'-^ sally ; 
 The savage was heard, with untrernbling breath, 
 
 To pour his response from the valley. 
 
 One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, 
 
 And nought but the war-whoop given ; 
 The next and the sky seemed convulsively stirred 
 
 As if by the lightning riven. 
 
 
 The din of the steed, and the sabred strode, 
 
 The blood-stifled gasp of the dying. 
 Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, 
 
 That upward went wildly flying. 
 
 In the mist that hung over the field of blood, 
 The chief of the horsemen contended ; 
 
 His rowels were bathed in the purple flood, 
 That fast from his charger descended. 
 
 That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight, 
 But the rider repressed riot his daring, 
 
 Till met by a savage, whose rank, and might, 
 Were shown by the plume he was wearing. 
 
 The moment was fearful ; a mightier foe 
 Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him ; 
 
 But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, 
 And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. 
 * c/i as in church. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 39 
 
 O ne'er may the nations again be cursed 
 
 With conflict so dark and appalling ! 
 Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst 
 
 From their agonized bosoms in falling. 
 
 Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot, 
 Where the hopes of the red man perished ; 
 
 But the fame of the hero who fell shall not, 
 By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. 
 
 He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, 
 
 With a spirit most loving and loyal, 
 And long shall the Indian warrior sing 
 
 The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal. 
 
 The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, 
 
 In his arm slept the force of the thunder, 
 But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by, 
 
 And left the freed captive to wonder.^ 
 
 Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, 
 
 With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him; 
 And the bright-bosomed Tham.es, in its majesty, sweeps 
 
 By the mound where his followers bore him. 
 
 LESSON XIX. 
 
 Monument Mountain. B R YANT. 
 
 THOU, who would'st see the lovely and the wild 
 Mingled, in harmony, on Nature's face, 
 Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
 Fail not with weariness, for, on their fops, 
 The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
 Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
 The steep arid toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st, 
 The haunts of men below thee, and. above, 
 The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 
 Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world, 
 
 * This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "king of the 
 woods*' was no less distinguished for Ins acts of humanity than heroism. 
 He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15. 
 
40 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 To which thou art translated, and partake 
 
 The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look 
 
 Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 
 
 And down into the secrets of the glens 
 
 And streams, that, with their bordering thickets, strive 
 
 To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once v 
 
 Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, 
 
 And swarming roads ; and, there, on solitudes, 
 
 That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 
 
 And eagle's shriek There is a precipice, 
 
 That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, 
 
 Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, 
 
 To separate its nations, and thrown down 
 
 When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path 
 
 Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 
 
 Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 
 
 With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 
 
 And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 
 
 Sheer to the vale, go down the bare old cliffs, 
 
 Huge pillars, that, in middle heaven, upbear 
 
 Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 
 
 With the thick moss of centuries, and there 
 
 Of chalky whiteness, where the thunderbolt 
 
 Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 
 
 To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 
 
 Where storm and lightning, from that huge g?ay wall, 
 
 Have tumbled down vast blocks, and, at the base, 
 
 Dashed them in fragments ; and to lay thine ear 
 
 Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 
 
 Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 
 
 Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 
 
 Is lovely round. A beautiful river there 
 
 Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 
 
 The paradise he made unto himself, 
 
 Mining the soil for ages. On each side 
 
 The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 
 
 Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 
 
 The mighty columns with which earth props heaven. 
 
 There is a tale about these gray old rocks, 
 A sad tradition of unhappy love 
 Arid sorrows borne .and. -ended, long ago, 
 When, over these fair vales, the savage sought 
 His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 41 
 
 The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 
 
 With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 
 
 And a gay heart. About her cabin door 
 
 The wide old woods resounded with her song 
 
 And fairy laughter all the summer day. 
 
 She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 
 
 By the morality of those stern tribes, 
 
 Unlawful, and she struggled hard and long 
 
 Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 
 
 As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 
 
 Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 
 
 Its lightness, and the gray old men, that passed 
 
 Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 
 
 The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 
 
 Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 
 
 Upon the Winter of their age. She went 
 
 To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 
 
 When all the merry girls were met to dance, 
 
 And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 
 
 Nor when they gathered, from the rustling husk, 
 
 The shining ear ; nor w^hen, by the river side, 
 
 They pulled the grape, and startled the wild shades 
 
 With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 
 Would whisper to each other, as they saw 
 
 Her wasting form, and say, The girl will die. 
 Onetlay, into the bosom of a friend, 
 
 A playmate of her young and innocent years, 
 
 She poured her griefs. " Thou know'st, and thou alone, 
 
 She said, " for I have told thee, all my love, 
 
 And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 
 
 All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
 
 Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, 
 
 That has no business on the earth. I hate 
 
 The pastimes, and the pleasant toils, that once 
 
 I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends 
 
 Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 
 
 In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, 
 
 Calls me, and chides me. All that look on me 
 
 Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
 
 Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out 
 
 The love that wrings it so, and I must die." 
 It was a summer morning, and they went 
 
 To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
 
 Lay garlands, ears of maize, and skins of woif 
 4* 
 
42 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 And shaggy bear, the offerings of the tribe 
 
 Here made to the Great Spirit ; for they deemed, 
 
 Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 
 
 Doth walk on the high places, and affect 
 
 The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on 
 
 The ornaments, with which the father loved 
 
 To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, 
 
 And bade^ her wear when stranger warriors came 
 
 To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down. 
 
 And sung, all day, old songs of love and death, 
 
 And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, 
 
 And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 
 
 To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 
 
 Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
 
 Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 
 
 Below her ; waters, resting in the embrace 
 
 Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades, 
 
 Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 
 
 She gazed upon it long, and, at the sight 
 
 Of her own village, peeping through the trees, 
 
 And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 
 
 Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 
 
 And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 
 
 Ran from her eyes. But, when the sun grew low, 
 
 And the hill-shadows long, she threw herself 
 
 From the steep rock, and perished. There was scooped, 
 
 Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ; 
 
 And there they laid her, in the very garb 
 
 With which the maiden decked herself for death, 
 
 With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 
 
 And, o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe 
 
 Built up a simple monument, a cone 
 
 Of small loose stones. Thenceforward, all who passed, 
 
 Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone, 
 
 In silence, on the pile. It stands there yet. 
 
 And Indians, from the distant west, that come 
 
 To visit where their fathers' bones are laid, 
 
 Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and, to this day, 
 
 The mountain, where the hapless maiden died, 
 
 Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 
 
 * Prcn. bad. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 43 
 
 LESSON XX. 
 
 Grandeur and moral interest of American Antiquities. 
 T. FLINT. 
 
 You will expect me to say something of the lonely records 
 of the former races that inhabited this country. That there 
 has, formerly, been a much more numerous population than 
 exists here at present, I am fully impressed, from the result 
 of my own personal observations. From the highest points 
 of the Ohio, to where I am now writing,^ and far up the 
 upper Mississippi and Missouri, the more the country is 
 explored and peopled, and the more its surface is penetrated, 
 not only are there more mounds brought to view, but more 
 incontestable marks of a numerous population. 
 
 Wells, artificially walled, different structures of conve- 
 nience or defence, have been found in such numbers, as no 
 longer to excite curiosity. Ornaments of silver and of cop- 
 per, pottery, of which I have seen numberless specimens on 
 all these waters, not to mention the mounds themselves, 
 and the still more tangible evidence of human bodies found 
 in a state of preservation, and of sepulchres full of bones, 
 are unquestionable demonstrations, that this country was 
 once possessed of a numerous population. ^ ^ * The 
 mounds themselves, though of earth, are not those rude and 
 shapeless heaps, that they have been commonly represented 
 to be. I have seen, for instance, in different parts of the 
 Atlantic country, the breast-works and other defences of earth, 
 that were thrown up by our people during the war of the 
 revolution. None of those monuments date back more than 
 fifty years. These mounds must date back to remote depths 
 in the olden time. 
 
 From the ages of the trees on them, and from other data, 
 we can trace them back six hundred years, leaving it entirely 
 to the imagination to descend farther into the depths of time 
 beyond. And yet, after the rains, the washing, and the 
 crumbling of so many ages, many of them are still twenty- 
 five feet high. All of them are, incomparably, more con- 
 spicuous monuments than the works which I just noticed. 
 Some of them are spread over an extent of acres. I have 
 seen, great and small, I should suppose, a hundred. Though 
 
 * St. Charles, on the Missouri. 
 
44 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 diverse, in position and form, they all have an uniform cha- 
 racter. 
 
 They are, for the most part, in rich soils, and in conspicu- 
 ous situations. Those on the Ohio are covered with very 
 large trees. But in the prairie regions, where I have seen 
 the greatest numbers, they are covered with tall grass, and 
 generally near benches, which indicate the former courses 
 of the rivers, in the finest situations for present culture ; and 
 the greatest population clearly has been in those very posi- 
 tions, where the most dense future population will be. ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The English, when they sneer at our country, speak of it 
 as stenl m moral interest. " It has," say they, " no monu- 
 ments, no ruins, none of the massive remains of former ages ; 
 no castles, no mouldering abbeys, no baronial towers and 
 dungeons ; nothing to connect the imagination and the heart 
 with the past ; no recollections of former ages, to associate 
 the past with the future." 
 
 But I have been attempting sketches of the largest and 
 most fertile valley in the world, larger, in fact, than half of 
 Europe, all its remotest points being brought into proximity 
 by a stream, which runs the length of that continent, and to 
 which all but two or three of the rivers of Europe are but 
 rivulets. Its forests make a respectable figure, even placed 
 beside Blenheim park. 
 
 We have lakes which could find a place for the Cumber- 
 land lakes in the hollow of one of their islands. We have 
 prairies, which have struck me as among the sublimest pros- 
 pects in nature. There we see the sun rising over a bound- 
 less plain, where the blue of the heavens, in all directions, 
 touches and mingles with the verdure of the flowers. It is, 
 to me, a view far more glorious than that on which the sun 
 rises over a barren and angry waste of sea. The one is soft, 
 cheerful, associated with life, and requires an easier effort of 
 the imagination to travel beyond the eye. The other is 
 grand, but dreary, desolate, and always ready to destroy. 
 
 In the most pleasing positions of these prairies, we have 
 our Indian mounds, which proudly rise above the plain. 
 At first the eye mistakes them for hills ; but, when it catches 
 the regularity of their breast-works and ditches, it discovers, 
 at once, that they are the labours of art and of men. 
 
 When the evidence of the senses convinces us that human 
 bones moulder in these masses ; when you dig about them, 
 and bring to light their domestic utensils ; and are compelled 
 to believe, that the busy tide of life once flowed, here : 
 
NATIONAL READER. 45 
 
 when you see, at once, that these races were of a very 
 different character from the present generation, you begin 
 to inquire if any tradition, if any, the faintest, records can 
 throw any light upon these habitations of men of another 
 age. 
 
 Is there no scope, beside these mounds, for imagination, 
 and for contemplation of the past ? The men, their joys, 
 their sorrows, their bones, are all buried together. But the 
 grand features of nature remain. There is the beautiful 
 prairie, over which they " strutted through life's poor play." 
 The forests, the hills, the mounds, lift their heads in unal- 
 terable repose, and furnish the same sources of contemplation 
 to us, that they did to those generations that have passed 
 away. 
 
 It is true, we have little reason to suppose, that they were 
 the guilty dens of petty tyrants, who let loose their half 
 savage vassals to burn, plunder, enslave, and despoil an 
 adjoining den. There are no remains of the vast and use- 
 less monasteries, whore ignorant and lazy monks dreamed 
 over their lusts, or meditated their vile plans of acquisition 
 and imposture. 
 
 Here must have been a race of men, on these charming 
 plains, that had every call from the scenes that surrounded 
 them, to contented existence and tranquil meditation. Un- 
 fortunate, as men view the thing, they must have been. 
 Innocent and peaceful they probably were ; for, had they 
 been reared amidst wars and quarrels, like the present 
 Indians, they would, doubtless, have maintained their ground, 
 and their posterity would have remained to this day. Be- 
 side them moulder the huge bones of their contemporary 
 beasts, which must have been of thrice the size of the 
 elephant. 
 
 I cannot judge of the recollections excited by castles and 
 towers that I have not seen. But I have seen all of gran- 
 deur, which our cities can display. I have seen, too, these 
 lonely tombs of the desert, seen them rise from these 
 boundless and unpeopled plains. My imagination and my 
 heart have been full of the past. The nothingness of the 
 brief dream of human life has forced itself upon my mind. 
 The unknown race, to which these bones belonged, had, I 
 doubt not, as many projects of ambition, and hoped, as san- 
 guinely, to have their names survive, as the great ones of 
 the present day. 
 
46 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XXI. 
 
 On the Barrows, or Moniwncntcd Mounds, in the prairies of 
 the Western Rivers. M. FLINT. 
 
 THE sun's last rays were fading from the west, 
 The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain, 
 
 The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest, 
 And all was silence, save the mournful strain 
 With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain, 
 
 Her absent lover to her lonely nest. 
 
 Now, one by one, emerging to the sight, 
 
 The brighter stars assumed their seats on high , 
 
 The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, 
 As the last twilight fled along the sky, 
 And all her train, in cloudless majesty, 
 
 Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night. 
 
 I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, 
 And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene ; 
 
 From the dark summit of an Indian mound 
 I saw the plain, outspread in living green ; 
 Its fringe of cliffs was, in the distance, seen, 
 
 And the dark line of forests sweeping round. 
 
 I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose ; 
 
 Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay ; 
 There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes, 
 
 There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay ; 
 
 And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day, 
 Forgot their wars, and found a long repose. 
 
 Ye mouldering relics of departed years, 
 
 Your names have perished ; not a trace remains, 
 
 Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears 
 From the green bosom of your native plains. 
 Say, do your spirits wear oblivion's chains ? 
 
 Did death forever quench your hopes and fears ? 
 
 Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss, 
 Which simple nature to your bosoms gave, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 47 
 
 Find other worlds with fairer skies, than this, 
 Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave, 
 In whose bright climes the virtuous* 5 and the brave 
 
 Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ? 
 
 Where the great hunter still pursues the chase, 
 And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the deer; 
 
 Or where he finds each long-extinguished race, 
 And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear 
 The giant form which lies imbedded here, 
 
 Of other years the sole remaining trace. 
 
 Or, it may be, that still ye linger near 
 
 The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride ; 
 
 And, could your forms to mortal eye appear, 
 Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside, 
 Then might I see your restless shadows glide, 
 
 With watchful care, around these relics dear. 
 
 If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet 
 
 Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. 
 
 I would not thus profane their lone retreat, 
 
 Nor trample where fhe sleeping warrior's head 
 Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed, 
 
 Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. 
 
 Farewell ! and may you still, in peace, repose ; 
 Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom, 
 
 And softly wave to every breeze that blows, 
 Casting their fragrance, on each lonely tomb, 
 In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, 
 
 And mingle with the clay from which they rose. 
 
 LESSON XXII. 
 The American Indian, as he ivas, and as he is. C. 
 
 NOT many generations ago, where you now sit, circled 
 with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank 
 thistle nodded in the wind", and the wild fox dug his hole 
 
 * Pron. ver'-tshu-ous. 
 
48 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. 
 Beneath the same sun that roils over your heads, the Indian 
 hunter pursued the panting deer : gazing on the same moon 
 that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. 
 
 Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and help- 
 less, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. Now 
 they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now 
 they paddled the light canoe^ along your rocky shores. 
 Here they warred ; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, 
 the defying death-song, all were here ; and, when the tiger 
 strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace. 
 
 Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark bo- 
 som went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had 
 not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had 
 traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child 
 of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of 
 the universe he acknowledged in every thing around. 
 
 He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind his 
 lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from 
 his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped in the morn- 
 ing breeze ; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirl- 
 winds ; in the timid warbler, that never left its native grove ; 
 in the fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in 
 clouds ; in the worm that crawled at his foot ; and in his 
 own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to 
 whose mysterious Source he bent, in humble, though blind 
 adoration. 
 
 And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a 
 pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
 former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in the path 
 of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed 
 the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, from 
 its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bow- 
 ers of nature, and the anointed children of education have 
 'been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 
 
 Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but hew unlike 
 r np ; r Vir.i'V untamed, untameable progenitors! The Indian, 
 glance, and lion bearing, the theme of the touch- 
 ing ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his 
 degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in 
 majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot 
 of the conqueror is on his neck. 
 
 * Pron . ca -noo'. t Pron. fawMm. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 49 
 
 As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
 arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins 
 are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out 
 on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrod- 
 den west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant moun- 
 tains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are 
 shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them 
 away ; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which 
 will settle over them forever. 
 
 Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by 
 some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their 
 disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person 
 they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chro- 
 nicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their 
 rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy 
 fate as a people. 
 
 LESSON XXIII. 
 
 The Grare a place of rest. MACKENZIE. 
 
 THE grave is a place where the weary are at rest. How 
 soothing is this sentiment, " The weary are at rest !" There 
 is something in the expression which affects the heart with 
 uncommon sensations, and produces a species of delight, 
 where tranquillity is the principal ingredient. The senti- 
 ment itself is extensive, and .implies many particulars : it 
 implies, not only that we are' delivered from the troubling of 
 the wicked, as in the former clause, but from every trouble 
 and every pain, to which life is subjected. 
 
 Those, only, who have themselves been tried in affliction, 
 can feel the full force of this expression. Others may be 
 pleased with the sentiment, and affected by sympathy. The 
 distressed are, at once, pleased and comforted. To be de- 
 livered from trouble to be relieved from power to see op- 
 pression humbled'^ to be freed from care and pain, from 
 sickness and distress to lie down as in a bed of security, 
 in a long oblivion of our woes to sleep, in peace, without 
 the fear of interruption how pleasing is the prospect ! how 
 full of consolation i 
 
 * Pron. um'-bPd. 
 
50 NATIONAL READER 
 
 The ocean may roll its waves, the warring winds may 
 join their forces, the thunders may shake the skies,^ and 
 the lightnings pass, swiftly, from cloud to clond : but not 
 the forces of the elements, combined, not the sounds of 
 thunders, nor of many seas, though they were united into 
 one peal, and directed to one point, can shake the security 
 of the tomb. 
 
 The dead hear nothing! of the tumult ; they sleep sound- 
 ly ; they rest from their calamities upon beds of peace. Con- 
 ducted to silent mansions, they cannot be troubled 'by the 
 rudest assaults, nor awakened by the loudest clamour. The 
 unfortunate, the oppressed, the broken-hearted, with those 
 that have languished on beds of sickness, rest here together: 
 they have forgot their distresses ; every sorrow is hushed, 
 and every pang extinguished. 
 
 Hence, in all nations, a set of names have arisen to con- 
 vey the idea of death, congenial with these sentiments, and 
 all of them expressive of supreme felicity and consolation 
 How does the human mind, pressed by real or imaginec 
 calamities, delight to dwell upon that awful event whicl 
 leads to deliverance, and to describe and solicit it with the 
 fairest flowers of fancy ! 
 
 It is called the harbour of rest, in whose deep bosom the 
 disastered mariner, who had long sustained the assaults of 
 adverse storms, moors his wearied vessel, never more to 
 return to the tossings of the wasteful ocean. It is called the 
 land of peace, whither the friendless exile retires, beyond 
 the reach of malice and injustice, and the cruelest arrows 
 of fortune. It is called the hospitable house, where the 
 weather-beaten traveller, faint with traversing pathless de- 
 serts, finds a welcome and secure repose. 
 
 There no cares molest, no passions distract, no enemies 
 defame ; there agonizing pain, and wounding infamy, and 
 ruthless revenge, are no more ; but profound peace, and 
 calm passions, and security which is immoveable. " There 
 the wicked cease from troubling ; there the weary are at 
 rest ! There the prisoners rest together ! they hear not the 
 voice of the oppressor ! The small and the great are there, 
 and the servant is free from his master !" 
 
 * Pron. skeiz. t Pron. nuth-ing. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 51 
 
 LESSON XXIV. 
 
 On the custom of planting flowers on the graves of departed 
 friends. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 To 'scape from chill misfortune's gloom, 
 From helpless age and joyless years ; 
 
 To sleep where flowerets round us bloom ; 
 Can such a fate deserve our tears ? 
 
 Since, in the tomb, our cares, our woes, 
 
 In dark oblivion buried lie, 
 \Vhy paint that scene of calm repose 
 
 In figures painful to the eye ? 
 
 To die ! what is in death to fear ? 
 
 'Twill decompose my lifeless frame ! 
 A. Power, unseen, still watches near, 
 
 To light it with a purer flame. 
 
 And, when anew that flame shall burn, 
 Perhaps the dust, that iios enshrined, 
 
 May rise, a woodbine, o'er my urn, 
 With verdant tendrils round it twined. 
 
 How would the gentle bosom beat, 
 That sighs at death's resistless power, 
 
 A faithful friend again to meet 
 
 Fresh blooming in a fragrant flower ! 
 
 The love, that in my bosom glows, 
 Will live when I shall long be dead, 
 
 And, haply, tinge some budding rose 
 That blushes o'er my grassy bed. 
 
 O, thou who hast so long been dear, 
 When I shall cease to smile on thee, 
 
 I know that thou wilt linger here, 
 With pensive soul, to sigh for me^ 
 
 Thy gentle hand will sweets bestow, 
 Transcending Eden's boasted bloom ; 
 
 Each flower with brighter tini;s shall glow 
 When Love and Beauty seek my tomb 
 
52 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 And, when the rose-bud's virgin breath 
 With fragrance fills the morning air, 
 
 Imagine me released from death, 
 And all my soul reviving there. 
 
 LESSON XXV. 
 
 Thoughts of a young man in the prospect of death.- 
 HENRY K. WHITE. 
 
 SAD, solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, 
 Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind. 
 Communing lonely with his sinking soul, 
 And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 
 In dim obscurity before him, thee, 
 Wrapped in thy dark magnificence, I call 
 At this still, midnight hour, this awful season, 
 When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 
 I turn me, wearisome. While all, around, 
 All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness, 
 I only wake to watch the sickly taper 
 Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand 
 Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, 
 Slow-sapping the warm current of existence. 
 
 My moments now are few. The sand of life 
 Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, 
 And the last fleeting particle will fall, 
 Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 
 Come, then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, 
 While meditate we may. There's left us now 
 But a small portion of what men call time, 
 To hold communion ; for, even now, the knife, 
 The separating knife, I feel divide 
 The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 
 Yes, I must die I feel that I must die ; 
 And though, to me, life has been dark and dreary, 
 Though hope, for me, has smiled but to deceive, 
 And disappointment marked me as her victim, 
 Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me, 
 As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, 
 The shuddering void, the awful blank futurity. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme 
 Of earthly happiness romantic schemes, 
 And fraught with loveliness : and it is hard 
 To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps, 
 Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, 
 And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 
 Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. 
 
 Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 
 O, none : another busy brood of beings 
 Will shoot up in the interim, and none 
 Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink 
 As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 
 Of busy London : some short bustle's caused, 
 A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, 
 And all's forgotten. On my grassy grave 
 The men of future times will careless tread, 
 And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 
 Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, 
 Recall my vanished memory. I did hope 
 For better things : I hoped I should not leave 
 The earth without a vestige. Fate decrees 
 It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 
 
 Henceforth, O world, no more of thy desires ! 
 No more of hope ! the wanton, vagrant hope ! 
 I abjure all. Now other cares engross me, 
 And my tired soul, w r ith emulative haste, 
 Looks to its God, and plumes its wings for heaven. 
 
 LESSON XXVI. 
 
 The Grave. BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 I LOVE to muse, w r hen none are nigh, 
 Where yew tree branches wave, 
 
 And hear the winds, with softest sigh, 
 Sweep o'er the grassy grave. 
 
 It seems a mournful music, meet 
 
 To soothe a lonely hour ; 
 Sad though it be, it is more sweet 
 
 Than that from Pleasure's bower. 
 3* 
 
54 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 I know not why it should be sad 
 
 Or seem a mournful tone, 
 Unless by man the spot be clad 
 
 With terrors not its own. 
 
 To nature it seems just as dear 
 As earth's most cheerful site ; 
 
 The dew-drops glitter there as clear, 
 The sun-beams shine as bright. 
 
 The showers descend as softly there 
 
 As on the loveliest flowers ; 
 Nor does the moon-light seem more fair 
 
 On Beauty's sweetest bowers. 
 
 " Ay ! but within within, there sleeps 
 One, o'er whose mouldering clay 
 
 The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps 
 And wastes that form away." 
 
 And what of that ? The frame that feeds 
 
 The reptile tribe below, 
 As little of their banquet heeds, 
 
 As of the winds that blow. 
 
 LESSON XXVII. 
 
 The Fall of the Leaf. MILONOV.* 
 
 THE autumnal winds had stripped the field 
 
 Of all its foliage, all its green ; 
 The winter's harbinger had stilled 
 
 That soul of song which cheered the scene 
 
 With visage pale, and tottering gait, 
 As one who hears his parting knell, 
 
 I saw a youth disconsolate : 
 
 He came to breathe his last farewell. 
 
 ** Thou grove ! how dark thy gloom to me ! 
 Thy glories riven by autumn's breath ! 
 
 * From Bo wring's Russian Anthology, Vol. II. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 55 
 
 In every falling leaf I see 
 
 A threatening messenger of death , 
 
 " O JEsculapius !^ in my ear 
 
 Thy melancholy warnings chime : 
 
 Fond youth ! bethink thee, thou art here 
 A wanderer for the last, last time. 
 
 1 Thy spring will winter's gloom o'ershade, 
 Ere yet the fields are white with snow ; 
 
 Ere yet the latest flowerets fade, 
 
 Thou, in thy grave, wilt sleep below.' 
 
 " I hear the hollow murmuring 
 
 The cold wind rolling o'er the plain 
 
 Alas ! the brightest days of spring 
 
 How swift ! how sorrowful ! how vain ! 
 
 " O wave, ye dancing boughs, wave ! 
 
 Perchance to-morrow's dawn may see 
 My mother, weeping on my grave : 
 
 Then consecrate my memory. 
 
 " I see, with loose, dishevelled -hair, 
 
 Covering her snowy bosom, come 
 The angel of my childhood there, 
 
 And dew, with tears, my early tomb. 
 
 " Then, in the autumn's silent eve, 
 
 With fluttering wing and gentlest tread, 
 
 My spirit its calm bed shall leave, 
 And hover o'er the mourner's head." 
 
 Then he was silent : faint and slow 
 His steps retraced : he came no more. 
 
 The last leaf trembled on the bough, 
 And his last pang of life was o'er. 
 
 Beneath the aged oaks he sleeps : 
 
 The angel of his childhood there 
 No watch around his tomb-stone keeps, 
 
 But, when the evening stars appear, 
 
 * In the Greek mythology, the cock was one of the animals consecrated to 
 ^Esculapius, the god of medicine. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 The woodman, to his cottage bound, 
 Close to that grave is wont to tread j 
 
 But his rude footsteps, echoed round, 
 Break not the silence of the dead. 
 
 LESSON XXVIII. 
 Obedience to the Commandme?its of God rewarded. MOODIE, 
 
 THE heathen, unsupported by those prospects which the 
 Gospel opens, might be supposed to have sunk under every 
 trial ; yet, even among them, was sometimes displayed an 
 exalted virtue : a virtue, which no interest, no danger, could 
 shake : a virtue, which could triumph amidst tortures and 
 death : a virtue, which, rather than forfeit its conscious in- 
 tegrity, could be content to resign its consciousness forever. 
 And shall not the Christian blush to repine ? the Christian, 
 from before whom the veil is removed ; to whose eyes are 
 revealed the glories of heaven ? 
 
 Your indulgent Ruler do,th not call you to run in vain, or 
 to labour in vain. Every difficulty, and every trial, that 
 occurs in your path, is a fresh opportunity, presented by his 
 kindness, of improving the happiness, after which he hath 
 taught you to aspire. By every hardship which you sustain 
 in the wilderness, you secure an additional portion of the 
 promised land. What though the combat be severe ? A 
 kingdom, an everlasting kingdom, is the prize of victory. 
 Look forward to the triumph which awaits you, and your 
 courage will revive. Fight the good fight, finish your 
 course, keep the faith : there is laid up for you a crown of 
 righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall 
 give unto you at that day. 
 
 What though, in the navigation of life, you have some- 
 times to encounter the war of elements ? What though the 
 winds rage, though the waters roar, and danger threatens 
 around? Behold, at a distance, the mountains appear: 
 your friends are impatient for your arrival : already the feast 
 is prepared, and the rage of the storm shall serve only to 
 waft you sooner to the haven of rest. No tempests assail 
 those blissful regions which approach to view : all is peace- 
 ful and serene : there you shall enjoy eternal comfort; and 
 the recollection of the hardships which you now encountep 
 sljall heighten the felicity of bettor days. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 57 
 
 LESSON XXtX. 
 
 The Promises of Religion to the Young. ALISON. 
 
 IN every part of Scripture, it is remarkable with what 
 singular tenderness the season of youth is always mention- 
 ed, and what hopes are afforded to the devotion of the 
 young. It was at that age that, God appeared unto Moses, 
 when he fed his flock in the desert, and called him to the 
 command of his own people. It was at that age he visited 
 the infant Samuel, while he ministered in the temple of the 
 Lord, " in days when the word of the Lord was precious 
 and when there was no open vision." It was at that age 
 that his spirit fell upon David, while he was yet the youngest 
 of his father's sons, and when, among the mountains of Beth- 
 lehem, he fed his father's sheep. It was at that age, also, 
 " that they brought young children unto Christ, that he 
 should touch them: And his disciples rebuked those that 
 brought them : But when Jesus saw it, he was much dis- 
 pleased, and said to them, Suffer little children to come 
 unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of 
 heaven." 
 
 If these, then, are the effects and promises of youthful 
 piety, rejoice, O young man, in thy youth ! rejoice in those 
 days which are never to return, when religion comes to thee 
 in all its charms, and when the God of nature reveals him- 
 self to thy soul, like the mild radiance of the morning sun, 
 when he rises amid the blessings of a grateful world. 
 
 If, already, devotion hath taught thee her secret plea- 
 sures ; if, when nature meets thee in all its magnificence 
 or beauty, thy heart humbleth itself in adoration before the 
 Hand which made it, and rejoiceth in the contemplation of 
 the wisdom by which it is maintained ; if, when revelation 
 unveils her mercies, and the Son of God comes forth to 
 give peace and hope to fallen man, thine eye follows, with 
 astonishment, the glories of his path, and pours, at last, over 
 his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed ; if 
 thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over the grave, and 
 entereth, on the wings of faith, into that heaven " where 
 he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high," 
 arid seeth the " society of angels, and of the spirits of just 
 men made perfect," and listeneth to the " everlasting song 
 which is sung before the throne :" if such are the medila- 
 
5 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 lions in which, thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, 
 for all that life can offer thee in exchange, these solitary 
 joys. The world which is before thee, the world which 
 thine imagination paints in such brightness, has no plea- 
 sures to bestow which can compare with these : and all that, 
 its boasted wisdom can produce has nothing so acceptable 
 in the sight of heaven, as this pure offering of thy infant 
 soul. 
 
 In these days, " the Lord himself is thy Shepherd, and 
 thou dost not want. Amid the green pastures, and by the 
 still waters" of youth, he now makes " thy soul to repose." 
 But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its 
 trials ; the evil days are on the wing, when " thou shalt say 
 thou hast no pleasure in them ;" and, as thy steps advance, 
 " the valley of the shadow of death opens," through which 
 thou must pass at last. It is then thou shalt know what it 
 is to "remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." 
 In these days of trial or of awe, " his spirit shall be with 
 thee," and thou shalt fear no ill; and, amid every evil 
 which surrounds thee, " he shall restore thy soul. His 
 goodness and mercy shall follow thee all the days of thy 
 life ;" and when, at last, " the silver cord is loosed," thy 
 spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt 
 dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 
 
 LESSON XXX. 
 
 On the Siviftness of Time. DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 THE natural advantages, which arise from the position of 
 the earth which we inhabit, with respect to the other pla- 
 nets, afford much employment to mathematical speculation, 
 by which it has been discovered, that no other conformation 
 of the system could have given such commodious distribu- 
 tions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to 
 so great a part of a revolving sphere. 
 
 It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal 
 reason, that our globe seems particularly fitted for the resi- 
 dence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose 
 task is to advance himself to a higher and happier state of 
 existence, by unrernitted vigilance of caution and activity 
 of virtue. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 5 
 
 The duties required of man are such as human nature 
 does not willingly perform, and such as those are inclined 
 to delay, who yet intend, some time, to fulfil them. It was, 
 therefore, necessary, that this universal reluctance should be 
 counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation wakened into 
 resolve ; that the danger of procrastination should be always 
 in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected. 
 
 To this end ail the appearances of nature uniformly con- 
 spire. Whatever we see, on every side, reminds us of the 
 lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night suc- 
 ceed each other ; the rotation of seasons diversifies the year ; 
 the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines and sets ; and 
 the moon, every night, changes its form. 
 
 The day has been considered as an image of the year, 
 and a year as the representation of life. The morning 
 answers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and 
 youth. The noon corresponds to the summer, and the sum- 
 mer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an em- 
 blem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night, 
 with its silence and darkness, shows the winter, in which 
 all the powers of vegetation are benumbed ; and the winter 
 points out the time when life shall cease, with its hopes and 
 pleasures. 
 
 He that is carried forward, how r ever swiftly, by a motion 
 equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but by 
 the variation of objects. If the wheel of life, which rolls 
 thus silently along, passed on through undistinguishable uni- 
 formity, we should never mark its approaches to the end of 
 the course. If one hour were like another ; if the passage of 
 the sun did not show that the day is wasting ; if the change 
 of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of the year, 
 quantities of duration, equal to days and years, would glide 
 unobserved. If the parts of time were not variously coloured, 
 we should never discern their departure or succession; but 
 should live, thoughtless of the past, and careless of the fu- 
 ture, without will, and, perhaps, without power, to compute 
 the periods of life, or to compare the time which is already 
 lost with that which may probably remain. t 
 
 But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is even 
 observed by the passage, and by nations who have raised 
 their minds very little above animal instinct : there are 
 human beings, whose language does not supply them with 
 words by which they can number five, but I have read of 
 none that have not names for day and night, for summer 
 and winter. 
 
60 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Yet it is certain, that these admonitions of nature, how- 
 ever forcible, however importunate, are too often vain ; and 
 that many, who mark with such accuracy the course of time, 
 appear to have little sensibility of the decline of life. Every 
 man has something to do, which he neglects ; every man has 
 faults to conquer, which he delays to combat.^ 
 
 So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the effects 
 of time, that things necessary and certain often surprise us 
 like unexpected contingencies. We leave the beauty in 
 her bloom, and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, 
 at our return, to find her faded. We meet those whom we 
 left children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat 
 them as men. The traveller visits, in age, those countries 
 through which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for mer- 
 riment at the old place. The man of business, wearied 
 with unsatisfactory prosperity, retires to the town of his 
 nativity, and expects to piny away his last years with the 
 compa "lions of his childhood, and recover youth in the fields 
 where he once was young. 
 
 From this inattention, so general and so mischievous, let 
 it be every man's study to exempt himself. Let him that 
 desires to see others happy, make haste to give while his 
 gift can be enjoyed, and remember, that every moment of 
 delay takes away something from the value of his benefac- 
 tion ; and let him, who proposes his own happiness, reflect, 
 that, while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, and *' the 
 night cometh, when no man can work." 
 
 LESSON XXXI. 
 
 Lines written ly one who had long been resident in India^ on 
 his return to his native country. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 1 CAME, but they had passed away 
 
 The fair in form, the pure in mind; 
 And, like a stricken deer, I stray 
 
 Where all are strange, and none are kind, 
 Kind to the worn, the wearied soul, 
 
 That pants, that struggles, for repose. 
 O that my steps had reached the goal 
 
 Where earthly sighs and sorrows close 1 
 
 * Pron. cum'-bat. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 01 
 
 Years have passed o'er me, like a dream 
 
 That leaves no trace on memory's page : 
 I look around me, and I seem 
 
 Some relic of a former age. 
 Alone, as in a stranger clime, 
 
 Where stranger voices mock my ear, 
 I mark the lagging course of time, 
 
 Without a wish, a hope, a fear ! 
 
 Yet I had hopes and they have fled ; 
 
 And fears and they were all too true ; 
 My wishes too but they are dead ; 
 
 And what have I with life to do ? 
 >Tis but to wear a weary load 
 
 I may not, dare not, cast away; 
 To sigh for one small, still abode, 
 
 Where I may sleep as sweet as they , 
 
 As they, the loveliest of their race, 
 
 Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep, 
 Whose worth my soul delights to trace, 
 
 Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep, 
 To weep beneath the silent moon, 
 
 With none to chide, to hear, to see : 
 Life can bestow no greater boon 
 
 On one, whom death disdains to free. 
 
 I leave the world, that knows me not, 
 
 To hold communion with the dead; 
 And fancy consecrates the spot 
 
 Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. 
 I see each shade all silvery white 
 
 I hear each spirit's melting sigh ; 
 I turn to clasp those forms of light, 
 
 And the pale morning chills my eye. 
 
 But soon the last dim morn shall rise, 
 
 The lamp of life barns feebly now, 
 When stranger hands shall close my eyes, 
 
 And smooth my cold and dewy brow. 
 Unknown I lived ; so let me die ; 
 
 Nor stone, nor monumental cross, 
 Tell where his nameless ashes lie, 
 
 Who sighed for gold, and found it dross. 
 6 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XXXII. 
 
 "He shall fly away as a dream" ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I DREAMED i I saw a rosy child, 
 
 With flaxen ringlets, in a garden playing ; 
 Now stooping here, and then afar off straying, 
 
 As flower or butterfly his feet beguiled. 
 
 'Twas changed ; one summer's day I stepped aside, 
 To let him pass ; his face had manhood's seeming, 
 And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming 
 
 On a fair maiden, whom he called his bride. 
 
 Once more ; 'twas evening, and the cheerful fire 
 I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding, 
 The room with harmless pleasantry resounding , 
 
 And, in the midst, I marked the smiling sire. 
 
 The heavens were clouded and I heard the tone 
 
 Of a slow-moving beM : the white-haired man had gone. 
 
 LESSON XXXIII. 
 
 The Journey of a Day, A Picture of Human Life. 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 OBTDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary early 
 in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains 
 of Hindostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he 
 UTIS animated with hope ; he was incited by desire : he 
 walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills 
 gradually rising before him. 
 
 As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the 
 morning song of the bird of paradise ; he was fanned by the 
 last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew 
 by groves of spices : he sometimes contemplated the tower- 
 ing height of the oak, monarch of the hills ; and sometimes 
 caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter 
 of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care 
 was banished from his heart. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 63 
 
 Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, 
 and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then 
 looked round about him for some more commodious path. 
 He saw, on his right hand, a grove, that seemed to wave its 
 shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the 
 coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, 
 however, forget whither he \vas travelling, but found a nar- 
 row way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have 
 the same direction with the main road, and was pleased, 
 that, by this Imppy experiment, he had found means to unite 
 pleasure with business, and to gain the rewaids of diligence, 
 without suffering its fatigues. 
 
 He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without 
 the least remission of his ardour, except that he was some- 
 times tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the 
 heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused 
 himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks, oa 
 either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At 
 last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, 
 and to wind among the hills and thickets, cooled with foun- 
 tains, and murmuring with water-falls. 
 
 Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider, 
 whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and com- 
 mon track ; but, remembering that the heat was now in its 
 greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, 
 he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only 
 to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties 
 of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. 
 
 Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, 
 though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This 
 uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every 
 new object, and give wa} to every sensation that might 
 soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mount- 
 ed every lull for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every 
 cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a 
 gentle river, that rolled among the trees, and watered a large 
 region, with innumerable circumvolutions. 
 
 In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccounted ; 
 his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not 
 towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and con- 
 fused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet 
 conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While 
 he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was over- 
 
64 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 spread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and 
 a sudden tempest gathered round his head. 
 
 He was now roused, hy his danger, to a quick and pain- 
 ful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness 
 is lost when ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly 
 impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, 
 and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle 
 to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, 
 and a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 
 
 He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, 
 to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to 
 find some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. 
 He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his 
 life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and 
 tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in his hand ; for 
 the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand 
 were heard the mingled howls of rage, and fear, and ravage, 
 and expiration : all the horrors of darkness and solitude 
 surrounded him ; the winds roared in the woods, and the 
 torrents tumbled from the hills. 
 
 "Worked into sudden rage by wintry showers, 
 Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours : 
 The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise." 
 
 Thus, forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the 
 wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether 
 he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruc- 
 tion. At length, not fear, but labour, began to overcome 
 him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he 
 was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, 
 when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a 
 taper. "He advanced towards the light, and, finding that it 
 proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at 
 the door, and obtained admission. The old man sat before 
 him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on 
 which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 
 
 When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the hermit, 
 " by what chance thou hast been brought hither : I have 
 been now twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderness, in 
 which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related 
 the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or 
 palliation. 
 
 " Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and follies, the 
 dangers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 65 
 
 Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. 
 We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of 
 expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope, with 
 gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the 
 straight road of piety, towards the mansions of rest. In a 
 short time we remit our fervour, and, endeavour to find some 
 mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of ob- 
 taining the same end. 
 
 " We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be 
 terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own 
 constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never 
 to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in 
 the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigi- 
 lance subsides : we are then willing to inquire whether 
 another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, 
 at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We 
 approach them with scruple and hesitation ; we enter them, 
 but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass 
 through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, 
 for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to 
 return. 
 
 " But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance 
 prepares us for another; we, in time, lose the happiness of 
 innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 
 By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original 
 intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. 
 We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in 
 luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till 
 the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease 
 and anxiety obstruct our way: We then look back upon 
 our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; and 
 wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken 
 the ways of virtue. 
 
 " Happy are they, my son, who shall learn, from thy 
 example, not to despair, but shall remember, that, though the 
 day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains 
 one effort to be made ; that reformation is never horteless, 
 nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wanderer 
 may at length return, after all his errors ; and that he, who 
 implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger 
 and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to 
 thy repose ; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence , 
 and, when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy 
 journey and thy life." -. 
 
06 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XXXIV. 
 
 The Vision of Mirza. ADDISON. 
 
 ON the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the 
 custom of my forefathers, I always kept holy, after having 
 washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I 
 ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest 
 of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing 
 myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound 
 contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and, passing 
 from one thought to another, " Surely," said I, " man is but 
 a shadow, and life a dream." 
 
 Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the 
 summit of a rock, that was not far from me, where I disco- 
 vered one, in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instru- 
 ment in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to 
 his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was 
 exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes, that 
 were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from 
 any thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those 
 heavenly airs, that are played to the departed souls of good 
 men .upon their first arrival in paradise, to wear out the 
 impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the 
 pleasures of that happy place. 
 
 My heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been 
 often told, that the rock before me was the haunt of a Ge- 
 nius ; and that several had been entertained with music, 
 who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had 
 before made himself visible. When he had raised my 
 thoughts, by those transporting airs which he played, to 
 taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him, 
 like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the wav- 
 ing of his hand, directed me to approach the place where 
 he sat. 
 
 I drew near, with that reverence which is due to a supe- 
 rior nature ; and, as rny heart was entirely subdued by the 
 captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet, and 
 wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look of compas- 
 sion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, 
 and, at once, dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with 
 which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 67 
 
 and, taking me by the hand, " Mirza," said he, " I have heard 
 thee in thy soliloquies : follow me." 
 
 He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and, 
 placing me on the top of it, " Cast thy eyes eastward," said 
 he, " and tell me what thou seest." " I see," said I, " a huge 
 valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it." 
 " The valley that thou seest," said he, " is the valley of 
 misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the 
 great tide of eternity." "What is the reason," said I, 
 " that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and 
 again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ?" 
 
 " What thou seest," said he, " is that portion of eternity 
 which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching 
 from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Ex- 
 amine now," said he, " this sea, that is thus bounded with 
 darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in 
 it." "I see a bridge," said I, "standing in the midst of the 
 tide." "The bridge thou seest," said he, "is human life: 
 consider it attentively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, 
 I found that it consisted of three-score and ten entire arches, 
 with several broken arches, which, added to those that were 
 entire, made up the number about a hundred. 
 
 As I was counting the arches, the Genius told me that 
 this bridge consisted, at first, of a thousand arches ; but that 
 a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the 
 ruinous condition I now beheld it. " But tell me farther," 
 said he, "what thou discoverest on it." "I see multitudes 
 of people passing over it," said I, " and a black cloud hang- 
 ing on each end of it." 
 
 As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passen- 
 gers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that 
 flowed underneath it ; and, upon farther examination, per- 
 ceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed 
 In the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but 
 they fell through them into the tide, and immediately dis- 
 appeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the 
 entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner 
 broke through the cloud, than many of them fell into them. 
 They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and 
 lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were 
 entire; 
 
 There were indeed some persons, but their number was 
 very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the 
 
68 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being 
 quite tired and spent with so long a walk. I passed some 
 time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and 
 the great variety of objects which it presented. 
 
 My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see seve- 
 ral dropping, unexpectedly, in the midst of mirth and jollity, 
 and catching by every thing that stood by them to save 
 themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens 
 in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of n speculation, 
 stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy 
 in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes and 
 danced before them ; but often, when they thought them- 
 seh'es within the reach of them, their footing failed, and 
 down they sunk. 
 
 In this confusion of objects, I observed some with cime- 
 ters in their hands, and others with lancets, who ran to and 
 fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors 
 which did not seem to lie in tlieir way, and which they 
 might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon 
 them. 
 
 The Genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy 
 prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. " Take 
 thine eyes off the bridge," said he, " and tell me if thou yet 
 seest any thing thou dost not comprehend." Upon looking 
 up, " What mean," said I, " those great flights of birds that 
 are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon 
 it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cor- 
 morants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several 
 little winged boys, that perch, in great numbers, upon the 
 middle arches." 
 
 " These," said the Genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Supersti- 
 tion, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that 
 infest human life." I here fetched a deep sigh. " Alas !" 
 said I, " man was made in vain ! how is he given away to 
 misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up in 
 death !" The Genius, being moved with compassion towards 
 me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. " Look no 
 more." said he, " on man, in the first stage of his existence, 
 in his setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that 
 thick mist, into which the tide bears the several generations 
 of mortals that fall into it." 
 
 I directed my sight as T was ordered, and whether or no 
 t^e good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 69 
 
 or dissipated part of the mist, that was before too thick foi 
 the eye to penetrate I saw the valley opening at the farther 
 end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a 
 huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and 
 dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on 
 one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it : 
 but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with 
 innumerable islands,^ that were covered with fruits and 
 flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas, 
 that ran among them. 
 
 I could see persons dressed in glorious hates, with gar- 
 lands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down 
 by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers ; and 
 could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling 
 waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness 
 grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I 
 wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to 
 those happy seats; but the Genius told me, there was no 
 passage to them, except through the gates of death, that I 
 saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 
 
 " The islands," said he, " that lie so fresh and green be- 
 fore thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean ap- 
 pears spotted, as far as thou canst see, are more in number 
 than the sands on the sea shore. There are myriads of 
 islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching 
 farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can ex- 
 tend itself. These are the mansions of good men after 
 death, who, according to the degrees and kinds of virtue! in 
 which they excelled, are distributed among these several 
 islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and 
 degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections: of those who 
 are settled in them. Every island is a paradise accommo- 
 dated to its respective inhabitants. 
 
 " Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? 
 Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of 
 earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will 
 convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man was 
 made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him." 
 I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on those happy islands. 
 At length, said I, " Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets 
 that lie under those dark clouds, that covei the ocean on 
 the other side of the rock of adamant." 
 
 * Pran. I'-13uds. t Pron. ver'-tshu. 
 
70 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to 
 address myself to him a second time, but I found that he 
 had left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had 
 been so long contemplating ; but, instead of the rolling tide, 
 the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but 
 the long, hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep and 
 camels grazing upon the sides of it. 
 
 LESSON XXXV. 
 
 The World we have not sten. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THERE is a world we have not seen, 
 That time shall never dare destroy, 
 
 Where mortal footstep hath not been, 
 Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy. 
 
 There is a region, lovelier far 
 
 Than sages tell, or poets sing, 
 Brighter than summer beauties are, 
 
 And softer than the tints of spring. 
 
 There is a world, and O how blest I- 
 Fairer than prophets ever told ; 
 
 And never did an angel guest 
 One half its blessedness unfold. 
 
 It is all holy and serene, 
 
 The land of glory and repose ; 
 And there, to dim the radiant scene. 
 
 The tear of sorrow never flows. 
 
 It is not fanned by summer gale ; 
 
 'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers ; 
 It never needs the moon-beam pale, 
 
 For there are known no evening hours, 
 
 No : for this world is ever bright - 
 With a pure radiance all its own ; 
 
 The streams of uncreated light 
 
 Flow round it from the Eternal Throne. 
 
 1 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Tiiere forms, that mortals may not see, 
 Too glorious for the eye to trace, 
 
 And clad in peerless majesty, 
 Move with unutterable grace. 
 
 In vain the philosophic eye 
 
 May seek to view the fair abode, 
 Or find it in the curtained sky : 
 
 It is THE DWELLING-PLACE OF GoD. 
 
 LESSON XXXVI. 
 
 The Better Land. -MRS. HEM'ANS. 
 
 " J HEAR thee speak of the better land ; 
 Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
 Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? 
 Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ?" 
 " Not there, not there, my child !" 
 
 Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
 Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
 Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
 And strange bright birds, o'n their starry wings, 
 Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" 
 
 "Not there, not there, my child!" 
 
 * Is it far away, in some region old, ^ 
 
 Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold, 
 Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
 And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
 And the pearl gleams forth from the cor'al strand ? 
 is it there, sweet mother ! that better land ?" 
 
 " Not there, not there, my child ! 
 
 1 Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
 Ear hath not heard its deep sounds of joy; 
 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair ; 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; 
 Beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb ; 
 
 It is there, it is there, my child !" 
 
 LESSON XXXVII. 
 
 The Widow and her So?i. C. EDWARDS. 
 
 " My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 
 My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure !" 
 
 CONSUMPTION is a siren. She can give a charm even to 
 deformity. In my school boy days, there lived an aged 
 widow near the church-yard. She had an only child. I 
 have often observed, that the delicate, and the weak, receive 
 more than a common share of affection from a mother. 
 Such a feeling was shown by this widow towards her sickly 
 and unshapely boy. 
 
 There are faces and forms which, once seen, are impress- 
 ed upon our brain ; and they will come again, and again, 
 upon the tablet of our memory in the quiet night, and even 
 flit around us in our day walks. Many years have gone by 
 since I first saw this boy ; but his delicate form, his quiet 
 manner, and his gentle and virtuous conduct, are often 
 before me. 
 
 I shall never forget, in the sauciness of youth, and fan- 
 cying it would give importance to my bluff outside, sivear- 
 ing in his presence. The boy was sitting in a high-backed 
 easy chair, reading his Bible. He turned round, as if a 
 signal for dying had sounded in his ear, and fixed upon me 
 his clear gray eye that look ! it made my little heart almost 
 choke me : I gave some foolish excuse for getting out of 
 the cottage ; and, as I met a playmate on the road, who 
 jeered me for my blank countenance, I rushed past him, hid 
 myself in an adjoining cornfield, and cried bitterly. 
 
 I tried to conciliate the widow's son, and show my sorrow 
 for having so far forgotten the innocence of boyhood, as to 
 have had my Maker's name sounded in an unhallowed man- 
 ner from my lips : but I could not reconcile him. My spring 
 flowers he accepted; but, when my back was turned, he 
 flung them away. The toys and books I offered to him 
 were put aside for his Bible. His only occupations were, 
 the feeding of a favourite hen. which \vou3d come to his 
 
NATIONAL READER. 72 
 
 chair and look up for the crumbs he would let fall, with a 
 noiseless action, from his thin fingers, watching the pendu- 
 lum and hands of the wooden clock, and reading. 
 
 Although I could not, at that time, fully appreciate the 
 beauty of a mother's love, still I venerated the widow for 
 the unobtrusive, but intense, attention she displayed to her 
 son. I never entered her dwelling without seeing her en- 
 gaged in kind offices towards him. If the sunbeam came 
 through the leaves of the geraniums, placed in the window, 
 with too strong a glare, she moved the high-backed chair 
 with as much care as if she had been putting aside a crystal 
 temple. When he slept, she festooned her silk handker- 
 chief around his place of rest. She placed the earliest vio- 
 lets upon her mantel-piece for him to look at ; and the 
 roughness of her own meal, and the delicacy of the child's, 
 sufficiently displayed her sacrifices. Easy and satisfied, the 
 widow moved about. I never saw her but once unhappy. 
 She was then walking thoughtfully in her garden. I beheld 
 a tear. I did not dare to intrude upon her grief, and ask 
 her the cause of it ; but I found the reason in her cottage : 
 her boy had been spitting blood. 
 
 I have often envied him these endearments ; for I was 
 away from a parent who humoured me even when I was stub- 
 born and unkind. My poor mother is in her grave. I have 
 often regretted having been her pet, her favourite : for the 
 coldness of the world makes me wretched; and, perhaps, 
 if I had not drunk at the very spring of a mother's affection, 
 I might have let scorn and con'tumely pass by me as the idle 
 wind. Yet I have, afterwards, asked myself what I, a 
 thoughtless though not heartless boy, should have come to, 
 if 'I had riot had such a comforter: I have asked myself 
 this, felt satisfied and grateful, and wished that her spirit 
 might watch around a child, who often met her kindness 
 with passion, and received her gifts as if he expected ho- 
 mage from her. 
 
 Every body experiences how quickly school years pass 
 away ; and many persons regret their flight. As for myself, 
 I do not wish for the return of boyhood's days. I cannot 
 forget the harshness of rny master. I cannot but know, that, 
 if he had studied my character, and tempered me as the hot 
 iron is made pliable, I should have been a different and a 
 better being. I still remember the tyr'anny of older spirits. 
 School may have its pleasures ; but the sorrows of a think- 
 ing boy are like the griefs of a fallen angel. 
 I 
 
74 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 My father's residence was not situated in the village 
 where I was educated ; so that, when I left school, I left 
 its scenes also. 
 
 After several years had passed away, accident took me 
 again to the well-known place. The stable, into which I 
 led my horse, w^as dear to me ; for I had often listened to 
 the echo that danced within it, when the bells were ringing. 
 The face of the landlord was strange ; but I could not for- 
 get the in-kneed, red-whiskered hostler^ : he had given me 
 a hearty thrashing as a return for a hearty jest. 
 
 I had reserved a broad piece of silver for the old widow. 
 But I first ran towards the river, and walked upon the mill- 
 bank. I was surprised at the apparent narrowness of the 
 stream ; and, although the willows still fringed the margin, 
 and appeared to stoop in homage to the water lilies, yet they 
 were diminutive ! Every thing was but a miniature of the 
 picture within rny mind. It proved to me that my faculties 
 had grown with my growth, and strengthened with my 
 strength. 
 
 With something like disappointment, I left the river side, 
 and strolled towards the church. My hand was in my 
 pocket, grasping the broad piece of silver. I imagined to 
 myself the kind look of recognition I should receive ; I de- 
 termined on the way in which I should press the money 
 into the widow's hand. But I. felt my nerves lightly trem- 
 ble as I thought on the look her son had given, and again 
 might give me. 
 
 Ah, there is the cottage ! but the honey-suckle is older, 
 and it has lost many of its branches ! 
 
 The door was closed. A pet lamb was fastened to 
 loose cord under the window ; and its melancholy bleating 
 was the only sound that disturbed the silence. In former 
 years, I used, at once, to pull the string which assisted the 
 wooden latch ; but now, I deliberately knocked. A strange 
 female form, with a child in her arms, opened the door. 1 
 asked for my old acquaintance. " Alas ! poor Alice is in 
 her coffin : look, sir, where the shadow of the spire ends : 
 that is her grave." I relaxed my grasp of my money. " And 
 her deformed boy ?" " He too, sir, is there !" I drew my 
 hand from my pocket. 
 
 It was a hard task for me to thank the woman, but I did 
 
 so. I moved to the place where the mother and the child 
 
 were buried. I stood for <ome minutes, in silence, beside 
 
 the mound of grass. I taought of the consumptive lad, 
 
 * Pron, os'Ier. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 76 
 
 and, as I did so, the lamb at the cottage window gave its 
 anxious bleat. And then all the affectionate attentions of 
 my own mother t,rose on my soul ; while my lips trembled 
 out " Mother ! dear mother ! would that I were as is the 
 widow's son ! would that I were sleeping in thy grave ! I 
 loved thee, mother ! but I would no f have thee living now, 
 to view the worldly sorrows of thy ungrateful boy! My 
 first step towards vice was the oath which the deformed 
 child heard me utter. 
 
 " I have often wished my means were equal to my heart. 
 Circumstances, alone, have unmade me. And you, who 
 rest here as quietly as you lived, shall receive the homage 
 of the unworthy. I will protect this hillock from the steps 
 of the heedless wanderer, and from the trampling of the 
 village herd. I will raise up a tabernacle to purity and 
 love. I will do it in secret ; and I look not to be rewarded 
 openly." 
 
 LESSON XXXVIII. 
 
 The Little Man in Black. -and- IRVING. 
 
 THE following story has been handed down by family 
 tradition for more than a century. It is one on which my 
 cousin Christopher dwells, with more than his usual prolix- 
 ity ; and I have thought it worthy of being laid before my 
 readers. 
 
 Soon after my grandfather, Mr. Lemuel Cockloft, had 
 quietly settled himself at the Hall, and just about the time 
 that the gossips of the neighbourhood, tired of prying into his 
 affairs, were anxious for some new tea-table topic, the busy 
 community of our little village was thrown into a grand tur- 
 moil of curiosity and conjecture, a situation very common 
 to little gossiping villages, by the sudden and unaccount- 
 able appearance of a mysterious individual. 
 
 The object of this solicitude was a little, black-looking 
 man, of a foreign aspect, who took possession of an old 
 building, which, having long had the reputation of being 
 haunted,^ was in a state of ruinous desolation, and an object 
 of fear to all true believers in ghosts. 
 
 He usually wore a high sugar-loaf hat, with a narrow 
 
 * Haunt, pronounced to rhyme with au?it } not with leant. 
 
76 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 brim, and a little black cloak, which, short as he was, 
 scarcely reached helow his knees. He sought no intimacy 
 or acquaintance with any one ; appeared to take no interest 
 in the pleasures or the Little broils of the village ; nor ever 
 talked, except sometimes to himself in an outlandish tongue. 
 
 He commonly Carried a large book, covered with sheep- 
 skin, under his arm ; appeared always to be lost in medi- 
 tation ; and was often met by the peasantry, sometimes 
 watching the dawn of day, sometimes, at noon, seated under 
 a tree, poring over his volume, and sometimes, at evening, 
 gazing, with a look of sober tranquillity, at the sun, as it 
 gradually sunk below the horizon. 
 
 The good people of the vicinity beheld something prodi- 
 giously singular in all this. A profound mystery seemed to 
 hang about the stranger, which, with all their sagacity, they 
 could not penetrate ; and, in the excess of worldly charity, 
 they pronounced it a sure sign "that he was'no better than 
 he should be :" a phrase innocent enough in itself, but 
 which, as applied in common, signifies nearly every thing 
 that is bad. 
 
 The young people thought him a gloomy mis'anthrope, 
 because he nevefi^oined i n their sports : the old men 
 thought still morinlr *irclly of him, because he followed no 
 trade, nor ever seemed ambitious of earning a farthing : 
 and, as to the old gossips, baffled by the inflexible tacitur- 
 nity of the stranger, they unanimously decreed, that a man, 
 who could not, or would not talk, was no better than a dumb 
 beast. 
 
 The little man in black, careless of their opinions, seemed 
 resolved to maintain the liberty of keeping his own secret; 
 and the consequence was, that, in a little while, the whole 
 village was in an uproar : for, in little communities of this 
 description, the members have always the privilege of being 
 thoroughly versed, and even of meddling, in all the affairs 
 of each other. 
 
 A confidential conference was held, one Sunday morning, 
 alter sermon, at the door of the village church, and the 
 character of the unknown fully investigaied. The school- 
 master gave, as his opinion, that he was the wandering 
 Jew : the sexton was certain that he must be a free-mason, 
 from his silence : a third maintained, with great obstinacy, 
 that ne was a High German doctor, and that the book, which 
 he carried about with him, contained the secrets of the 
 black art: hut the most prevailing opinion seemed to be, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 77 
 
 that he was a witch, a race of beings at that time abound- 
 ing in those parts, and a sagacious old matron proposed to 
 ascertain the fact, by sousing him into a kettle of hot water. 
 
 Suspicion, when once afloat, goes with wind and tide, 
 and soon becomes certainty. Many a stormy night was the 
 little man in black seen, by the flashes of lightning, frisking 
 and curvet'ing in the air upon a broomstick ; and it was 
 always observable that, at those times, the storm did more 
 mischief than at any other. The old lady, in particular, 
 who suggested the humane ordeal" of the boiling kettle, lost,, 
 on one of these occasions, a fine brindle cow ; which acci- 
 dent was entirely ascribed to the vengeance of the little man 
 in black 
 
 If ever a mischievous hireling rode his master's favourite 
 horse to a distant frolic, and the animal was observed to be 
 lame and jaded in the morning, the little man in black was 
 sure to be at the bottom of the affair : nor could a high w r ind 
 howl through the village at night, but the old women shrug- 
 ged up their shoulders, and observed, that the little man in 
 black was in his tantrums. 
 
 In short, he became the bugbear of every house ; and was 
 as effectual in frightening little children into obedience and 
 hysterics as the redoubtable Raw-head-and-bloody-bones him- 
 self; nor could a house-w T ife^ of the village sleep in peace, 
 except under the guardianship of a horse-shoe nailed to 
 the door. 
 
 The object of these direful suspicions remained, for some 
 time, totally ignorant of the wonderful quandary he had 
 occasioned : but he was soon doomed to feel its effects. An 
 individual, \vho is once so Unfortunate as to incur the odium 
 of a village, is, in a great measure, outlawed and proscribed, 
 and becomes a mark for injury and insult; particularly if 
 he has not the power, or the disposition, to recriminate. 
 The little venomous passions, which, in the great world, are 
 dissipated and weakened by being widely diffused, act, in 
 the narrow limits of a country town, with " collected vigour, 
 and become rancorous, in proportion as they are confined in 
 their sphere of action. 
 
 The little man in black experienced the truth of this. 
 Every mischievous urchin, returning from school, had full 
 liberty to break his windows : and this was considered as a 
 most daring exploit' ; for, in such awe did they stand of him, 
 that the most od venturous school-boy was never seen to 
 
 * Pro-n.. huz'-wiff. 
 7* 
 
73 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 approach liis threshold ; and, at night, would prefer going 
 round by the by-roads, where a traveller had been murdered 
 by the Indians, rather than pass by the door of his forlorn 
 habitation. 
 
 The only living creature, that seemed to have any care or 
 affection for this deserted being, was an old turnspit, the 
 companion of his lonely mansion, arid his solitary wander- 
 ings, the sharer of his scanty meal, and, sorry am I to 
 say it, the sharer of his persecutions. The turnspit, like 
 his master, was peaceable and inoffensive, never known to 
 bark at a horse, to growl at a traveller, or to quarrel with the 
 dogs of the neighbourhood, 
 
 He followed close at his master's heels, when he went out, 
 and, when he returned, stretched himself in the sunbeams, 
 at the door ; demeaning himself, in all things, like a civil 
 and well disposed turnspit. But, notwithstanding his ex'em- 
 plary deportment, he fell, likewise, under the ill report of the 
 village, as b^ing the familiar^ of the little man in black, and 
 the evil spirit that presided at his incantations. The old 
 hovel was considered as the scene of their unhallowed rites, 
 and its harmless tenants regarded with a detestation! which 
 their inoffensive conduct never merited. 
 
 Though pelted and jeered at by the brats of the village, 
 and frequently abused by their parents, the little man in 
 black never turned to rebuke them ; and his faithful dog, 
 when wantonly assaulted, looked up wistfully in his master's 
 face, and there learned a lesson of patience and forbearance. 
 
 LESSON XXXIX. 
 
 The sa?7ie, concluded. 
 
 THE movements of this inscrutable being had long been 
 the subject of speculation at Cockloft Hall ; for its inmates 
 were full as much given to wondering as their descendants. 
 The patience with which he bore his persecutions, particu- 
 larly .surprised them ; for patience is a virtue but little 
 .known in the Cockloft family. 
 
 My grandmother, who, it appears, was rather superstitious, 
 saw in this humility nothing but the gloomy sullenness of a 
 wizard, who restrained himself for the present, in hopes of 
 
 * A demon, supposed to attend at call : Johnson, t Pro??, fkt-tes-to' 
 
NATIONAL READER. 79 
 
 midnight vengeance. The parson of the village, who was 
 a man of some reading, pronounced it the stubborn insensi- 
 bility of a stoic philosopher. My grandfather, who, worthy 
 soul, seldom wandered abroad in search of conclusions, took 
 data from his own excellent heart, and regarded it as the 
 humble forgiveness of a Christian. 
 
 But, however different were their opinions as to the cha- 
 racter of the stranger, they agreed in one particular, namely. 
 in never intruding upon his solitude ; and my grandmother, 
 who was, at that time, nursing my mother, never left the 
 foom without wisely putting the large family Bible into the 
 cradle, a sure talisman, in her opinion, against witchcraft 
 and nec'romancy. 
 
 One stormy winter night, when a bleak north-east wind 
 moaned about the cottages, and roared around the village 
 steeple, my grandfather was returning from club, preceded 
 by a servant with a lantern. Just as he arrived opposite 
 the. desolate abode of the little man in black, he was arrested 
 by the piteous howling of a dog, which, heard in the pauses 
 of the storm, was exquisitely mournful ; and he fancied, 
 now and then, that he caught the low and broken groans of 
 some one in distress. 
 
 He stopped for some minutes, hesitating between the be- 
 nevolence of his heart, and a sensation of genuine delicacy, 
 which, in spite of his eccentricity, he fully possessed, and 
 which forbade^ him to pry into the concerns of his neigh- 
 bours. Perhaps, too, this hesitation might have been 
 strengthened by a little taint of superstition ; for, sureiy, if 
 the unknown had been addicted to witchcraft, this was a 
 most propitious night for his vaga'ries. 
 
 At length the old gentleman's philanthropy predominated : 
 he approached the hovel, and, pushing open the door, for 
 poverty has no occasion for locks and keys, beheld, by the 
 light of the lantern, a scene that smote his generous heart to 
 the core. 
 
 On a miserable bed, with a pallid and emaciated visage, 
 and hollow eyes, in a room destitute of every convenience, 
 without fire to warm, or friend to console him, lay this 
 helpless mortal, who had been so long the terror and wonder 
 of the village. His dog was crouching on the scanty cover- 
 let, and shivering with cold. My grandfather stepped softly 
 and hesitatingly to the bed-side, and accosted the ' forlorn 
 sufferer in his usual accents of kindness. 
 
 * Pron. forbad. 
 
80 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 The little man in black seemed recalled, by the tones of 
 compassion, from the lethargy into which he had fallen ; for, 
 though his heart was almost frozen, there was yet one chord 
 that answered to the call of the good old man who bent over 
 him : the tones of sympathy, so novel to his ear, called back 
 his wandering senses, and acted like a restorative to his soli- 
 tary feelings. 
 
 He raised his eyes, but they were vacant and haggard : 
 he put forth his hand, but it was cold : he essayed to 
 speak, but the sound died away in his throat : he pointed 
 to his mouth, with an expression of dreadful meaning, and, 
 sad to relate ! my grandfather understood, that the harmless 
 stranger, deserted by society, was perishing with hunger. 
 With the quick impulse of humanity, he despatched the 
 servant to the Hall for refreshment. A little warm nourish- 
 ment renovated him for a short time, but not long : it was 
 evident that his pilgrimage was drawing to a close, and he 
 was about entering that peaceful asy'lum, where " the wicked 
 ceasp. from troubling." 
 
 His tale of misery was short, and quickly told. Infirmi- 
 ties had stolen upon him, heightened by the rigours of the 
 season : he had taken to his bed, without strength to rise 
 and ask for assistance : " And if I had," said he, in a tone 
 of bitter despondency, " to whom should I have applied ? 1 
 have no friend, that I know of, in the world ! The villagers 
 ovoid me as something loathsome and dangerous ; and here, 
 in the midst of Christians, should I have perished without a 
 fellow being to soothe the last moments of existence, and 
 close my dying eyes, had not the howlings of my faithful 
 dog excited your attention." 
 
 He seemed deeply sensible of the kindness of my grand- 
 father ; and, at one time, as he looked up into his old bene- 
 factor's face, a solitary tear was observed to steal adown the 
 parched furrows of his cheek. Poor outcast ! It was the 
 last tear he shed ; but, I warrant, it was not the first, by 
 millions. 
 
 My grandfather watched him all night. Towards morn- 
 ing he gradually declined ; and, as the rising sun gleamed 
 through the window, he begged to be raised in his bed, that 
 he might look at it for the last time. He contemplated it a 
 moment with a kind of religious enthusiasm, and his lips 
 moved as if engaged in prayer. The strange conjectures 
 concerning him rushed on my grandfather's mind : " He is 
 an idolater," thought he, " and is worshipping the suu." 
 
NATIONAL READER. SI 
 
 He listened a moment, and blushed at his own uncharitable 
 suspicion. He was only engaged in the pious devotions of 
 a l>nstian. 
 
 His simple or'ison being finished, the little mm in black 
 withdrew his eyes from the east, and, taking my grandfather 
 by the hand, and making a motion with the other towards 
 the sun, " I love to contemplate it," said he : " it is an em- 
 blem of the universal benevolence of a true Christian ; and 
 it is the most glorious wojk of Him who is philanthro- 
 py itself." My grandfather blushed still deeper at his 
 ungenerous surmises. He had pitied the stranger at first ; 
 but now he revered him. He turned once more to regard 
 him, but his countenance had undergone a change : the 
 holy enthusiasm, that had lighted up each feature, had given 
 place to an expression of mysterious import : a gleam of 
 grandeur seemed to steal across his Gothic visage, and he 
 appeared full of some mighty secret which he hesitated to 
 impart. 
 
 He raised his tattered night-cap, which had sunk almost 
 over his eyes ; and, waving his withered hand with a slow 
 and feeble expression of dignity " In me," said he, with 
 laconic solemnity, " In me you behold the last descendant 
 of the renowned Linkum Fidelias !" My grandfather gazed 
 at him with reverence ; for, though he had never heard of 
 the illustrious personage, thus pompously announced, yet 
 there was a certain black-letter dignity in the name, that 
 peculiarly struck his fancy, and commanded his respect. 
 
 " You have been kind to me," continued the little man 
 in black, after a momentary pause, " and richly will I re- 
 quite your kindness by making you heir of my treasures ! 
 In yonder large deal box are the volumes of my illustrious 
 ancestor, of which I alone am the fortunate possessor. In- 
 herit them : ponder over them, and be wise." 
 
 He grew faint with the exertion he had made, and sunk 
 back, almost breathless, on his pillow. His hand, which, 
 inspired with the importance of the subject, he had raised to 
 my grandfather's arm, slipped from his hold, and fell over the 
 side of the bed ; and his faithful dog licked it, as if anxious 
 to soothe the last moments of his master, and testify his 
 gratitude to the hand that hatl so often cherished him. 
 
 The untaught caresses of the faithful animal were not 
 lost upon his dying master. He raised his languid eyes, 
 turned them on the dog, then on my grandfather, and, hav- 
 ing given this silent recommendation, -closed them forever. 
 
82 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 The remains of the little man in black, notwithstanding 
 the objections of many pious people, were decently interred 
 in the church-yard of the village : and his spirit, harmless 
 as the body it once animated, has never been known to 
 molest a living being. My grandfather complied, as far as 
 
 E3ssible, with his request. He conveyed the volumes of 
 inkum Fidelius to his library : he pondered over them 
 frequently : but whether he grew wiser, the tradition does 
 not mention. 
 
 This much is certain, that his kindness to the poor de- 
 scendant of Fidelius was amply rewarded by the approbation 
 of his own heart, and the devoted attachment of the old 
 turnspit ; who, transferring his affection from his deceased 
 master to his benefactor, became his constant attendant, and 
 was father to a long line of runty curs, that still flourish in 
 the family. And thus was the Cockloft library first enriched 
 by the valuable folios of the sage Linkum Fidelius. 
 
 LESSON XL. 
 
 Danger of being a good Singer. LONDON LITERARY 
 CHRONICLE. 
 
 ONE of the pithy remarks in Lacon, though I cannot 
 remember the precise words, amounts to this ; that any man, 
 who is an excellent amateur' singer, and reaches the age of 
 thirty, without, in some way or other, feeling the ruinous 
 effects of it, is an extraordinary^ man. " True it is, and 
 pity 'tis 'tis true," that a quality so pleasing, and one that 
 might be so innocent and so amiable, is often, through the 
 weakness of " poor human nature," converted into a bane, a 
 very pest, and occasions it to be remarked, when this mise- 
 rable result occurs, that a man had better croak like a frog, 
 than be a good singer. 
 
 That the ruin too frequently occasioned by a man's being 
 a good vocalist, arises from want of resolution, and from his 
 inability to say no, when invited to a feast; or, when there, 
 to use the same denying monosyllable, when pressed to take 
 another glass, and then what then ? why, another ; can- 
 not be denied ; and that such is the manifest and frequent 
 consequence, he who runs may read ! 
 
 A few mornings ago, I was accidentally reading the Morn- 
 
 * Pron. ex-tror'-de-ner-e. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 83 
 
 ing Herald, in the committee-room, when my attention was 
 roused by a sort of debate at the table, between the presid- 
 ing overseer, the master of the workhouse, and a pauper, 
 who wanted permission to go out for a hol'yday. On raising 
 my head, I discovered, in the pauper, a young man, rather 
 above thirty, to describe whose carbuncled face would be 
 impossible, and whose emaciated appearance bespoke pre- 
 mature decay, and the grossest intemperance ; whilst the 
 faculties of his mind were evidently shown, by his conver- 
 sation, to be as impaired as his body. 
 
 To my surprise, I discovered, in this shadow of a man, 
 one who had been, but a very few years prior to this, in a 
 good business, from which his father had retired with a com- 
 fortable fortune, and who is still living reputably in one of 
 the villages adjoining the metropolis. At the time I speak 
 of, I frequently met this young man at the Freemasons', the 
 Crown and Anchor, and other taverns, where public dinners 
 are held, and where he was always hailed with rapture, as a 
 second Braham ; and he really sung very delightfully ; but 
 he could not stand the flattery attendant on it, and the hard 
 drinking, which he thought necessary, poor fellow, but 
 which is well known to be a singer's greatest enemy. 
 
 He frequently attended two or three dinners in one day ; 
 and, in short, he altogether verified the old proverb of " a 
 short life and a merry one ;" and, descending in the scale 
 of society, step by step, he exchanged his elegant tavern 
 dining for evening clubs and free-and-easys, till, ejected 
 from the public-house parlour, he sunk into a frequent'er of 
 common tap-rooms, and an associater with the vilest of the 
 vile, he cared not whom, and, provided he could get liquor 
 to drink, he cared not what. 
 
 His business had been entirely lost, long before this utter 
 degradation ; though his friends had, from time to time, with 
 great sacrifices, upheld him ; and he was, at the period 
 spoken of, a pensioner on their bounty, and on the occa- 
 sional treats still procured by his failing voice ; till, at length, 
 finding he was attacked by a grim disease, and having 
 become so lost to all decency of feeling as to make it impos- 
 sible for his friends to take him into their houses, the parish 
 workhouse was- his only resource, where he is now paid tor 
 by those friends ; an older man in constitution than his 
 father, though still, by age, he ought to be numbered with 
 our youths. 
 
 After he had left the room, the overseer told me that, 
 
8 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 although, he could not find it in his heart to refuse this 
 lost being his reqaest, yet he knew that he would only go 
 begging round among his old friends and acquaintances, the 
 consequence of which would, in all probability, be several 
 days of intoxication before his return, when he would again 
 come into the workhouse, in the same sickly state, from 
 which, by good care and attention, he had been greatly re- 
 lieved. 
 
 Let this communication, every syllable of which is true, 
 sink deeply into the hearts of all my young male readers, 
 who are just entering into life, and who may happen to have 
 tolerable voices. Singing is an elegant, but, as I have shown, 
 a dangerous accomplishment. Far be it from me to assert, 
 that there are not many good singers, both public and pri- 
 vate, who are prudent men. I have only sketched, feebly 
 indeed, and slightly, what has been the result of musical 
 talent of this sort, and what, therefore, may be the result 
 again ; and I have good reason to know, that a fate, similar 
 to the one I have related, has befallen many a man besides 
 him of whom I have been writing, whose youthful pride 
 has been to be called a good singer. 
 
 LESSON XLI. 
 
 The Country Clergyman. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 NEAH yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich, with forty pounds a year; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place : 
 Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour : 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to ri 
 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train j 
 He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain. 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breasts 
 
NATIONAL READER. 55 
 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed : 
 *f he broken soldier, kindly bade^ to stay, 
 Satet by his fire 1 and talked the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their wo ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And even his failings leaned to virtue's side : 
 But, in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all : 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last, faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with Hnnhle sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, returned to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
 Even children followed with endearing wile. 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile; 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed : 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Bwells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 * Pron bad, t Pron. sat. 
 
 8 
 
86 NATIONAL HEADER. 
 
 LESSON XLII. 
 
 Parody* on the preceding. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 NEAR where yon brook flows babbling through the dell, 
 From whoso green bank those upland meadows swell, 
 See where the rector's splendid mansion stands, 
 Embosomed deep in new-enclosed lands, 
 Lands wrested from the indigent and poor, 
 Because, forsooth, he holds the village cure.t 
 A man is he whom all his neighbours fear, 
 Litigious, haughty, greedy, and severe ; 
 And starving, with a thousand pounds a year. 
 
 'Midst crowds and sports he passed his youthful prime ; 
 Retirement, had, with him., been deemed a crime : 
 When the young blood danced joc'und through his veins, 
 'Tis said his sacred stolet received some stains. 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour, 
 B} friends, or fawning, he lays claim to power : 
 For, three fat livings own his goodly sway ; 
 Two wretched curates starve upon his pay. 
 
 Celestial Charity, that heavenly guest, 
 Could ne'er find entrance to his close-locked breast 
 The common vagrants pass his well-known gate 
 With terror's hasty step, and looks of hate ; 
 For well they know the suffering poor he mocks ; 
 Their wants are promised Bridewell!! or the stocks. 
 The soldier, seamed with honourable scars, 
 The sailor, hasting from his country's wars, 
 In vain to him may tell their wo-fraught tale ; 
 Their wounds, their eloquence, may not prevail : 
 Though, by their valour, he in peace remains, 
 He never gives a mite, to soothe the wanderers' pains. 
 
 Thus to depress the wretched is his pride ; 
 His seeming virtues are to vice allied ; 
 Backward to duty, hateful to his ears 
 Sound the church bells to summon him to prayers ; 
 
 * Parody; A kind of writing, in which the words of an author, or bis 
 thoughts, are taken, and, by a slight change, adapted to some other subjocU 
 t Cure ; The office or employment of a curate or clergyman, 
 t Stole; A long robe worn by the clergy in England. 
 {] Bridewell; A house of correction. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 87 
 
 And, like the wolf that stole into the fold, 
 And slew the sheep, in woolly vestments rolled. 
 Still bent on gain, he watcheth night and day, 
 To rend and make God's heritage his prey. 
 
 Called to the bed where parting life is laid, 
 With what reluctance is the call obeyed ! 
 A few brief prayers in haste he mutters o'er, 
 For time is precious, and the sick man poor ; 
 Fancy, even now, depictures to his eye 
 Some neighbour's pigs forth- issuing from the sty, 
 Whose wicked snouts his new-formed banks uproot 
 Close in the ditch, and lop the hawthorn shoot. 
 Full many a luckless hog, in morning round, 
 He drives, deep grunting, to the starving pound. 
 
 When in the church, that venerable place, 
 A sullen frown o'erspreads his haughty face : 
 A preacher's frown conviction should impart, 
 But oft his smile should cheer the drooping heart. 
 He blunders through the prayers with hasty will, 
 A school-boy would be whipped who read so ill, 
 Then mounts the pulpit with a haughty mien, 
 Where more of pride than godliness is seen ; 
 Some fifteen minutes his discourse will last, 
 And thus the business of the week is past. 
 
 The service o'er, no friendly rustics run 
 To shake his hand ; his steps the children shun ; 
 None for advice or comfort round him press, 
 Their joys would charm not, nor their cares distress ; 
 To notice them they know he's all too proud ; 
 His liveried lackeys spurn the village crowd. 
 When for the mourner heaved his breast the sigh ! 
 When did compassion trickle from his eye ! 
 Careless is he if weal or wo betide, 
 If dues and tithes be punctually supplied. 
 
 Such is the man blind chance, not God, hath given 
 To be the guide of humble souls to heaven. 
 To preach of heaven he'll sometimes condescend, 
 But all his views and wishes earthward tend. 
 Like a tall guide-post, towering o'er the way, 
 Whose lettered arms the traveller's route display, 
 Fixed to one spot, it stands upon the down, 
 Its hand still pointing to the distant town. 
 
83 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XLIII. 
 
 Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 GOOD people all, with one accord, 
 Lament for Madam Blaize ; 
 
 Who never wanted a good word 
 From those who spoke her praise. 
 
 The needy seldom passed her door, 
 And always found her kind ; 
 
 She freely lent to all the poor 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighbourhood to please 
 With manner wonderous winning; 
 
 And never followed wicked ways- 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satins new, 
 With hoop of monstrous size, 
 
 She never slumbered in her pew 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver, 
 By twenty beaux, and more ; 
 
 The king himself has followed her 
 When she has walked before. 
 
 But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
 Her hangers-on cut short all, 
 
 Her doctors found, when she was dead 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 Let us lament, in sorrow sore ; 
 For Kent-Street well may say, 
 
 That, had she lived a twelvemonth more- 
 She had not died to-day. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 89 
 
 LESSON XLIV. 
 
 The sick Man and the Angel. GAY. 
 
 " Is there no hope ?" the sick man said : 
 The silent doctor shook his head ; 
 And took his leave with signs of sorrow, 
 Despairing of his fee to-morrow. 
 When thus the man, with gasping breath : 
 " I feel the chilling hand of death. 
 Since I must hid the world adieu, 
 Let me my former life review. 
 I grant my bargains were well made ; 
 But all men over-reach in trade. 
 'Tis self-defence in each profession : 
 Sure self-defence is no transgression. 
 
 " The little portion in my hands, 
 By good security on lands, 
 Is well increased. If, unawares, 
 My justice to myself and heirs 
 Hath let my debtor rot in jail, 
 For want of good sufficient bail ; 
 If I, by writ, or bond, or deed, 
 Reduced a family to need ; 
 My will hath made the world amends : 
 My hope on charity depends. 
 When I am numbered with the dead, 
 And all my pious gifts are read, 
 By heaven and earth ! 'twill then be known, 
 My charities were amply shown." 
 
 An Angel came. " Ah ! friend," he cried 
 " No more in flattering hopes confide : 
 Can thy good deeds, in former times, 
 Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? 
 What widow or what orphan prays 
 To crown thy life with length of days ? 
 A pious action's in thy power : 
 Embrace with joy the happy hour. 
 Now, while you draw the vital air, 
 Prove your intention is sincere : 
 This instant give a hundred pound : 
 Your neighbours want and you abound." 
 S* 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 " But why such haste ?" the sick man whines, 
 "Who knows as yet what heaven designs ! 
 Perhaps I may recover still : 
 That sum., and more, are in my will." 
 
 "Fool !" says the Vision, "now 'tis plain, 
 Your life, your soul, your heaven, was gain : 
 From every side, with all your might, 
 You scraped, and scraped beyond your right ; 
 And, after death, would fain atone, 
 By giving what is not your own." 
 " While there is life, there's hope," he cried : 
 "Then why such haste?" so groaned and died. 
 
 LESSON XLV. 
 
 The Voice of the Seasons. ALISON. 
 
 THERE is, in the revolution of time, a kind of warning 
 voice, which summons us to thought and reflection ; and 
 every season, as it arises, speaks to us of the analogous cha- 
 racter which we ought to maintain. From the first open- 
 ings of the spring, to the last desolation of winter, the days 
 of the year are emblematic of the state and of the duties of 
 man; and, whatever may be the period of our journey, we 
 can scarcely look up into the heavens, and mark the path 
 of the sun, without feeling either something to animate us 
 upon our course, or to reprove us for our delay. 
 
 When the spring appears, when the earth is covered with 
 its tender green, and the song of happiness is heard in every 
 shade, it is a call to us to religious hope and joy. Over the 
 infant year the breath of heaven seems to blow with pater- 
 nal softness, and the heart of man willingly partakes in the 
 joyfulness of awakened nature. 
 
 When summer reigns, and every element is filled with 
 life, and the sun, like a giant, pursues his course through 
 the firmament above, it is the season of adoration. We 
 see there, as it were, the majesty of the present God; and, 
 wherever we direct our eye, the glory of the Lord seems to 
 cover the earth as the waters cover the sea. 
 
 When autumn comes, and the annual miracle of nature is 
 completed, it is the appropriate season of thankfulness and 
 praise. The heart bends with instinctive gratitude before 
 
NATIONAL READER. 91 
 
 Him, whose benevolence neither slumbers nor sleeps, and 
 who, from the throne of glory, yet rernembereth the things 
 that are in heaven and earth. 
 
 The season of winter has also similar instructions. To 
 the thoughtful and the feeling mind it comes not without a 
 blessing upon its wings ; and perhaps the noblest lessons of 
 religion are to be learned amid its clouds and storms. 
 
 LESSON XL VI. 
 
 Anecdote of Richard Jackson. LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW. 
 
 DURING the war of independence in North America, a 
 plain farmer, Richard Jackson by name, was apprehended, 
 under such circumstances as proved, beyond all doubt, his 
 purpose of joining the king's forces ; an intention which he 
 was too honest to deny ; accordingly, he was delivered over 
 to the high sheriff, and committed to the county jail. The 
 prison was in such a state, that he might have found little 
 difficulty in escaping ; but he considered himself as in the 
 hands of authority, such as it was, and the same principle 
 of duty, which led him to take arms, made him equally 
 ready to endure the consequences. 
 
 After lying there a few days, he applied to the sheriff for 
 leave to go out and work by day, promising that he would 
 return regularly at night. His character for simple integrity 
 was so well known, that permission was given without hesi- 
 tation ; and, for eight months, Jackson went out every day 
 to labour, and as duly came back to prison at night. In the 
 month of May, the sheriff prepared to conduct him to Spring- 
 field, where he was to be tried for high treason. Jackson 
 said, this would be a needless trouble and expense; he could 
 save the sheriff both, and go just as well by himself. 
 
 His word was once more taken, and he set off alone, to 
 present himself for trial and certain condemnation. On the 
 way he was overtaken in the woods by Mr. Edwards- a 
 member of the council of Massachusetts, which, at thnt time, 
 was the supreme executive of the state. This gentleman 
 asked him whither he was going. "To Springfield, sir," 
 was his answer, "to be tried for my life." To this casual 
 interview Jackson owed his escape, when, having been found 
 guilty, and condemned to death, application was made to 
 the council for mercy. 
 
92 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 The evidence and the sentence were stated, and the pre- 
 sident put the question, whether a pardon should be granted. 
 It was opposed by the first speaker : the case, he said, was 
 perfectly clear; the act was unquestionably high treason, 
 and the proof complete ; and if mercy was shown in this 
 case, he saw no reason why it should not be granted in 
 every other. 
 
 Few governments have understood how just and politic it 
 is to be merciful : this hard-hearted opinion accorded with 
 the temper of the times, and was acquiesced in by one mem- 
 ber after another, till it came to Mr. Edwards' turn to speak. 
 Instead of delivering his opinion, he simply related the 
 whole story of Jackson's singular demeanour, and what had 
 passed between them in the woods. 
 
 For the honour of Massachusetts, and of human nature, 
 not a man was found to weaken its effect by one of those 
 dry, legal remarks, which, like a blast of the desert, wither 
 the heart they reach. The council began to hesitate, and, 
 when a member ventured to say, that such a man certainly 
 ought not to be sent to the gallows, a natural feeling of 
 humanity and justice prevailed, and a pardon was imme- 
 diately made out. 
 
 Never was a stronger proof exhibited that honesty is wis- 
 dom. And yet, it was not the man's honesty, but his child- 
 like simplicity, which saved his life ; without that simplicity 
 his integrity would have availed him little ; in fact, it was 
 his crime ; for it was for doing what, according to the prin- 
 ciples wherein he had been born and bred, he believed to be 
 his duty, that he was brought to trial and condemned. 
 This it is which renders civil and religious wars so peculiar- 
 ly dreadful ; and, in the history of such wars, every incident, 
 which serves to reconcile us to humanity, ought carefully to 
 be preserved. 
 
 LESSON XL VII. 
 
 Falls of Niag'ara. HOWISON, 
 
 THE form of Niagara Falls is that of an irregular semi- 
 circle,^ about three quarters of a mile in extent. This is 
 
 . * Pron. sem'-e-ser Id. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 93 
 
 divided into two distinct cascades by the intervention of 
 Goat Island, the extremity of which is perpendicular, and 
 in a line with the precipice, over which the water is pro- 
 jected. The cataract on the Canada side of the river is 
 called the Horseshoe, or Great Fall, from its peculiar form ; 
 and that next the United States, the American Fall. 
 
 Three extensive views of the Falls may be obtained from 
 three different places. In general, the first opportunity tra- 
 vellers have of seeing the cataract is from the high-road, 
 which, at one point, lies near the bank of the river. This 
 place, however, being considerably above the level of the 
 Falls, and a good way beyond them, affords a view that is 
 comparatively imperfect and un imposing. 
 
 The Table Rock, from which the Falls of the Niagara may 
 be contemplated in all their grandeur, lies on an exact level 
 with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side, and indeed 
 forms a part of the precipice, over which the water rushes. 
 It derives its name from the circumstance of its projecting 
 beyond the cliffs that support it, like the leaf of a table. To 
 gain this position, it is necessary to descend a steep bank, 
 and to follow a path that winds among shrubbery and trees, 
 which entirely conceal from the eye the scene that awaits 
 him who traverses it. 
 
 When near the termination of this road, a few steps car- 
 ried me beyond all these obstructions, and a magnificent 
 amphitheatre of cataracts burst upon my view with appalling 
 suddenness and majesty. However, in a moment, the scene 
 was concealed from my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, 
 which involved me so completely, that I did not dare to ex- 
 tricate myself. 
 
 A mingled and thundering rushing filled my ears. I could 
 see nothing, except when the wind made a chasm in the 
 spray, and then tremendous cataracts seemed to encompass 
 me on every side ; while, below, a raging and foamy gulf, of 
 undiscoverable extent, lashed the rocks with its hissing 
 waves, and swallowed, under a horrible obscurity, the smok- 
 ing floods that were precipitated into its bosom. 
 
 At first the sky was obscured by clouds, but, after a few 
 minutes, the sun burst forth, and the breeze, subsiding at 
 the same time; permitted the spray to ascend perpendicu- 
 larly. A host of pyram'idal clouds rose majestically, one 
 after another, from, the abyss at the bottom of the Fall ; arid 
 each, when it had ascended a little above the edge of the 
 cataract, displayed a beautiful rainbow, which, in a few 
 
 t > **t I 
 - V , $ . 
 
 V * k ^ I 
 
94 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 moments, was gradually transferred into the bosom of the 
 cloud that immediately succeeded. 
 
 The spray of the Great Fall had extended itself through 
 a wide space directly over me, and, receiving the full influ- 
 ence of the sun, exhibited a luminous and magnificent rain- 
 bow, which continued to overarch and irradiate the spot on 
 which I stood, while I enthusiastically contemplated the 
 indescribable scene. 
 
 Any person, who has nerve enough, may plunge his hand 
 into the water of the Great Fall, after it is projected over the 
 precipice, merely by lying down fiat, with his face beyond 
 the edge of the Table Rock, and stretching out his arm to 
 its utmost extent. The experiment is truly a horrible one, 
 and such as I would not wish to repeat; for, even to this 
 day, I feel a shuddering and recoiling sensation when I re- 
 collect having been in the posture above described. 
 
 The body of water, which composes the middle part of 
 the Great Fall, is so immense, that it descends nearly two- 
 ' thirds of the space without being ruffled or broken ; and the 
 solemn calmness, with which it rolls over the edge of the 
 precipice, is finely contrasted with the perturbed appearance 
 it assumes after having reached the gulf below. But the 
 water, towards each side of the Fall, is shattered the moment 
 it drops over the rock, and loses, as it descends, in a great 
 measure, the character of a fluid, being divided into pyram'- 
 idal-shaped fragments, the bases of which are turned up- 
 wards. 
 
 The surface of the gulf, below the cataract, presents a 
 very singular aspect ; seeming, as it were, filled with an im- 
 mense quantity of hoar frost, which is agitated by small and 
 rapid undulations. The particles of water are dazzlingly 
 white, and do not apparently unite together, as might be 
 supposed, but seem to continue for a time in a state of 
 distinct comminution, and to repel each other with a 
 thrilling and shivering motion, which cannot easily be de- 
 scribed. 
 
 The road to the bottom of the Fall presents many more 
 difficulties than that which leads to the Table Rock. After 
 leaving the Table Rock, the traveller must proceed down 
 the river nearly half a mile, where he will come to a small 
 chasm in the bank, in which there is q. spiral staircase en- 
 closed in a wooden building. By descending the stair, 
 which is seventy or eighty feet perpendicular height, he 
 will find himself under the precipice, on the top of which 
 
NATIONAL HEADER 95 
 
 he formerly walked. A high but sloping hank extends from 
 its hase to the edge of the river ; and, on the summit of this, 
 there is a narrow, slippery path, covered with angular frag- 
 ments of rock, which leads to the Great Fall. 
 
 The impending cliffs, hung with a profusion of trees and 
 brushwood, overarch this road, and seem to vibrate with the 
 thunders of the cataract. In some places they rise abruptly 
 to the height of one hundred feet, and display, upon their 
 surfaces, fossil shells, and the organic remains of a former 
 world ; thus sublimely leading the mind to contemplate the 
 convulsions which nature has undergone since the crea- 
 tion. 
 
 As the traveller advances, he is frightfully stunned by the 
 appalling noise ; clouds of spray sometimes envelope him, 
 and suddenly check his faltering steps ; rattlesnakes start 
 from the cavities of the rocks ; and the scream of eagles, 
 soaring among the whirlwinds of eddying vapour, which 
 obscure the gulf of the cataract, at intervals announces that 
 the raging waters have hurled some bewildered animal over 
 the precipice. After scrambling among piles of huge rocks 
 that obstruct his way, the traveller gains the bottom of the 
 Fall, where the soul can be susceptible only of one emo- 
 tion, that of uncontrollable terror. 
 
 It was not until I had, by frequent excursions to the Falls, 
 in some measure familiarized my mind with their sublimities, 
 that I ventured to explore the recesses of the Great Cata- 
 ract. The precipice over which it rolls is very much arched 
 underneath, while the impetus, which the water receives in 
 its descent, projects it far beyond the cliff, and thus an im- 
 mense Gothic arch is forrried by the rock and the torrent. 
 Twice I entered this cavern, and twice I was obliged to 
 retrace my steps, lest I should be suffocated by the blast of 
 dense spray that whirled around me : however, the third 
 time, I succeeded in advancing about twenty-five yards. 
 
 Here darkness began to encircle me. On one side, the 
 black cliff stretched itself into a gigantic arch far above my 
 head, and, on the other, the dense and hissing torrent formed 
 an impenetrable sheet of foam, with which I was drenched 
 in a moment. The rocks were so slippery, that I could 
 hardly keep my feet, or hold securely by them ; while the 
 horrid din made me think the precipices above were tumbling 
 down in colossal fragments upon my head. ###'# 
 
 A little way below the Great Fall, the river is, compara- 
 tively speaking, 30 tr anquilj that % ferry-boat plies between 
 
S6 NATlOJNAju HEADER. 
 
 the Canada and American shores, for the convenience of 
 travellers. When I first crossed, the heaving flood tossed 
 about the skiff with a violence that seemed very alarming j 
 but, as soon as we gained the middle of the river, my atten-* 
 tion was altogether engaged by the surpassing grandeur of 
 the scene before me. 
 
 I was now within the area of a semicircle of cataracts 
 more than three thousand feet in extent, and floated on the 
 surface of a gulf, raging, fathomless, and interminable. Ma- 
 jestic cliffs, splendid rainbows, lofty trees, and columns of 
 spray, were the gorgeous decorations of this theatre of won- 
 ders : while a dazzling sun shed refulgent glories upon every 
 part of the scene. Surrounded with clouds of vapour, and 
 stunned into a state of confusion and terror by the hideous 
 noise, I looked upwards to the height of one hundred and 
 fifty feet, and saw vast floods, dense, awful, and stupendous, 
 vehemently bursting over the precipice, and rolling down* 
 as if the windows of heaven were opened to pour another 
 deluge upon the earth. 
 
 Loud sounds, resembling discharges of artillery or volca- 
 nic explosions, were now distinguishable amidst the watery 
 tumult, and added terrors to the abyss from which they 
 issued. The sun, looking majestically through the ascend- 
 ing spray, was encircled by a radiant halo ; while fragments 
 of rainbows floated on every side, and momentarily vanished, 
 only to give place to a succession of others more brilliant. 
 
 Looking backwards, I saw the Niagara River, again be- 
 come calm and tranquil, rolling magnificently between the 
 towering cliffs, that rose on either side. A gentle breeze 
 ruffled the waters, and beautiful birds fluttered around, as if 
 to welcome its egress from those clouds, and thunders, and 
 rainbows, which were the heralds of its precipitation into the 
 abyss of the cataract. 
 
 LESSON XLVIIT. 
 
 Niagara Falls* 
 
 TREMENDOUS torrent ! for an instant hush 
 The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside 
 
 * From the United States Reviev/ and Literary Gazette, translated 
 the Spanish of Joss MARIA HEREDIA, by T. T. PAYNK. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 97 
 
 Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes 
 
 May see the fearful beauty of thy face ! 
 
 I am not all unworthy of thy sight ; 
 
 For, from my very boyhood, have 1 loved, 
 
 Shunning the meaner track of common minds, 
 
 To look on nature in her loftier moods. 
 
 At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, 
 
 At the near bursting of the thunderbolt; 
 
 I have been touched with joy ; and, when the sea, 
 
 Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed 
 
 Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved 
 
 Its dangers and the wrath of elements. 
 
 But never yet the madness of the sea 
 
 Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now. 
 
 Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves 
 Grow broken 'midst the rocks ; thy current then 
 Shoots onward, like the irresistible course 
 Of destiny. Ah ! terribly they rage 
 The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My brain 
 Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze 
 Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight 
 Vainly would follow, as toward the verge 
 Sweeps the wide torrent waves innumerable 
 Meet there and madden waves innumerable 
 Urge on and overtake the waves before, 
 And disappear in thunder and in foam. 
 
 They reach they leap the barrier : the abyss 
 Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves. 
 A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods 
 Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock 
 Shatters to vapour the descending sheets : 
 A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves 
 The mighty pyramid of circling mist 
 To heaven. The solitary hunter, near, 
 Pauses with terror in the forest shades. 
 
 * ^ * # 
 
 God of all truth ! in other lands I've seen 
 Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, 
 Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw 
 Their fellows deep into impiety ; 
 And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face 
 In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here 
 My heart dotii open all itself to thee, 
 In this immensity of loneliness 
 9 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 1 feel thy hand upon me. To my ear 
 The eternal thunder of the cataract brings 
 Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. 
 
 Dread torrent ! that with wonder and with fear 
 Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks 
 Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, 
 Whence hast thou thy beginning ? Who supplies, 
 Age after age, thy unexhausted springs ? 
 What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight 
 Descends into the deep, the swollen waves 
 Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth ? 
 
 The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, 
 Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice 
 To thy down-rushing waters ; he hath girt 
 Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow* 
 I see thy never-resting waters run, 
 And I bethink me how the tide of time 
 Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man, 
 Pass, like a noon-day dream, the blossoming days, 
 And he awakes to sorrow. ^ 
 
 Hear, dread Niagara ! my latest voice. 
 Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
 Over the bones of him who sings thee now 
 Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse, 
 Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile, 
 Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, 
 Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds 
 To listen to the echoes of my fame. 
 
 LESSON XLIX. 
 Cataract at Terni.* 
 
 THERE is a rare union of beauty and grandeur in the 
 Falls of Terni. Though the quantity of water be much 
 less than the Rhine discharges at Schaifhausen, yet the 
 scene is much more imposing, from the greater height of the 
 precipice. Niagara alone more completely absorbs the ima- 
 
 * Tiiis beautiful description is extracted from a very elegant volume pub- 
 li shed by Messrs. Constable and Co. in 1823, under the title of "Essays, 
 descriptive and moral; or, Scenes, in Jtaly, Switzerland Holland, and 
 France by an 
 
NATIONAL READER. 99 
 
 gination. The American cataract has an overwhelming 
 majesty that belongs to its flood of waters, and which, at 
 first, stupifies the faculties of every observer; hut Terni 
 has an attractive grandeur, which induces you to advance 
 deliberately to examine a wonder which nature and art have 
 united to produce. 
 
 The rapids in the American river, before you reach the 
 edge of the precipice, combined with the distant roar of the 
 falls, form a more sublime spectacle than the full view of 
 Schaffhausen, while the prospect from the Table Rock is 
 like a glance into eternity. We are ob ? iged to call up the 
 force of our minds to keep us from recoiling with dread. 
 But at the Cascata del Marmore, as this Italian waterfall is 
 styled, the eye rests upon the scene with a pleasing astonish- 
 ment, in which there is more of delight than terror. 
 
 It is situated at a few miles distance from Terni. The 
 country is beautifully romantic. The road lies, for the most 
 part, through fields of olive trees. AtPapinia you aie oblig- 
 ed to leave the carriage; and, after descending and cross- 
 ing the Nera, and traversing a garden and beautiful line of 
 orange trees, you approach the celebrated fall. 
 
 When I saw it, the melting of the snow, and the late 
 rains, had swollen the river to nearly double its ordinary 
 size. This outlet for the lake Velinus has been most hap- 
 pily chosen ; for there are few situations where an artificial 
 cataract could be more than beautiful ; but this is exquisite. 
 An ancient castle crowns the summit of the lofty mountain 
 near you ; and numberless rills run down near the main 
 sheet of water. 
 
 But one of the most beautiful objects is occasioned by the 
 quantity of foam produced by the fall, which ascends in 
 clouds, and, being collected by a projecting ridge, runs down 
 in innumerable little cascades ; and, as you cannot, at first, 
 divine the cause, the rock seems bursting with the waters 
 it holds in its bosom. Besides its other attributes, this fall 
 has the best of all charms, association. It is in Italy ! it 
 is a work of the Romans ! these foaming waters wash the 
 walls of the Eternal City! 
 
 When the admirer of nature's wonders visits Niagara, he 
 travels through extensive forests, just beginning to be the 
 residence of civilized men ; and he reflects upon the gene- 
 rations of aboriginal inhabitants tha.t vanished from these 
 woods during many centuries, as the foam of the cataract 
 shas risen daily, to fall again, and to be swept away. But 
 
100 NATIONAL READER, 
 
 they have passed, and have left no memorial: the traveller 
 is forced inward for topics of meditation : the scene wants 
 drapery : it is too much like the summit of Chimborazo, 
 of unequalled loftiness, but freezing cold. 
 
 On the contrary, the Fall of Velino has heen approached 
 in a course from the vale of Clitumnus towards the banks 
 of the Tiber ; the ruin of Augustus' bridge, at Narni, is to 
 be the picture of to-morrow ; Agrippa's Pantheon is soon to 
 be seen. We have not the feeling of sadness, that we are 
 at the end of an enjoyment, when we have beheld this won- 
 der, a sentiment which forces itself upon the traveller who 
 stands between Erie and Ontario. Such causes give a 
 richness and mellowness to the scene, which cannot operate 
 upon the American cataract. 
 
 Yet, with all this, if we could select but one of the two 
 wonders to be seen, it would not be easy to decide between 
 their respective claims. Men of the sterner mould would 
 choose the object of unmingled sublimity, and those of 
 milder sentiment, that which is the perfection of grandeur 
 and beauty. It is not unlike a comparison between Homer 
 and Virgil. 
 
 The impression which is produced by the sight of a great 
 waterfall is unique.^ Unlike any of our other feelings, it 
 makes the most giddy thoughtful, and offers many points of 
 comparison with human life. The landmarks are perma- 
 nent as the fields we live in ; the waters fleeting as our 
 breath ; the plunge that they make into unknown depths, 
 like our descent into the grave ; the rainbow, that sits upon 
 the abyss, like our hope of immortality. 
 
 There is the dread of danger, and the curiosity of hope, 
 and the impression of the irresistible im'petus by which we 
 are borne forward, to make us feel that we too are gliding 
 onward, though sometimes as unconscious as the bubble, 
 to the gulf of eternity, into which the troubled waters of life 
 discharge themselves. An immortal and immutable condi- 
 tion awaits us, though we sport with what seems to be the 
 contingencies of existence. 
 
 How often are we reckless of the star that might guide, 
 &nd the chart that should direct us in our voyage, while we 
 are floating onward and onward, with accelerated velocity, 
 to the last leap of life ! It is the highest crime a man can 
 commit against reason and revelation, if he ventures to 
 make that leap in the dark. 
 
 * Pron. u-neck'. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 101 
 
 LESSON L. 
 
 A West Indian Landscape. MALTE-BRUN. 
 
 IN order to make our readers better acquainted with this 
 country, we shall attempt to describe a morning in the An- 
 tilles. For this purpose, let us watch the moment when 
 the sun, appearing through a cloudless and serene atmos- 
 phere, illumines with his rays the summits of the mountains, 
 and gilds the leaves of the plantain and orange trees. The 
 plants are spread over with gossamer of fine and transparent 
 silk, or gemmed with dew-drops and the vivid hues of in- 
 dustrious insects, reflecting unnumbered tints from the rays 
 f the sun. 
 
 The aspect of the richly cultivated valleys is different, but 
 not less pleasing ; the whole of nature teems with the most 
 varied productions. It often happens, after the sun has dis- 
 sipated the mist above the crystal expanse of the ocean, that 
 the scene is changed by an optical illusion. The spectator 
 observes sometimes a sand-bank rising out of the deep, or 
 distant canoes in the red clouds, floating in an aerial sea, 
 while their shadows, at the same time, are accurately deli- 
 neated below them. This phenomenon, to which the French 
 have given the name of mirage,* is not uncommon in equa- 
 torial climates. 
 
 Europeans may admire the views in this archipelagot 
 during the cool temperature of the morning: the lofty moun- 
 tains are adorned with thick foliage; the hills, from their 
 summits to the very borders of the sea, are fringed with 
 plants of never-fading verdure ; the mills, and sugar-works 
 near them, are obscured by their branches, or buried in 
 their shade. 
 
 The appearance of the valleys is remarkable. To form 
 even an imperfect idea of it, we must group t together the 
 palm tree, the cocoa nut, and mountain cabbage, with the 
 tamarind, the orange, and the waving plumes of the bamboo 
 cane. Fields of sugar-cane, the houses of the planters, 
 the huts of the negroes, and the distant coast lined with 
 ships, add to the beauty of a West Indian landscape. At sun- 
 rise, when no breeze ripples the surface of the ocean, it is 
 frequently so transparent that one can perceive, as if there 
 
 * Pron. me-razhe. t ar-ke-pel'-a-go. I groop. 
 
 9* 
 
102 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 were no intervening medium, the channel of the water, and 
 observe the shell-fish scattered on the rocks or reposing on 
 the sand. 
 
 A hurricane is generally preceded by an awful stillness 
 of the elements; the air becomes close and heavy; the sun 
 is red ; and the stars at night seem unusually large. Fre- 
 quent changes take place in the thermometer, which rises 
 sometimes from eighty to ninety degrees. Darkness extends 
 over the earth ; the higher regions gleam with lightning. 
 
 The impending storm is first observed on the sea : foam- 
 ing mountains rise suddenly from its clear and motionless 
 surface. The wind rages with unrestrained fury : its noise 
 may be compared to distant thunder. The rain descends in 
 torrents ; shrubs and lofty trees are borne down by the moun- 
 tain streams ; the rivers overflow their banks, and submerge 
 the plains. 
 
 Terror and consternation seem to pervade the whole of 
 animated nature ; land birds are driven into the ocean, and 
 those whose element is the sea, seek for refuge in the woods. 
 The frighted beasts of the field herd together, or roam in 
 vain for a place of shelter. It is not a contest of two oppo- 
 site winds, or a roaring ocean that shakes the earth : all the 
 elements are thrown into confusion ; the equilibrium of the 
 atmosphere seems as if it were destroyed; and nature ap- 
 pears to hasten to her ancient chaos. 
 
 Scenes of sudden desolation have often been disclosed in 
 these islands to the morning's sun : uprooted trees, branches 
 shivered from their trunks, and the ruins of houses, have 
 been strewed^ over the land. The planter is sometimes 
 unable to distinguish the pla.ce of his former possessions. 
 Fertile valleys are changed in a few hours into dreary 
 wastes, covered with the carcasses of domestic animals and 
 the fowls of heaven. 
 
 LESSON LL 
 
 Infaicnces of Natural Scenery favourable to Devotional 
 Feelings, BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 WHATEVER leads our minds habitually to the Author of 
 the universe ; whatever mingles the voice of nature with 
 the revelation of the Gospel ; whatever teaches us to see 
 
 * Pron. strowcd. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 103 
 
 in all the changes of the world, the varied goodness of Him, 
 in whom "we live, and move, and have our being," brings 
 us nearer to the spirit of the Saviour of mankind. But it is 
 not only as encouraging a sincere devotion, that these re- 
 flections are favourable to Christianity ; there is something, 
 moreover, peculiarly allied to its spirit in such observations 
 of external nature. 
 
 When our Saviour prepared himself for his temptation, 
 his agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judea, 
 to inhale, we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amidst 
 its solitary scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion 
 with his Father, amidst the subiimest of his wo^ks. It is 
 with similar feelings, and to worship the same Father, that 
 the Christian is permitted to enter the temple of nature; 
 and, by the spirit of his religion, there is a language infused 
 into the objects which she presents, unknown to the wor- 
 shipper of former times. 
 
 To all, indeed, the same objects appear, the same sun 
 shines, the same heavens are open ; but to the Christian 
 alone it is permitted to know the Author of these things ; 
 to see his spirit "move in the breeze and blossom in the 
 spring;" and to read, in the changes which occur in the 
 material world, the varied expression of eternal love. It is 
 from the influence of Christianity, accordingly, that the key 
 has been given to the signs of nature. It was only when 
 the spirit of God moved on the face of the deep, that order 
 and beauty were seen in the world. 
 
 It is, accordingly, peculiarly well worthy of observation, 
 that the beauty of nature, as felt in modern times, seems to 
 have been almost unknown to the writers of antiquity. 
 They described, occasionally, the scenes in which they 
 dwelt; but,- if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems 
 to have anticipated, in this instance, the influence of the 
 Gospel, never with any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, 
 as now, the citadel of Athens looked upon the evening sun, 
 and her temples flamed in his seeing beam; but what Athe- 
 nian writer ever described the matchless glories of the 
 scene ? Then, as now, the silvery clouds of the ^Egean 
 Sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in the azure 
 vault of heaven ; but what Grecian poet has been inspired 
 by the sight ? 
 
 The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless 
 sky, and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around 
 thorn ; yet even Eustace tells us, that a few detached fee* 
 
104 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 is all that is left In regard to them by the Roman poets. The 
 Alps themselves, 
 
 " The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 And throned eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 The avalanche the thunderbolt of SDOW/' 
 
 even these, the most glorious objects which the eye of man 
 can behold, were regarded by the ancients with sentiments 
 only of dismay or horror ; as a barrier from hostile nations, 
 or as the dwelling of barbarous tribes. The torch of religion 
 had not then lightened the face of nature ; they knew not 
 the language which she spoke, nor felt that holy spirit, 
 which, to the Christian, gives the sublimity of these scenes. 
 
 There is something, therefore, in religious reflections on 
 the objects, or the changes of nature, which is peculiarly fit- 
 ting in a Christian teacher. No man will impress them on 
 his heart without becoming happier and better, without 
 feeling warmer gratitude for the beneficence of nature, and 
 deeper thankfulness for the means of knowing the Author of 
 this beneficence which revelation has afforded. 
 
 "Behold the lilies of the field," says our Saviour; "they 
 toil not, neither do they spin : yet, verily I say unto you, that 
 even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of 
 these." In these words, we perceive the deep sense which 
 he entertained of the beauty even of the minutest of the 
 works of nature. If the admiration of external objects is 
 not directly made the object of his precepts, it is not, on that 
 account, the less allied to the spirit of religion ; it fprings 
 from the revelation which he has made, and grows with the 
 spirit which he inculcates. 
 
 The cultivation of this feeling, we may suppose, is pur- 
 posely left to the human mind, that man may be induced to 
 follow it from the charms which novelty confers ; and the 
 sentiments which it awakens are not expressly enjoined, 
 that they may be enjoyed as the spontaneous growth of 
 our own imagination. While they seem, however, to spring 
 up unbidden in the mind, they are, in fact, produced by 
 the spirit of religion ; and those who imagine that they 
 are not the fit subject of Christian instruction, are ignorant 
 of the secret workings, and finer analogies, of the faith 
 which they profess x 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LIT. 
 
 Passage of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers through the 
 Blue Ridge. JEFFERSON. 
 
 THE passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, is, 
 perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You 
 stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes 
 up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the 
 mountain a hundred miles, to seek a vent. On your left 
 approaches the Potomac, in quest of a passage also. In the 
 moment of their junction they rash together against the 
 mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. 
 
 The first glance of this scene hurries our senses into the 
 opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the 
 mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow 
 afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been 
 dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have 
 formed an ocean, which filled the whole valley; that, con- 
 tinuing to rise, they have, at length, broken over at this 
 spot, and have torn the mountain down, from its summit to 
 its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly 
 on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture 
 and avulsion from their beds, by the most powerful agents 
 of nature, corroborate this impression. 
 
 But the distant finishing, which nature has given to the 
 picture, is of a very different character. It is a true contrast 
 to the fore-ground. Thnt is as placid and delightful, as this 
 is wild and tremendous. 'For the mountain, being cloven 
 asunder, presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small 
 catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the 
 plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and 
 tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach and par- 
 ticipate of the calm below. 
 
 Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that way, 
 too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Poto- 
 mac above the junction, pass along its side through the base 
 of the mountain, for three miles ; its terrible precipices 
 hanging in fragments over you. This scene is worth a voy- 
 age across the Atlantic, ^et here, as in the neighbourhood 
 of the Natural Bridge, are people, who have passed their 
 lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to 
 
106 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 survey these monuments of a war between rivers and 
 mountains which must have shaken the earth itself to its 
 centre. 
 
 LESSON LIU. 
 
 The Blind Boy. BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 WHERE'S the blind child, so admirably fair, 
 With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair 
 That waves in every breeze ? He's often seen 
 Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green, 
 With others, matched in spirit and in size, 
 Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes 
 That full expanse of voice, to childhood dear, 
 Soul of their sports, is duly cherished here ; 
 And, hark! that laugh is his, that jovial cry; 
 He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by, 
 And runs the giddy course with all his might, 
 A very child in every thing but sight. 
 
 With circumscribed, but not abated powers,-^- 
 Play the great object of his infant hours,- 
 In many a game he takes a noisy part, 
 And shows the native gladness of his heart 
 But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent, 
 The new suggestion and the quick assent : 
 The grove invites, delight thrills every breast : 
 To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest, 
 Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind , ' 
 And one companion leave, the boy is blind ! 
 
 His fancy paints their distant paths so gay, 
 That childish fortitude awhile gives way : 
 He feels his dreadful loss : yet short the pain : 
 Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again. 
 Pondering how best his moments to employ, 
 He sings his little songs of nameless joy, 
 Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour, 
 And plucks, by chance, the white and yellow flower; 
 Smoothing their stems, while resting on his knees, 
 He binds a nosegay which he never sees ; 
 Along the homeward path then feels his way, 
 Lifting his brow against the shining day, 
 And, with a playful rapture round his eyes, 
 Presents a sighing parent with the prize.. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 107 
 
 LESSON LIV. 
 
 A Thought on Death. Miis. BARBAULD** 
 
 WHEN life as opening buds is sweet, 
 And golden hopes the spirit greet, 
 Arid youth prepares his joys to meet, 
 Alas ! how hard it is to die ! 
 
 When scarce is seized some valued prize, 
 And duties press, and tender ties 
 Forbid the soul from earth to rise, 
 
 How awful then it is to die ! 
 
 When, one by one, those ties are torn, 
 And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, 
 And man is left alone to mourn, 
 
 Ah ! then, how easy 'tis to die 
 
 When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
 And films, slow-gathering, dim the sight, 
 And clouds obscure the mental light, 
 
 'Tis nature's precious boon to die ! 
 
 When faith is strong, and conscience clear, 
 And words of peace the spirit cheer, 
 And -visioned glories half appear, 
 
 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph, then to die ! 
 
 LESSON LV. 
 
 The Old Man's Funeral BRYANT. 
 
 I SAW an aged man upon his bier : 
 
 His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
 A record of the cares of many a year ; 
 
 Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 
 And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, 
 And women's tears fell fast, and children wailed uloud 
 
 * Written after she had passed her eightieth year. 
 
IDS NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Then rose another hoary man, and said, 
 
 In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 
 " Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead ? 
 
 Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 
 Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 
 Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast. 
 
 " Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 
 His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 
 
 In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
 Sinks where the islands of refreshment lie, 
 
 And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 
 O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head. 
 
 " Why weep ye then for him, who, having run 
 The hound of man's appointed years, at last, 
 
 Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done, 
 Serenely to his final rest has passed? 
 
 While the soft memory of his virtues yet 
 Lingers, like twilight hues r when the bright sun is set. 
 
 ' His youth was innocent; his riper age 
 
 Marked with some act of goodness every day; 
 
 And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage 
 Faded his late-declining years away. 
 
 Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 
 To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 
 
 " That life was happy ; every day. he gave 
 
 Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 
 For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 
 
 To mock him with her phantom miseries. 
 No chronic^ tortures racked his aged limb, 
 For luxury and sloth had nourished nonet for him. 
 
 "And I am glad that he has lived thus long; 
 
 And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 
 Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong, 
 
 Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
 When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye 
 Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 
 
 * A chronic disease is one of long duration. t Pron. nua. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 109 
 
 LESSON LVL 
 
 Sunday Evening. Bo WRING. 
 
 How shall I praise tliee, Lord of light ? 
 
 How shall I all thy love declare ? 
 The earth is veiled in shades of night ; 
 
 But heaven is open to my prayer ; 
 That heaven, so bright with stars and suns ; 
 
 That glorious heaven, which knows no bound ; 
 Where the full tide of being runs, 
 
 And life and beauty glow around. 
 From thence, thy seat of light divine, 
 
 Circled by thousand streams of bliss, 
 Which calmly flow and brightly shine, 
 
 Say, to a world so mean as this, 
 Canst thou direct thy pitying eye ? 
 
 How shall my thoughts expression find, 
 All lost in thy immensity ! 
 
 How shall I seek, thou infinite Mind, 
 Thy holy presence, God sublime ! 
 
 Whose power and wisdom, love and grace, 
 Are greater than the round of time, 
 
 And wider than the bounds of space ! 
 
 Gently the shades of night descend ; 
 
 Thy temple, Lord, is calm and still ; 
 A thousand lamps of ether blend, 
 
 A thousand fires that temple fill, 
 To honour thee. 'Tis bright and fair, 
 
 As if the very heavens, impressed 
 With thy pure image smiling there, 
 
 In all their loveliest robes were dressed. 
 Yet thou canst turn thy friendly eye 
 
 From that immeasurable throne ; 
 Thou, smiling on humanity, 
 
 Dost claim earth's children for thy own, 
 And gently, kindly, lead them through 
 
 Life's varied scenes of joy and gloom, 
 Till evening's pale and pearly dew 
 
 Tips the green sod that decks their tomb. 
 10 
 
110 K.T10NAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LVII. 
 The Star of Bethlehem. J. G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 BRIGHTER than the rising day, 
 
 When the sun of glory shines ; 
 Brighter than the diamond's ray, 
 
 Sparkling in Golconda's mines ; 
 Beaming through the clouds of wo, 
 
 Smiles in Mercy's diadem 
 On the guilty world below, 
 
 The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 
 
 When our eyes are dimmed with tears, 
 
 This can light them up again, 
 Sweet as music to our ears, 
 
 Faintly warbling o'er the plain. 
 Never shines a ray so bright 
 
 From the purest earthly gem ; 
 O ! there is no soothing light 
 
 Like the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Grief's dark clouds may o'er us roll, 
 
 Every heart may sink in wo, 
 Gloomy conscience rack the soul, 
 
 And sorrow's tears in torrents flow ; 
 Still, through all these clouds and storms 
 
 Shines this purest heavenly gem, 
 With a ray that kindly warms 
 
 The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 
 
 When we cross the roaring wave 
 
 That rolls on life's remotest shore ; 
 When we look into the grave, 
 
 And wander through this world no more 
 This, the lamp whose genial ray, 
 
 Like some brightly-glowing gem, 
 Points to man his darkling way 
 
 The Star that rose in Bethlehem. 
 
 Let the world be sunk in sorrow, 
 Not an eye be charmed or blessed ; 
 
 We can see a fair to-morrow 
 Smiling in ^e rosy west ; 
 
NATIONAL READER. Ill 
 
 This, her heacon, Hope displays ; 
 
 For, in Mercy's diadem, 
 Shines, with Faith's serenest rays, 
 
 The Star that rose ir Bethlehem. 
 
 When this gloomy lif^ is o'er, 
 
 When we smile in bliss above, 
 When, on that delightful shore, 
 
 We enjoy the heaven of love, 
 O ! what dazzling light shall shine 
 
 Round salvation's purest gem ! 
 ~> ! what rays of love divine 
 
 Gild the Star of Bethlehem! 
 
 LESSON LVIII. 
 
 The Funeral of Maria. MACKENZIE. 
 
 MARIA was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her 
 form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent, 
 equally indulgent and attentive, had done the fullest justice. 
 To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every 
 endeavour had been used, and had been attended with that 
 success which parental efforts commonly meet with, when 
 not prevented by mistaken fondness, or untimely vanity. 
 
 Few young ladies have attracted more admiration ; none 
 ever felt it less : with all the charms of beauty, and the 
 polish of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor 
 the most ignorant less assuming. She died when every 
 tongue was eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was 
 ripening to reward them. 
 
 It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the 
 softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The 
 fall of more important personages is commonly distant from 
 our observation ; but, even where it happens under our im- 
 mediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings, by which 
 our compassion is weakened. 
 
 The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave behind 
 them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expec- 
 tations, by which the distress is complicated beyond the 
 simplicity of pity. But the death of one, who, like Maria, 
 was to died the influence of her virtues over the a^e of a 
 
112 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 father, and the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a 
 little view of family affliction, which every eye can perceive, 
 and every heart can feel. 
 
 On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze 
 as upon those gallery pictures, which strike us with wonder 
 and admiration : domestic calamity is like the miniature of 
 a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret 
 looks and solitary enjoyment. 
 
 The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a crowded 
 assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed 
 all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native 
 dignity of her mien ; yet, so tempered was that superiority 
 which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that not 
 a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or 
 the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition 
 was so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the 
 sod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my 
 senses : I beheld the objects around me as the painting of 
 a dream, and thought of Maria as still living. 
 
 I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The 
 figure of her father bending over the grave of his darling 
 child ; the silent, suffering composure, in which his counte- 
 nance 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 sorrow, with which I suffered myself 
 to be borne along, with a melancholy 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 moment took place of 
 pity! 
 
 It was but for a moment. He looked eagerly into the 
 grave ; made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants, 
 who were throwing the earth into it ; then, suddenly recol- 
 lecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his 
 eyes to heaven ; and then, first, I saw a few tears drop from 
 them. I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of 
 faith, and piety, and resignation. I went away sorrowful, 
 but my sorrow was neither ungentle nor unmanly ; I cast on 
 this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity ; and on 
 the next, a look of humbleness and hope! 
 
 Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of 
 scenes like that I have described, on minds neither frigid 
 nor unthinking : for, of feelings like these, the gloom of the 
 
NATIONAL READER. 113 
 
 ascetic is as little susceptible as the levity of the giddy. 
 There needs a certain pliancy of mind, which society alone 
 can give, though its vices often destroy it, to render us 
 capable of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow 
 pleasant, and affliction useful. 
 
 It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are 
 prompted to the cold, unfruitful virtues of monkish, solitude. 
 These are often the effects rather of passion secluded than 
 repressed, rather of temptation avoided than overcome. The 
 crucifix and the rosary, the death's head and the bones, if 
 custom has not made them indifferent, will rather chill desire 
 than excite virtue ; but, amidst the warmth of social affection, 
 and of social sympathy, the heart will feel the weakness, 
 and enjoy the duties, of humanity. 
 
 Perhaps it will be said, that such situations, and such re- 
 flections as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too 
 tender, and be disregarded by those who need the lessons 
 they impart. But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much 
 to the force of habit, and the resistance of prejudice. 
 
 I will not pretend to assert, that rooted principles, and 
 long-established conduct, are suddenly to be changed by the 
 effects of situation, or the eloquence of sentiment ; but, if it 
 be granted that such change ever took place, who shal, 
 determine by what imperceptible motive, or accidental im- 
 pression, it was first begun ? And, even if the influence of 
 such a call to thought can only smother, in its birth, one 
 allurement to evil, or confirm one wavering purpose to vir- 
 tue, I shall not have unjustly commended that occasional 
 indulgence of pensiveness and sorrow, which will thus be 
 rendered not only one of the refinements, but one of the 
 improvements of life. 
 
 LESSON LIX. 
 
 A Leaf from " The Life of a Looking- Glass" 
 Miss JANE TAYLOR. 
 
 IT being very much the custom, as I am informed, even 
 for obscure individuals to furnish some account of them- 
 selves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not 
 be deemed impertinent for calling your attention to a few 
 particulars of my .own history. I canrjot, indeed, boast of 
 10* 
 
114 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 any very extraordinary incidents ; but having, during the 
 course of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for 
 observation, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought 
 it might be in my power to offer some remarks that may not 
 be wholly unprofitable to your readers. 
 
 My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's 
 workshop, where I remained for many m6nths, leaning with 
 my face to the wall ; and, having never known any livelier 
 scene, I was very well contented with my quiet condition. 
 The first object that I remember to have arrested my atten- 
 tion, was, what I now believe must have been, a large spider, 
 which, after a vast deal of scampering about, began, very 
 deliberately, to weaye a curious web all over my face. This 
 afforded me ereat amusement, and, not then knowing what 
 far lovelier objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resenl 
 the indignity. 
 
 At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, 
 I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and, im- 
 mediately afterwards, underwent a curious operation, which, 
 at the time, gave me considerable apprehensions for my 
 safety ; but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding 
 myself arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved 
 and gilt ; for, you will please to observe that the period, of 
 which I am now speaking, was upwards of fourscore years 
 ago. 
 
 This process being finished, I was presently placed in the 
 shop window, with my face to the street, which was one 
 of the most public in the city. Here my attention was, at 
 first, distracted by the constant succession of objects that 
 passed before me. But it was not long before I began to 
 remark the considerable degree of attention I myself ex- 
 cited ; and how much I was distinguished, in this respect, 
 from the other articles, my neighbours, in the vshop window. 
 
 I observed, that passengers, who appeared to be posting 
 away upon urgent business, would often just turn and give 
 me a friendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly 
 gratified to observe, that, while the old, the shabby and the 
 wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the young, the 
 gay, and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment ; 
 and that these good-looking people always seemed the best 
 pleased with me ; which I attributed to their superior dis- 
 cernment. 
 
 I well remember one young lady, who used to pass my 
 tnastcr's shop regularly every morning, in her way to school, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 115 
 
 and who never omitted to turn her head to look at me as 
 she went by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted 
 with each other. I must confess, that, at this period of my 
 life, I was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, 
 from the regards that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I 
 am not the only individual, who has formed mistaken notions 
 of the attentions he receives in society. 
 
 My vanity, however, received a considerable check from 
 one circumstance : nearly all the goods by which I was sur- 
 rounded, in the shop window, though, many of them, much 
 more homely in their structure, and humble in their destina- 
 tions, were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the 
 mortification of seeing one after another bargained for and 
 sent away, while I remained, month after month, without a 
 purchaser. 
 
 At last, however, a gentleman and lady, from the country 
 who had been standing some time in the street, inspecting 
 and, as I perceived, conversing about me, walked into the 
 shop ; and, after some altercation with my master, agreed to 
 purchase me ; upon which, I was packed up, and sent off. 
 I was very curious, you may suppose, upon arriving at my 
 new quarters, to see what kind of life I was likely to lead. 
 I remained, however, some time, unmolested in my packing- 
 case, and veiyjlat I felt there. 
 
 Upon being, at last, unpacked, I found myself in the hall 
 of a large, lone house in the country. My master and mis- 
 tress, I soon learned, were new-married people, just setting 
 up house-keeping; and I was intended to decorate their 
 best parlour, to which I was presently conveyed, and, after 
 some little discussion between them, in fixing my longitude 
 and latitude, I was hung up opposite the fire-place, in an 
 angle of ten degrees from the wall, according to the fashion 
 of those times. 
 
 And there I hung, year after year, almost in perpetual 
 solitude. My master and mistress were sober, regular, old- 
 fashioned people ; they saw no company, except at fair time 
 and Christmas-day ; on which occasions, only, they occupied 
 the best parlour. My countenance used to brighten up, 
 when I saw the annual fire kindled in that ample grate, and 
 when a cheerful circle of country cousins assembled round 
 it. At those times I always got a little notice from the 
 young folks ; but, those festivities over, I was condemned to 
 another half year of complete loneliness. 
 
 How familiar to my recollection, at this hour, is that large, 
 
116 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 old-fashioned parlour ! I can remember, as well as if I had 
 seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson 
 damask chair-covers and window-curtains ; and those curi- 
 ously carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one 
 of the stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate, 
 the rich China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece, and the 
 pattern of the paper hangings, which consisted alternately 
 of a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess, a parrot, a poppy, 
 and a shepherdess. 
 
 The room being so little used, the window-shutters were 
 rarely opened ; but there were three holes cut in each, in 
 the shape of a heart, through which, day after day, and 
 year after year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sun~ 
 beams, streaming across the dark parlour. I should men- 
 tion, however, that I seldom missed a short visit from my 
 master and mistress on a Sunday morning, when they came 
 down stairs ready dressed for church. I can remember 
 how my mistress used to trot in upon her high-heeled 
 shoes; unfold a leaf of one of the shutters; then come and 
 stand straight before me ; then turn half round to the right 
 and left ; never failing to see if the corner of her well-starch- 
 ed handkerchief was pinned exactly in the middle. I think 
 I can see her now, in her favourite dove-coloured lustring, 
 (which she wore every Sunday in every summer for seven 
 years at the least,) and her long, full ruffles, and worked 
 apron. Then followed my good master, who, though his 
 visit was somewhat shorter, never failed to come and settle 
 his Sunday wig before me. 
 
 Time rolled away, and my master and mistress, with all 
 that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influ- 
 ence. When I first knew them, they were a young, bloom- 
 ing couple as you would wish to see ; but I gradually per- 
 ceived an alteration. My mistress began to stoop a little ; 
 and my master got a cough, which troubled him, more or 
 Jess, to the end of his days. At first, and for many years, 
 my mistress' foot upon the stairs was light and nimble, and 
 she would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but, at 
 last, it was a slow, heavy step ; and even my master's began 
 to totter- And, in these respects, every thing else kept pace 
 with them : the crimsov damask, that I remembered so fresh 
 and bright, w r as now faded and worn ; the dark polished 
 mahogany was, in some places, worm eaten ; the parrot's 
 gay plumage on the walls grew dull ; and I myself, though 
 long unconscious of it, partook of the universal decay. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 117 
 
 The dissipated taste I acquired upon my first introduction 
 to society, had, long since, subsided ; and the quiet, sombre 
 life I led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change, 
 which I witnessed in all things around me, caused me to 
 reflect much on their vanity ; and when, upon the occasions 
 before-mentioned, I used to see the gay, blooming faces of 
 the young saluting me with so much complacency, I would 
 fain have admonished them of the alteration they must soon 
 undergo, and have told them how certainly their bloom, also, 
 must fade away as a flower. But, alas f you know, sir, 
 looking-glasses can only reflect. 
 
 LESSON LX. 
 
 The Silent Expression of Nature. ANONYMOUS.^ 
 "There is no speech nor language their voice is not heard." Ps xix. 3, 
 
 WHEN, thoughtful, to the vault of heaven 
 
 I lift my wondering eyes, 
 And see the clear and quiet even 
 
 To night resign the skies, 
 The moon, in silence, rear her crest, 
 
 The stars, in silence, shine, 
 A secret rapture fills my breast, 
 
 That speaks its birth divine. 
 
 Unheard, the dews around me fall, 
 
 And heavenly influence shed, 
 And, silent, on this earthly ball, 
 
 Celestial footsteps tread. 
 Aerial music wakes the spheres, 
 
 Touched by harmonious powers : 
 With sounds, unheard by mortal ears, 
 
 They charm the lingering hours. 
 
 Night reigns, in silence, o'er the pole, 
 
 And spreads her gems unheard : 
 Her lessons penetrate the soul, 
 
 Yet borrow not a word. 
 
 * From " Musae Bihlicce," published, London 1819. 
 
US NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Noiseless the sun emits his fire, 
 And pours his golden streams ; 
 
 And silently the shades retire 
 Before his rising beams. 
 
 The hand that moves, and regulates, 
 
 And guides the vast machine, 
 That governs wills, and times, and fates*- 
 
 Retires, and works unseen. 
 Angelic visitants forsake 
 
 Their amaranthine bowers ; 
 On silent wing their stations take, 
 
 And watch the allotted hours. 
 
 Sick of the vanity of man, 
 
 His noise, and pomp, and show, 
 I'll move upon great Nature's plan, 
 
 And, silent, work below. 
 With inward harmony of soul, 
 
 I'll wait the upper sphere ; 
 Shining, I'll mount above the pole, 
 
 And break my silence there. 
 
 LESSON LXI. 
 A Thought. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 COULD we step into the grave, 
 
 And lift the coffin lid, 
 And look upon the greedy worms 
 
 That eat away the dead, 
 
 It well might change the reddest cheek 
 
 Into a lily white, 
 And freeze the warmest blood, to look 
 
 Upon so sad a sight ! 
 
 Yet still it were a sadder sight, 
 
 If, in that lump of clay, 
 There were a sense, to feel the worms 
 
 So busy with their prey. 
 
NATIONAL READER. U9 
 
 O pity, then, the living heart, 
 
 The lump of living clay, 
 On which the canker-worms of guilt 
 
 Forever, ever prey. 
 
 LESSON LXII. 
 
 Fidelity. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 
 
 A cry as of a dog or ^x ; 
 He halts, and searches with his eyes 
 
 Among the scattered rocks : 
 And now, at distance, can discern 
 A stirring in a brake of fern, 
 From which immediately leaps out 
 A dog, and, yelping, runs about. 
 
 The dog is not of mountain breed ; 
 
 Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
 With something as the shepherd thinks 
 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 Nor is there any one in sight, 
 All round, in hollow, or on height; 
 Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear : 
 What is the creature doing here ? 
 
 It was a cove, a huge recess, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A silent tarrr^ below ! 
 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 Pathway or cultivated land, 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 There, sometimes, does a leaping fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer : 
 
 The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
 In symphony austere. 
 
 ' Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains. 
 
120 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Thither the rainbow comes ; the cloud ; 
 And mists, that spread the flying shroud ; 
 And sun-beams ; and the sounding blast, 
 That, if it could, would hurry past : 
 But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 
 
 Not knowing what to think, a while 
 
 The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
 
 To' wards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
 As quickly as he may ; 
 
 Nor far had gone, before he found 
 
 A human skeleton on the ground : 
 
 Sad sight ! the shepherd, with a sigh, 
 
 Looks round, to learn the history. 
 
 From those abrupt and perilous rocks, 
 
 The man had fallen, that place of fear ! 
 At length, upon the shepherd's mind 
 
 It breaks, and all is clear. 
 He instantly recalled the name, 
 And who he was, and whence he came ; 
 Remembered, too, the very day 
 On which the traveller passed this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder now, for sake 
 Of which this mournful tale I tell ! 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 This wonder merits well : 
 
 The dog, which still was hovering^ nigh, 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry, 
 
 This dog had been, through three months space, 
 
 A dweller in that savage place. 
 
 Yes,f proof was plain, that, since the day 
 On which the traveller thus had died, 
 The dog had watched about the spot, 
 
 Or by his master's side : 
 How nourished here, through such long time, 
 He knows, who gave that love sublime, 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 Above all human estimate. 
 
 * Pron. huv'-ur-ing. t yiss. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 121 
 
 LESSON LXIII. 
 Solitude. HENRY K. WHITE. 
 
 T is not that my lot is low, 
 That bids this silent tear to flow : 
 It is not grief that bids me moan : 
 It is that I am all alone. 
 
 In woods and glens I love to roam, 
 When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
 Or, by the woodland pool to rest, 
 When pale the star looks on its breast. 
 
 Yet, when the silent evening sighs, 
 With hallowed airs and symphonies, 
 My spirit takes another tone, 
 And sighs that it is all alone. 
 
 The autumn leaf is sear and dead : 
 It floats upon the water's bed : 
 I would not be a leaf, to die 
 Without recording sorrow's sigh. 
 
 The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
 Tell all the same unvaried tale : 
 I've none to smile when I am free, 
 And, when I sigh, to sigh with me. 
 
 Yet, in my dreams, a form I view, 
 That thinks on me, and loves me too : 
 I start ; and, when the vision's flown, 
 I weep, that I am all alone. 
 
 LESSON LXIV. 
 
 Necessity of Industry, even to Genius. V. KNOX. 
 
 FROM the revival of learning to the present day, every 
 thing that labour and ingenuity can invent, has been pro- 
 duced to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. But, not- 
 
122 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 withstanding all the Introductions, the Translations, the An- 
 notations, and the Interpretations, I must assure the student, 
 that industry, great, and persevering industry, is absolutely 
 necessary to secure any very valuable and distinguished im- 
 provement. Superficial qualifications are indeed obtained at 
 an easy price of time and labour ; but superficial qualifica- 
 tions confer neither honour, emolument, nor satisfaction. 
 
 The pupil may be introduced, by the judgment and the 
 liberality of his parents, to the best schools, the best tutors, 
 the best books ; and his parents may be led to expect, from 
 such advantages alone, extraordinary advancement. But 
 these things are all extraneous. The mind of the pupil 
 must be accustomed to submit to labour ; sometimes to 
 painful labour. 
 
 The poor and solitary student, who has never enjoyed any 
 of these advantages, but in the ordinary manner, will, by his 
 own application, emerge to merit, fame, and fortune ; while 
 the indolent, who has been taught to lean on the supports 
 which opulence supplies, will sink into insignificance. His 
 mind will have contracted habits of inactivity, and inactivity 
 causes imbecility. 
 
 I repeat, that the first great object is, to induce the mind 
 to work within itself, to think long and patiently on the same 
 subject, and to compose in various styles, and in various 
 metres. It must be led not only to bear, but to seek, occa- 
 sional solitude. If it is early habituated to all these exer- 
 cises, it will find its chief pleasure in them ; for the energies 
 of the mind affect it with the finest feelings. 
 
 But is industry, such industry as I require, necessary to 
 genius ? The idea, that it is not necessary, is productive 
 of the greatest evils. We often form a wrong judgment in 
 determining who is, and who is not, endowed with this 
 noble privilege. A boy who appears lively and talkative, is 
 often supposed by his parents to be a genius. He is suffer- 
 ed to be idle, for he is a genius ; and genius is only injured 
 by application. 
 
 Now it usually happens, that the very lively and talkative 
 boy is the most deficient in genius. His forwardness arises 
 from a defect of those fine sensibilities, which, at the same 
 time, occasion diffidence and constitute genius. He ought 
 to be inured to literary labour ; for, without it, he will be 
 prevented, by levity and stupidity, from receiving any valu- 
 able impressions. 
 
 Parents and instructors must be very cautious how they 
 
NATIONAL READER. 123 
 
 dispense with diligence, from an idea that the pupil possesses 
 genius sufficient to compensate for the want of it. All men 
 are liable to mistake in deciding on genius at a very early 
 age ; but parents more than all, from their natural partiality. 
 
 On no account, therefore, let them dispense with close 
 application. If the pupil has genius, this will improve and 
 adorn it ; if he has not, it is confessedly requisite to supply 
 the defect. Those prodigies of genius, which require not 
 instruction, are rare phenomena : we read, and we hear of 
 such ; but few of us have seen and known such. 
 
 What is genius worth without knowledge ? But is a man 
 ever born without knowledge ? It is true, that one man is 
 born with a better capacity than another, for the reception 
 and retention of ideas ; but still the mind must operate in 
 collecting, arranging, and discriminating those ideas, which 
 it receives with facility. And I believe the mind of a genius 
 is often very laboriously at work, when, to the common 
 observer, it appears to be quite inactive. 
 
 I most anxiously wish, that a due attention may be paid 
 to my exhortations, when I recommend great and ex'emplary 
 diligence. All that is excellent in learning depends upon it. 
 And how can the time of a boy or a young man be better 
 employed ? It cannot be more pleasantly ; for I am sure, 
 that industry, by presenting a constant succession of various 
 objects, and by precluding the listlessness of inaction, ren- 
 ders life, at all stages of it, agreeable, and particularly so in 
 the restless season of youth. 
 
 It cannot be more innocently ; for learning has a connex- 
 ion with virtue ; and he, whose time is fully engaged, will 
 escape many vices and much misery. It cannot be more 
 usefully ; for he, who furnishes his mind with ideas, and 
 strengthens his faculties, is preparing himself to become a 
 valuable member of society, whatever place in it he may 
 obtain ; and he is likely to obtain an exalted place. 
 
 LESSON LXV. 
 
 Story of Matilda. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 OUR happiness is in the power of One, who can bring it 
 about in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our fore- 
 sight. If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you 
 
124 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 a story, told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing 
 historian. 
 
 " Matilda was married, very young, to a Neapolitan noble- 
 man of the first quality, and found heiself a widow and a 
 mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caress- 
 ing her infant son in the open window of an apartment 
 which hung over the river Volturnus, the child, with a sud- 
 den spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and 
 disappeared in a moment. 
 
 "The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making 
 an effort to save him, plunged in after ; but, far from being 
 able to assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty, 
 escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French sol- 
 diers were plundering the country on that side, who imme- 
 diately made her their prisoner. 
 
 " As the war was then carried on between the French and 
 Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at 
 once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite 
 and cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed 
 by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the 
 utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her 
 in safety to his native city. 
 
 " Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit, soon after, 
 his heart. They were married : he rose to the highest 
 posts : they lived long together, and were happy. But the 
 felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent. After 
 an interval of several years, the troops which he command- 
 ed having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shel- 
 ter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here 
 they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. 
 
 "Few histories can produce more various instances of 
 cruelty, than those which the French and Italians, at that 
 time, exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the 
 victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners 
 to death ; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate 
 Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting 
 the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed 
 almost as soon as resolved upon. 
 
 " The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner 
 with his sword stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy 
 silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended 
 till the general, who presided as judge, should give the sig- 
 nal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation, that 
 Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and 
 
NATIONAL READER. 125 
 
 deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty 
 of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature 
 death in the river Volturnus, to be the spectator of still 
 greater calamities. 
 
 " The general, who was a young man, was struck with 
 surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with 
 still stronger emotions, when he heard her mention her 
 former dangers. He was her son the infant, for whom she 
 had encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her 
 at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may 
 be easily supposed: the captive was set free, and all the 
 happiness that love, friendship, and duty, could confer on 
 each, was enjoyed.' 1 
 
 LESSON LXVI. 
 
 The Man of Ross. POPE. 
 
 BUT all our praises why should lords engross? 
 Rise, honest muse ! and sing the man of Ross ; 
 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, ' 
 And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. 
 Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow ? 
 From the dry rock who bade the waters flow ? 
 Not to the skies in useless columns tossed, 
 Or in proud falls magnificently lost, 
 But clear and artless, pouring through the plain 
 Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. 
 
 Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? 
 Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? 
 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? 
 " The man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. 
 Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! 
 The man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
 He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, 
 Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : 
 Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed, 
 The young who labour, and the aid who rest. 
 
 Is any sick ? The man of Ross relieves, 
 Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 
 Is there a variance ? Enter but his door, 
 Balked are the courts, and contest is no more. 
 11* 
 
 
126 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, 
 And vile attorneys, now a useless race. 
 
 Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue 
 What all so wish, hut want the power to do ! 
 O say, what sums that generous hand supply ? 
 What mines to swell that boundless charity ? 
 Of debts, and taxes, wife, and children clear, 
 This man possessed five hundred pounds a year. 
 Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your blaze I 
 Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays ! 
 
 And what ! no monument, inscription, stone ! 
 His race, his form, his name, almost unknown ! - 
 Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, 
 Will never mark the marble with his name. 
 Go search it there, where to be born and die, 
 Of rich and poor, makes all the history ; 
 Enough, that virtue filled the space between ; 
 
 Proved by the ends of being to have been. 
 
 LESSON LXVII. 
 
 Early Recollections. NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
 
 IT is delightful to fling a glance back to our early years, 
 and recall our boyish actions, glittering with the light of hope 
 and the sanguine expectations of incipient being. But the 
 remembrance of our sensations when we were full of elasti- 
 city, when life was new, and every senne and relish keen, 
 when the eye saw nothing but a world of beauty and glory 
 around, every object glittering in golden resplendency is 
 the most agreeable thing of all. 
 
 The recollection of boyish actions gives small gratification 
 to persons of mature years, except for what may, perchance, 
 be associated with them. But youthful sensations, experi- 
 enced when the edge of enjoyment was most keen, and the 
 senses exquisitely susceptible, furnish delightful recollections, 
 that cling around some of us, in the last stage of life, like 
 the principle of being itself. How do we recollect the ex- 
 quisite taste of a particular fruit or dish to have been then ! 
 how delicious a cool draught from the running stream ! A 
 landscape, a particular tree, a field, how much better defined 
 and delightfully coloured then, than they ever appeared 
 afterwards! * * * * * * 
 
NATIONAL READER. 127 
 
 There was a single tree opposite the door of my father's 
 house : I remember even now, how every limb branched off, 
 and that I thought no tree could be finer or larger. I loved 
 its shade ; I played under it for years ; but when I visited 
 it, after my first absence for a few months from home, though 
 I recognised it with intense interest, it appeared lessened in 
 size ; it was an object I loved, but as a tree it no longer 
 attracted wonder at its dimensions. During my absence I 
 had travelled in a forest of much larger trees, and the plea- 
 sure and well-defined image in my mind's eye, which I owed 
 to the singleness of this object, I never again experienced in 
 observing another. 
 
 Can I ever forget the sunny side of the wood, where I 
 used to linger away my hol'ydays among the falling leaves 
 of the trees in autumn ! I can recall the very smell of the 
 sere foliage to recollection ; and the sound of the dashing 
 water is even now in my ear. The rustling of the boughs, 
 the sparkling of the stream, the gnarled trunks of the old 
 oaks around, long since levelled by the axe, left impressions 
 only to be obliterated by death. The pleasure I then felt 
 was ^indefinable; but I was satisfied to enjoy without caring 
 whence my enjoyment arose. 
 
 The old church-yard and its yew-trees, where I sacrile- 
 giously enjoyed my pastimes among the dead, and the ivied 
 tower, the belfry of which I frequently ascended, and won- 
 dered at the skill, which could form such ponderous masses 
 as the bells, and lift them so high, these were objects that, 
 on Sundays particularly, often filled my mind, upon viewing 
 them, with a sensation that cannot be put into language. 
 
 It was not joy, but a soothing, tranquil delight, that made 
 me forget, for an instant, that I had any desire in the world 
 unsatisfied. I have often thought since, that this state of 
 mind must have approached pretty closely to happiness. 
 As we passed the church-way path to the old Gothic porch 
 on Sundays, I used to spell the inscriptions on the tombs, 
 and wonder at the length of a life that exceeded sixty or 
 seventy years ; for days then passed slower than weeks pass 
 now. 
 
 I visited, the other day, the school-room where I had been 
 once the drudge of a system of learning, the end of which 
 1 could not understand, and where, as was then the fash- 
 ion, every method taken seemed intended to disgust the 
 scholar with those studies he should be taught to love. I 
 saw my name cut in the desk ; I looked again on my old 
 
328 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 seat ; but my youthful recollections of the worse than eastern 
 slavery I there endured, made me regard what I saw with a 
 feeling of peculiar distaste. 
 
 If one thing more than another prevent my desiring the 
 days of my youth to return, it is the horror I feel for the 
 despotism of the pedagogue. For years after I left school, 
 I looked at the classics with disgust. I remembered the 
 heart-burnings, the tears, and the pains, the monkish method 
 of teaching now almost wholly confined to our public schools 
 had caused me. It was long before I could take up a 
 Horace, much less enjoy its perusal. 
 
 It was not thus with the places I visited during the short 
 space of cessation from task and toil that the week allowed. 
 The meadow, where, in true jovialness of heart, I had leap- 
 ed, and raced, and played this recalled the contentedness 
 of mind, and the overflowing tide of delight I once experi- 
 enced, when, climbing the stile which led into it, I left be- 
 hind me the book and the task. How the sunshine of the 
 youthful breast burst forth upon me, and the gushing spirit 
 of unreined and innocent exhilaration braced every fibre, 
 and rushed through every vein ! 
 
 The sun has never shone so brilliantly since. How fra- 
 grant were the flowers ! How deep the azure of the sky ! 
 How vivid were the hues of nature ! How intense the short- 
 lived sensations of pain and pleasure ! How generous were 
 all impulses ! How confiding, open, and upright, all actions ! 
 " Inhumanity to the distressed, and insolence to the fallen," 
 those besetting sins of manhood, how utterly strangers to 
 the heart ! How little of sordid interests, and how much of 
 intrepid honesty, was then displayed ! ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The sensations peculiar to youth, being the result of im- 
 pulse rather than reflection, have the advantage over those 
 of manhood, however the pride of reason may give the lat- 
 ter the superiority. In manhood there is always a burden 
 of thought bearing on the wheels of enjoyment. In man- 
 hood, too, we have the misfortune of seeing the wrecks of 
 early associations scattered every where around us. Youth 
 can see nothing of this. It can take no review of antece- 
 dent pleasures or pains that become such a source of melan- 
 choly emotion in mature years. It has never sauntered 
 through the rooms of a building, and recalled early dayu 
 spent under its roof. 
 
 I remember my feelings on an occasion of this sort, when 
 I was like a traveller on the plain of Babylon, wondering 
 
NATIONAL READER. 129 
 
 where all, that had once been to me so great and mighty, 
 then was ; in what gulf the sounds of merriment, that once 
 reverberated from the walls, the master, the domestic, the 
 aged, and the young, had disappeared. Our early recollec- 
 tions are pleasing to us, because they look not on the mor- 
 row. Alas! what did that morrow leave when it had 
 become merged in the past ! 
 
 I have lately traversed the village in which I was born, 
 without discovering a face that I knew. Houses have been 
 demolished, fronts altered, tenements built, trees rooted up, 
 and alterations effected, that made me feel a stranger amid 
 the home of my fathers. The old-fashioned and roomy 
 house, where my infant years had been watched by parental 
 affection, had been long uninhabited : it was in decay : the 
 storm beat through its fractured windows, and it was partly 
 roofless. The garden, and its old elms, the scene associated 
 with the cherished feelings of many a happy hour, lay a 
 weedy waste : 
 
 Amid thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ! 
 
 But the picture it presented in my youth exhibits it as true 
 and vivid as ever. It is hung up in memory in all its fresh- 
 ness, and time cannot dilapidate its image. It is now become 
 an essence, that defies the mutability of material things. It 
 is fixed in ethereal colours on the tablets of the mind, and 
 lives within the domain of spirit, within the circumference 
 of which the universal spoiler possesses no sovereignty. 
 
 LESSON LXVIII. 
 
 On visiting a Scene of Childhood. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 
 
 "I came to the place of my birth, and said, 'The friends of my youth, where 
 are they?' and Echo answered, 'Where are they?'" 
 
 LONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, 
 Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green, 
 The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed 
 By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade. 
 
130 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there, 
 When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair, 
 All scattered ! -all sundered by mountain and wave, 
 And some in the silent embrace of the grave ! 
 
 fefvi \ 
 
 I thought of the green banks, that circled around, 
 
 With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine crowned : 
 
 I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 
 
 As the face of the sky on a blue summer night : 
 
 And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed, 
 Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade ; 
 And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find 
 Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind. 
 
 All eager, I hastened the scene to behold, 
 Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old , c 
 And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore 
 This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 
 
 'Twas a dream ! not a token or trace could 1 view 
 Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
 Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, 
 " Like a tale that is told" they had vanished away. 
 
 And methought the lone river, that rmirmured along, 
 Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, 
 Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above, 
 Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove. 
 
 I paused : and the moral came home to my heart : 
 Behold, how of earth all the glories depart ! 
 Our visioti? are baseless, our hopes but a gleam, 
 Our staff but a reed, and our life but a dream. 
 
 Then, O, let us look let our prospects allure 
 To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure, 
 To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 
 O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of Time. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 131 
 
 LESSON LXIX. 
 
 The Little Graves. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 'TwAS autumn, and the leaves were dry, 
 
 And rustled on the ground, 
 And chilly winds went whistling by, 
 
 With low and pensive sound. 
 
 As through the grave-yard's lone retreat, 
 
 By meditation led, 
 I walked, with slow and cautious feet, 
 
 Above the sleeping dead, 
 
 Three little graves, ranged side by side, 
 
 My close attention drew ; 
 O'er two, the tall grass, bending, sighed, 
 
 And one seemed fresh and new. 
 
 As, lingering there, I mused awhile 
 
 On death's long, dreamless sleep, 
 And opening life's deceitful smile, 
 
 A mourner came to weep. 
 
 Her form was bowed, but not with years, 
 
 Her words were faint and few, 
 And on those little graves her tears 
 
 Distilled like evening dew. 
 
 A prattling boy, some four years old, 
 
 Her trembling hand embraced, 
 And from my heart the tale he told 
 
 Will never be effaced. 
 
 " Mamma' ,^ now you must love me more, 
 
 For little sister's dead ; 
 And t'other sister died before, 
 
 And brother loo, you said. 
 
 * Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? 
 
 She loved me when we played : 
 You told me, if I would not cry, 
 
 You'd show me where she's laid." 
 * a sounded as in father* 
 
132 NATIONAL READEK. 
 
 "'Tis here, my child, that sister lies, 
 
 Deep buried in the ground : 
 No light comes to her little eyes, 
 
 And she can hear no sound." 
 
 "Mamma, why can't we take her up, 
 
 And put her in my bed ? 
 I'll feed her from my little cup, 
 
 And then she won't be dead. 
 
 " For sister'll be afraid to lie 
 
 In this dark grave to-night, 
 And she'll be very cold, and cry, 
 
 Because there is no light." 
 
 " No, sister is not cold, my child ; 
 
 For God, who saw her die, 
 As he looked down from heaven and smited, 
 
 Recalled her to the sky. 
 
 " And then her spirit quickly fled 
 To God, by whom 'twas given ; 
 
 Her body in the ground is dead, 
 But sister lives in heaven." 
 
 " Mamma, won't she be hungry there, 
 And want some bread to eat ? 
 
 And who will give her clothes to wear, 
 And keep them clean and neat ? 
 
 " Papa' must go and carry some ; 
 
 I'll send her all I've got ; 
 And he must bring sweet sister home, 
 
 Mamma, now must he not ?" 
 
 " No, my dear child, that cannot be ; 
 
 But, if you're good and true, 
 You'll one day go to 'her ; but she 
 
 Can never come to you. 
 
 " ' Let little children come to me? 
 
 Once our good Saviour said, 
 And in his arms she'll always be, 
 
 And God will give her bread.' 1 
 
NATIONAL READER. 133 
 
 LESSON LXX. 
 
 Life and Death. NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
 
 FEAR not thou to die ! 
 
 But rather fear to live ; for life 
 Has thousand snares thy feet to try, 
 
 By peril, pain, and strife. 
 Brief is the work of death ; 
 
 But life ! the spirit shrinks to see 
 How full, ere heaven recalls the breath, 
 
 The cup of wo may be. 
 
 O fear not thou to die ! 
 
 No more to suffer or to sin ; 
 No snares without, thy faith to try, 
 
 No traitor heart within : 
 But fear, O ! rather fear, 
 
 The gay, the light, the changeful scene, 
 The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 
 
 From heaven thy heart to wean, 
 
 Fear, lest, in evil hour, 
 
 Thy pure and holy hope overcome, 
 By clouds that in the horizon lower, 
 
 Thy spirit feel that gloom, 
 Which, over earth and heaven, 
 
 The covering throws of fell despair ; 
 And deems itself the unforgiven, 
 
 Predestined child of care. 
 
 fear not thou to die ! 
 
 To die, and be that blessed one, 
 Who, in the bright and beauteous sky, 
 
 May feel his conflict done 
 May feel that, never more, 
 
 The tear of grief or shame shall come, 
 For thousand wanderings from the Power 
 
 Who loved, and called him home ! 
 12 
 
134 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXI. 
 
 The Burial of Arnold* N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer, 
 
 With slow and measured tread : 
 Your ranks are full, your mates all there 
 
 But the soul of one has fled. 
 He was the proudest in his strength, 
 
 The manliest of ye all ; 
 Why lies he at that fearful length* 
 
 And ye around his pall ? 
 
 Ye reckon it in days, since he 
 
 Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
 With his dark eye flashing gloriously, 
 And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
 $O, had it been but told you then, 
 To mark whose lamp was dim, 
 i From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, 
 Would ye have singled him ? 
 
 Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung 
 
 Defiance to the ring ? 
 Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, 
 
 Yet not for glorying ? 
 Whose heart, in generous deed and 
 
 No rivalry might brook, 
 And yet distinction claiming not ? 
 
 There lies he go and look ! 
 
 On now his requiem is done, 
 
 The last deep prayer is said 
 On to his burial, comrades on, 
 
 With the noblest of the dead ! 
 Slow for it presses heavily 
 
 It is a man ye bear ! 
 Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 
 
 On the noble sleeper there. 
 
 Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid 
 His dark locks on his brow 
 
 * A member of the senior class in Yale College. 
 
* * 1 1 
 
 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Like life save deeper light and shade : 
 
 We'll not disturb them now. 
 Tread lightly for 'tis beautiful, 
 
 That blue veined eye-lid's sleep, 
 Hiding the eye death left so dull^-fc f.t 
 
 Its slumber we will keep. 
 
 Best now ! his journeying is done 
 
 Your feet are on his sod 
 Death's chain is on your champion 
 
 He waiteth here his God ! 
 Ay turn and weep 'tis manliness 
 
 To be heart-broken here 
 For the grave of earth's best nobleness 
 
 Is watered by the tear. 
 
 LESSON LXXII. 
 
 Cruelty to Animals reproved. MAYOR. 
 
 A YOUNGSTER, whose name we shall conceal, because it 
 is riot for his credit it should be known, was amusing him- 
 self with a beetle stuck on a pin, and seemed vastly de- 
 lighted with the gyrations^ it made, occasioned by the torture 
 it felt. Harley saw this with emotion ; lor he would not wan- 
 tonly have injured the most contemptible animal that breathes. 
 
 He rebuked the unfeeling youth in the following terms ; 
 and the impression, which the lecture made, was never after 
 effaced from his mind : " I am deeply concerned," said he, 
 " to observe any one, whom I so tenderly love, fond of 
 cruel sport. Do you think that the poor beetle, which you 
 are thus agonizing, is incapable of sensation ? And if you 
 are aware that it feels pain as well as you, how can you 
 receive amusement from its torture ? Animals, it is true, 
 were formed for the use of man ; but reason and humanity 
 forbid us to abuse them. 
 
 " Every creature, not immediately noxious to our kind, 
 ought to be cherished, or, at least, not injured. The heart of 
 sensibility bleeds for misery wherever it is seen. No amuse- 
 ment can be rational that is founded on another's pain I 
 know you take delight in bird-nesting : 1 wish to discourage 
 this pursuit too. 
 
 * g sounded like J. 
 
136 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 " Consider how little you gain, and how much distress you 
 occasion to some of the most beautiful and lovely of crea- 
 tion's tribes. You destroy the eggs, from which the fond 
 bird hoped to rear an offspring ; or, what is still more cruel, 
 you rob hereof her young, when maternal care and affection 
 are at the highest pitch. Could you possibly conceive what 
 the parent bird must suffer from this deprivation, you would 
 be ashamed of your insensibility. 
 
 " The nightingale, robbed of her tender young, is said to 
 sing most sweetly ; but it is the plaintive voice of lacerated 
 nature, not the note of joy. It should be heard as the ex- 
 pression of distress ; and, if you are the cause of it, you 
 ought to apply it to yourself. 
 
 c O then, ye friends of love, and love-taught song, 
 Spare the soft tribes ! this barbarous art forbear 
 If on your bosom innocence can win, 
 Music engage, or piety persuade !' 
 
 " Even the meanest insects receive an existence from the 
 Author of our being; and why should you abridge their 
 span ? They have their little sphere of bliss allotted them ; 
 they have purposes, which they are destined to fulfil; and, 
 when these are accomplished, they die. Thus it is with 
 you ! You have, indeed, a more extensive range of action, 
 more various and important duties to discharge; and well 
 will it be for you if you discharge them aright. 
 
 " But think not, because you have reason and superiority 
 given you, that irrational animals are beneath your regard. 
 In proportion as you enjoy the benefits they are adapted to 
 confer, you should be careful to treat them with tenderness 
 and humanity : it is the only return you can make. Re- 
 member, every thing that has life is doomed to suffer and to 
 feel, though its expression of pain may not be capable of 
 being conveyed to your ears. 
 
 " To the most worthless reptile, to the most noxious ani- 
 mal, some pity is due. If its life is dangerous to you, it may 
 be destroyed without blame ; but let it be done without cruel- 
 ty. To torture is unmanly ; to tyrannise, where there can 
 be no resistance, is the extreme of baseness. 
 
 " I never knew an amiable person, who did not feel an 
 attachment for animals. A boy who is not fond of his bird, 
 his rabbit, his dog, or his horse, or whatever other creature 
 he takes under his protection, will never have a good heart, 
 and will always be wanting in affection to his own kind. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 137 
 
 But he, who, after admonition, delights in misery, or sports 
 with life, must have a disposition and a heart that I should 
 blush to own : he is neither qualified to be happy himself, 
 nor will he ever make others so." 
 
 LESSON LXXIII. 
 
 Impolicy and Injustice of Excessive Severity in Punishments. 
 
 GoLDSBIITH. 
 
 IT were highly to be wished, that legislative power would 
 direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; that it 
 would seem convinced, that the work of eradicating crimes 
 is not by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, 
 instead of our present prisons, which find, or make men 
 guilty ; which enclose wretches for the commission of one 
 crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the per- 
 petration of thousands ; it were to be wished, we had places 
 of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be at- 
 tended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or 
 new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the 
 increasing of punishments, is the way to mend a state. 
 
 Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that 
 right, which social combinations have assumed, of capitally 
 punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murdei 
 their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the 
 law of self-defence, to cut off that man who hath shown a 
 disregard for the life of another. Against such all nature 
 rises in arms. 
 
 But it is not so against him who steals my property. Na- 
 tural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, by that, 
 the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If, 
 then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made be- 
 tween us, that he, who deprives the other of his horse, shall 
 die. But this is a false compact; because no man has a 
 right to barter his life, any more than to take it away, as it 
 is not his own. 
 
 And, besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be 
 set aside, even in a court of modern equity, as theie is a great 
 penalty for a trifling convenience ; since it is far better that 
 two men should live, than that one should ride. But a 
 compact that is false between two men, is equally so 
 12* 
 
138 NATIONAL HEADER. 
 
 between a hundred and a hundred thousand ; for as ten 
 millions of circles can never make a square, so the united 
 voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to 
 falsehood. 
 
 It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says 
 the same thing. Savages, that are directed by natural law 
 alone, are tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom 
 shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. ^ ^ * ^ *= ^ 
 
 It were to be wished, then, that power instead of contriv- 
 ing new laws to punish vice ; instead of drawing hard the 
 cords of society, till a convulsion come to burst them ; in- 
 stead of cutting away wretches as useless, before we have 
 tried their utility ; instead of converting correction into ven- 
 geance ; it were to be wished, that we tried the restrictive 
 arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the 
 tyrant, of the people. 
 
 We should then find, that creatures, whose souls are held 
 as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner ; we should then 
 find, that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxu- 
 ry should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, 
 serve to sinew the state in times of danger; that, as their 
 faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds 
 are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a man 
 may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that very 
 little blood will serve to cement our security. 
 
 LESSON LXXIV. 
 
 Address to Liberty. COWPER. 
 
 O, COULD I worship aught beneath the skies 
 That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise, 
 Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
 Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand, 
 With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair 
 As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air. 
 
 Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
 The peep of morning shed a dawning light ; 
 Again, when evening in her sober vest 
 Drew the gray curtain of the fading west ; 
 My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise 
 For the chief bhssings of my fairest days : 
 
NATIONAL READER. 139 
 
 But that were sacrilege : praise is not thine, 
 
 But His, who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 
 
 Else I would say, and, as I spake, bid fly 
 
 A captive bird into the boundless sky, 
 
 This rising realm adores thee ; thou art come 
 
 From Sparta hither, and art here at home ; 
 
 We feel thy force still active ; at this hour 
 
 Enjoy immunity from priestly power ; 
 
 While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
 
 Owns no superior, but the God she fears. 
 
 Propitious Spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
 Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long ; 
 Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
 The fears and hopes of a commercial care : 
 Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
 To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
 But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
 Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood : 
 And honest merit stands on slippery ground, 
 Where covert guile, and artifice abound. 
 Let just restraint, for public peace designed, 
 Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind : 
 The foe of virtue has no claim to thee : - 
 But let insolvent innocence go free. 
 
 LESSON LXXV. 
 
 The Hermit. BEATTIE. 
 
 AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forge tfulness prove; 
 When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 
 
 And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
 'Twas then, by the' cave of the mountain afar, 
 
 While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; 
 No more with himself or with nature at war, 
 
 He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man ; 
 
 " Ah, why, thus abandoned to darkness and wo, 
 Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
 
 For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. 
 
140 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew thy sad lay ; 
 
 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn : 
 O soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away 
 
 Full quickly they pass but they never return. 
 
 " Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 
 
 The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays : 
 But lately I marked, when, majestic on high, 
 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
 
 The path that conducts thee to splendor again : 
 But man'h faded glory no change shall renew ! 
 
 Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
 " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 
 
 I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
 For morn is approaching your charms to restore, 
 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn : 
 
 Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 
 
 O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave !" 
 
 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, 
 
 That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
 
 Destruction before me and sorrow behind : 
 " O pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 
 
 " Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee ! 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relincmish my pride ; 
 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free." 
 
 And darkness and doubt are now flying away : 
 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 
 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence cf morn. 
 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. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 141 
 
 LESSON LXXVI. 
 
 Hymn to the Stars. MONTHLY REPOSITORY. 
 
 AY, there ye shine, and there have shone, 
 
 In one eternal ' hour of prime,' 
 Each rolling burningly, alone, 
 
 Through boundless space and countless time. 
 Ay, there ye shine, the golden dews 
 
 That pave the realms by seraphs trod ; 
 There, through yon echoing vault, diffuse 
 
 The song of choral worlds to God. 
 
 Ye visible spirits ! bright as erst 
 
 Young Eden's birthnight saw ye shine 
 On all her flowers and fountains first, 
 
 Yet sparkling from the hand divine ; 
 Yes, bright as then ye smiled, to catch 
 
 The music of a sphere so fair, 
 YQ hold your high, immortal watch, 
 
 And gird your God's pavilion there. 
 
 Clold frets to dust, yet there ye are ; 
 
 Time rots the diamond, there ye roll 
 In primal light, as if each star 
 
 Enshrined an everlasting soul ! 
 And does it not since your bright throngs 
 
 One all-enlightening Spirit own, 
 Praised there by pure, sidereal tongues, 
 
 Eternal, glorious, blest, alone ? 
 
 Could man but see what ye have seen, 
 
 Unfold awhile the shrouded past, 
 From all that is, to what has been, 
 
 The glance how rich ! the range how vast ! 
 The birth of time, the rise, the fall 
 
 Of empires, myriads, ages flown, 
 Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships, all 
 
 The things whose echoes are not gone. 
 
 Ye saw rapt Zoroaster send 
 
 His soul into your mystic reign; 
 Ye saw the adoring Sabian bend 
 
 The living hills his mighty fane ! 
 
142 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Beneath his blue and beaming sky, 
 He worshipped at your lofty shrine, 
 
 And deemed he saw, with gifted eye, 
 The Godhead in his works divine. 
 
 And there ye shine, as if to mock 
 
 The children of a mortal sire. 
 The storm, the bolt, the earthquake's shock, 
 
 The red volcano's cataract fire, 
 Drought, famine, plague, and blood, and flame, 
 
 All nature's ills, and life's worse woes, 
 Are nought to you : ye smile the same, 
 
 And scorn alike their dawn and close. 
 
 Ay, there ye roll emblems sublime 
 
 Of Him, whose spirit o'er us moves, 
 Beyond the clouds of grief and crime, 
 
 Still shining on the world he loves : 
 Nor is one scene to mortals given, 
 
 That more divides the soul and sod, 
 Than yon proud heraldry of heaven 
 
 Yon burning blazonry of God ! 
 
 LESSON LXXVII. 
 
 Religion the only Basis of Society. CHANNING. 
 
 RELIGION is a social concern ; for it operates powerfully 
 on society, contributing, in various ways, to its stability and 
 prosperity. Religion is riot merely a private affair ; the 
 community is deeply interested in its diffusion ; for it is the 
 best support of the virtues and principles, on which the 
 social order rests. Pure and undefiled religion is, to do 
 good ; and it follows, very plainly, that, if God be the Author 
 and Friend of society, then, the recognition of him must en- 
 force all social duty, and enlightened piety must give its 
 whole strength to public order. 
 
 Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the ex- 
 tent of the support given by religion to every virtue. No 
 man, perhaps, is aware, how much our moral and social 
 sentiments are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con- 
 science would become, without the belief of a God ; how 
 
NATIONAL READER. 143 
 
 palsied would be human benevolence, were there not the 
 sense of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ; 
 how suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and with 
 what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruin, w r ere 
 the ideas of a supreme Being, of accountableness, and of a 
 future life, to be utterly erased from every mind. 
 
 And, let men thoroughly believe that they are the work 
 and sport of chance ; that no superior intelligence concerns 
 itself with human affairs ; that all their improvements perish 
 forever at death ; that the weak hare no guardian, and the 
 injured no avenger ; that there is no recompense for sacri- 
 fices to uprightness and the public good ; that an oath is 
 unheard in heaven ; that secret crimes have no witness but 
 the perpetrator ; that human existence has no purpose, and 
 human virtue no unfailing friend;, that this brief life is 
 every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting extinction ; 
 once let them thoroughly abandon religion; and who can 
 conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would 
 follow ! 
 
 We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sympathy 
 would hold society together. As reasonably might we 
 believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens, our 
 torches would illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize 
 the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken 
 respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of a 
 day ? And what is he more, if atheism be true ? 
 
 Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, and 
 selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. Ap- 
 petite, knowing no restraint, and suffering, having no solace 
 or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of human 
 laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked and spurn- 
 ed as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would sup- 
 plant every other feeling ; and man would become, in fact, 
 what the theory of atheism declares him to be, a compan- 
 ion for brutes. 
 
 LESSON LXXVIII. 
 
 Punishment of a Liar. BIBLE. 
 
 Now Na'uman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, 
 was a great man with his master, and honourable ; because 
 
M4 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria : he was 
 also a mighty man in valour ; but he was a lep'er. And 
 the Syrians had gone out by companies, and had brought 
 away captive, out of the land of Israel, a little maid ; and 
 she waited on Naaman's wife. And she said unto her mis- 
 tress, Would God my lord were with the prophet that is in 
 Samaria ! for he would recover him of his leprosy. 
 
 And one went in, and told his lord, saying, Thus and thus 
 said the maid that is of the land of Israel. And the king of 
 Syria said, Go to, go ; and I will send a letter unto the king 
 of Israel. And he departed, and took with him ten talents 
 of silver, and six thousand pieces of gold, and ten changes 
 of raiment. And he brought the letter to the king of Israel, 
 saying, Now, when this letter is come unto thee, behold, 1 
 have therewith sent Naaman my servant to thee, that thou 
 mayest recover him of his leprosy. 
 
 And it came to pass, when the king of Israel had read the 
 letter, that he rent his clothes, and said, Am I God, to kill 
 and to make alive, that this man doth send unto me to recover 
 a man of his leprosy ? Wherefore consider, I pray you, and 
 see how he seeketh a quarrel against me. 
 
 And it was so, when Elisha, the man of God, had heard 
 that the king of Israel had rent his clothes, that he sent to 
 the king, saying, Wherefore hast thou rent thy clothes ? let 
 him come now to me, and he shall know that there is a pro- 
 phet in Israel. So Naaman came, with his horses and with 
 his chariot, and stood at the door of the house of Elisha. 
 And Elisha sent a messenger unto him, saying, Go and 
 wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again 
 to thee, and thou shalt be clean. 
 
 But Naaman was wroth, and went away, and said, Behold, 
 I thought, He will surely come out to me, and stand, and 
 call on the name of the Lord his God, and strike his hand 
 over the place, and recover the leper. Are not Ab'ana and 
 Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of 
 Israel ? may I not wash in them, and be clean ? So he 
 turned, and went away in a rage. 
 
 And his servants came near, and spake unto him, and said, 
 My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, 
 wouldest thou not have done it ? how much rather, then, 
 when he saith to -hee, Wash, and be clean ? Then went he 
 down, and dipped himself seven times in Jordan, according 
 to the saying of tie man of God : and his flesh came again 
 like unto the flesii of a little child, and he was clean. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 145 
 
 And lie returned to the man of God, he and all his com- 
 pany, and came and stood before him : arid he said, Behold, 
 now I know that there is no God in all the earth but in 
 Israel ; now therefore, I pray thee, take a blessing of thy 
 servant. But he said, As the Lord liveth, before whom I 
 stand, I will receive none. And he urged him to take it: 
 but he refused. ^ ^ ^ ^ So he departed from him a 
 little way. 
 
 But Gehazi, the servant of Elisha, the man of God, said, 
 Behold, my master hath spared Naaman this Syrian, in not 
 receiving at his hands that which he brought ; but, as the 
 Lord liveth, I will run after him, and take somewhat of him. 
 
 So Gehazi followed after Naaman : and when Naaman 
 saw him running after him, he lighted down from the cha- 
 riot to meet him, and said, Is all well ? And he said, All is 
 well. My master hath sent me, saying, Behold, even now 
 there be come to me from mount Ephraim two young men 
 of the sons of the prophets : give them, I pray thee> a talent 
 of silver, and two changes of garments. 
 
 And Naaman said, Be content ; take two talents. And he 
 urged him, and bound two talents of silver in two bags, with 
 two changes of garments, and laid them upon two of his ser- 
 vants ; and they bare them before him. And when he came 
 to the tower, he took them from their hand, and bestowed 
 them in the house ; and he let the men go, and they depart- 
 ed. But he went in and stood before his master. 
 
 And Elisha said unto him t Whence comest thou, Gehazi ? 
 And he said, Thy servant went no whither. And he said 
 unto him, Went not my heart with thee, when the man 
 turned again from his chariot to meet thee ? Is it a time to 
 receive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, ancL * c/ 
 vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and men-servants, and maid-' 
 servants ? The leprosy, therefore, of Naaman shall cleave 
 unto thee. * ^ * * And he went out from his pre- 
 sence a leper as white as snow. 
 
 % L 4 1* \ 
 
 tAt 
 
 LESSON 
 
 Claims of the Jews. NOEL. 
 
 IN very truth, there are claims, which 1 the Jew can urge, 
 in which the Gentile cannot share. In advocating the cause 
 13 
 
146 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 of Israel, I would ask, and strongly too, Is the account of 
 justice towards that nation settled ? Is the long arrear of 
 Gentile gratitude to that nation discharged ? For to what 
 blessing shall we refer, in the long catalogue of our own 
 mercies, which we have not derived from Israel ? 
 
 Amidst the sorrows and vicissitudes of life, do we find 
 daily consolations from God? Under the terrors of con- 
 science, do we behold a peaceful asylum in the Gospel of 
 Christ ? By the bed of dying worth, or at the oft-frequented 
 grave of departed friendship, do we wipe away our tears in 
 the prospect of a sure and certain hope of a resurrection to 
 the life eternal ? 
 
 From whence do all these consolations flow ? They flow 
 to us from Judah. The Volume of God was penned by 
 Jewish hands ; the Gospel was proclaimed by Jewish lips ; 
 yea, that Sacred Victim on the cross, the world's only 
 hope, the sinner's only joy, wears not even he the lin'ea- 
 ments of the children of Abraham ? And, without the blush 
 of self-abasement, can we speculate any longer on our in- 
 difference to the Jewish cause, and coldly complain, that we 
 feel not here that energy of sympathy, which we can feel on 
 other appeals to our compassion ? ^ * 
 
 Christians ! at length remove the stigma ; repay the debt ; 
 redeem the time ; admit the claims of justice ; yield to the 
 impulse of gratitude ; feel, toil, supplicate for those, whose 
 forefathers felt, and toiled, and prayed for you ! 
 
 Think, I pray you, of all their former grandeur, and con- 
 trast it with their present desolation. Such a contrast raises, 
 even under % ordinary circumstances, a keen emotion in the 
 human heart. No sympathy is so strong as that, which is 
 drawn forth by fallen greatness. The extent of the ruin is 
 the very measure of that emotion. Why does the traveller 
 fondly linger amidst the scenes of ancient art, or power, or 
 influence ? Why, for so many a year, has the poet and the 
 philosopher wandered amidst the fragments of Athens or of 
 Rome ? why paused, with strange and kindling feelings, 
 amidst their broken columns, their mouldering temples, their 
 deserted plains ? It is because their day of glory is passed ; 
 it is because their name is obscured, their power is departed, 
 their influence is lost ! The gloomy contrast casts a shade 
 over the renown and the destiny of man. 
 
 Similar emotions have, indeed, been often felt amidst the 
 scenes of Jewish fame. The forsaken banks of Jordan, 
 where the Psalmist once might tune his lyre, and utter his 
 
NATIONAL READER. 147 
 
 prophetic songs ; the blighted plains of Galilee, where the 
 Saviour might often bend his lonely steps to cheer the wi- 
 dow's dwelling ; the ruined city, once the terror of surround- 
 ing nations ; the forgotten temple, whose walls once echoed 
 back the accents of that voice, " which spake as never man 
 spake ;" these images and memorials of former days have 
 often produced a solemn sadness in the minds of those, who 
 have visited the shores of Palestine ; and these feelings have 
 responded to the affecting complaint, " Thy holy cities are 
 a wilderness, Zion is a wilderness, Jerusalem is a desola- 
 tion. Our holy and our beautiful house, where our fathers 
 praised thee, is burned up with fire, and all our pleasant 
 things are laid waste. " 
 
 But is there no emphasis of sadness to be found in the 
 sordid and degraded state of those, who wander through the 
 world forgotten and forlorn, though once the honoured ser- 
 vants, the favoured children, of the Lord ? 
 
 Shall the sculptured stone, the broken shaft, the time- 
 worn capital, even the poor fragments of some profane 
 sanctuary shall these affect so deeply the heart ? and shall 
 the moral ruin, the spiritual decay, the symptoms of eternal 
 perdition shall these vestiges of desolation excite no feel- 
 ing in our bosoms? And where is a ruin to be found so 
 mournful, and so complete, as that which the moral aspect 
 of Judah now presents to our view ? 
 
 LESSON LXXX. 
 
 The Influence of Devotional Habits and Feelings^ happy at 
 all Times. WELLBELOVED. 
 
 IN every age, and in every condition of life, the influence 
 of devotion is highly needful and important. The adoration 
 of the great Source of all enjoyment, by whose providence 
 all exist, and from whose goodness all derive the comfort of 
 their existence, is an employment worthy of the human 
 faculties, reasonable in itself, and productive of the most 
 excellent dispositions. 
 
 In the day of prosperity, what more natural or becoming, 
 than the language of praise at the throne of God ? in the 
 hour of adversity, what more suitable or consoling, than the 
 expression of confidence in the divine government, and the 
 
148 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 wish that devotion breathes, " Father, not my will, but thine, 
 be done ?" in the whole conduct of life, in all the events of 
 this ever-varying scene, what more likely to keep the mind 
 in a calm and tranquil state, or to render the present moral 
 discipline efficacious in preparing us for future eminence and 
 
 flory, than the habit of devout intercourse with the great 
 ather of our spirits ? 
 
 A practice so excellent in maturer life, is recommended 
 to youth by reasons peculiarly forcible. Piety, a crown of 
 glory to the hoary head, is an ornament of peculiar beauty 
 upon that which has not seen many years. It is the lan- 
 guage of the most absurd and fatal folly, that religion and 
 its duties are not suited to the innocent gayety of youth ; 
 that devotion belongs to those only, who have passed that 
 period; and that it will be sufficient to think of prepar- 
 ing for a future state, when we begin to lose our relish for 
 the present. 
 
 Such sentiments as these are not, I hope, adopted by any 
 of those young persons, to whom I address myself. The 
 reverse are such as they ought to maintain ; such as, alone, 
 are worthy of a rational mind. Is it reasonable, my young 
 friends, that, living as you do upon the bounty of Provi- 
 dence, you should feel no gratitude, nor express any thank* 
 fulness for its bounties ? that, dependant as you are upon God 
 for life, and health, and all things, you should live without 
 any regard for your unceasing Benefactor, and think your^ 
 selves improperly employed when celebrating his praise ? 
 
 Are the blessings you receive undeserving of your thanks ? 
 Are you insensible of the value of kind relations, judicious 
 friends, and wise instructers ; of bodily strength and activity ; 
 of cheerfulness of mind ; of all the numberless means, by 
 which life is not only supported, but rendered happy ? Is 
 it possible that you should not see and feel the ingratitude 
 of employing your best days, and your most vigorous pow- 
 ers, without one thought of God ; and of contenting your- 
 selves with the resolution of devoting to his service the im- 
 becility of old age ? 
 
 With so many monuments of death around you; with so 
 many awful warnings of the uncertainty of life, even at 
 your period of it ; is it not the height of presumption and 
 folly, to defer the formation of a religious and devotional 
 temper to a period, which, it is probable, or at least possible, 
 
 may never arrive 
 
 a 
 
 Have you seen so little of life, as not to know, that the 
 
NATIONAL READER. 149 
 
 feeling and conduct of maturer years, and of old age, are al- 
 most invariably marked by the character which distinguished 
 the youth; that the man, who neglected God and religious 
 duties when young, becomes more averse from them as he 
 advances in life, and leaves the world with the same irreli- 
 gious temper with which he entered upon it ; unimproved 
 by the events that have happened to him, bearing no simili- 
 tude to God, without the favour of his friendship, and unpre- 
 pared for the joys of his presence ? Or, is this the envied 
 character you desire to form ? is this the happy end to which 
 you aspire ? is such the life you wish to lead ? or such the 
 death you hope to die ? 
 
 My young friends, let not any evil suggestions enslave 
 you, and prevent you from pursuing that conduct, which rea- 
 son and Scripture pronounce to be honourable and safe. If 
 it be an awful thing to die without hope of future happiness, 
 it is an awful thing to live every moment liable to death, 
 without those dispositions, which, by the wise appointment 
 of Almighty God, are necessary to obtain the blessedness of 
 the world to come. 
 
 LESSON LXXXL 
 
 The Seasons. MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 WHO may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid, 
 In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed ? 
 Her head is with a flowery garland crowned, 
 And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring around. 
 Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow ; 
 Loosed from, their icy chains the rivers flow ; 
 At sight of her the lambkins bound along, 
 And each glad warbler trills his sweetest song ; 
 Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled, 
 And all prepare their mossy nests to build. 
 Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
 The name and lineage of this smiling fair. 
 
 Who from the south is this, with lingering tread 
 Advancing, in transparent garments clad ? 
 Her breath is hot and sultry : now she loves 
 To seek the inmost shelter of the groves ; 
 The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams, 
 To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs. 
 13* 
 
150 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly ; 
 At her approach their currents quickly dry. 
 Berries and every acid fruit she sips, 
 To allay the fervour of her parching lips ; 
 Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice, 
 She loves, which orchards plenteously produce. 
 The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears 
 The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears. 
 At her approach, O be it mine to lie 
 "Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply ; 
 Or with her let me rove at early morn, 
 When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn ; 
 Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose, 
 And the bright star of evening mildly glows. 
 Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
 The name and lineage of this blooming fair. 
 
 WTio may he be that next, with sober pace, 
 Comes stealing on us ? Sallow is his face ; 
 The grape's red blood distains his robes around ; 
 His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound ; 
 His hair hath just begun to fall away, 
 The auburn blending with the mournful gray. 
 The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain ; 
 He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train : 
 The gun is heard ; the trembling partridge bleeds ; 
 The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds. 
 Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare, 
 Jf ye can tell, ye youths and maidens fair. 
 
 Who is he from the north that speeds his way ? 
 Thick furs and wool compose his warm array : 
 His cloak is closely folded ; bald his head ; 
 His beard of clear sharp icicles is made. 
 By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ; 
 With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims. 
 When he is by, with breath so piercing cold, 
 No floweret dares its tender buds unfold. 
 Nought can. his powerful freezing touch withstand ; 
 And, should he smite you with his chilling hand, 
 Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast, 
 Or stand, like marble, pale and breathless as he passed 
 Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear ? 
 Fast he approaches, and will soon be here. 
 Declare, I pray you, tell me, if ye can, 
 The name and lineage of this aged man. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 151 
 
 LESSON LXXXII. 
 
 March. BRYANT. 
 
 THE stormy March is come at last, 
 
 With wind, and cloud, and changing skies : 
 
 I hear the rushing of the blast, 
 That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
 Ah ! passing few are they who speak, 
 Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee ; 
 
 Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
 Thou art a welcome month to me. 
 
 For thou to northern lands again, 
 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle train, 
 And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 
 
 And, in. thy reign of blast and storm, 
 Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
 And heaven puts on the blue of May. 
 
 Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
 
 And the full springs, from frost set free, 
 
 That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
 Are just set out to meet the sea. 
 
 The year's departing beauty hides 
 
 Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; 
 But, in thy sternest frown, abides 
 
 A look of kindly promise yet. 
 
 Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 
 
 And that soft time of sunny showers, 
 When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
 
 Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
 
152 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIII. 
 
 April. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 WHEN the warm sun, that brings 
 Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 
 
 The first flower of the plain. 
 
 I love the season well, 
 
 When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
 Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
 
 The coming-in of storms. 
 
 From the earth's loosened mould 
 The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : 
 Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 
 
 The drooping tree revives. 
 
 The softly-warbled song 
 
 Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
 Are glancing in the golden sun, along 
 
 The forest openings. 
 
 And when bright sunset fills 
 
 The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
 Its shadows in the hollows of the hills. 
 
 And wide the upland glows. 
 
 And when the day is gone, 
 In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far, 
 Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 
 
 And twinkles many a star. 
 
 Inverted in the tide 
 
 Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
 And the fair trees look over, side by side, 
 
 And see themselves below. 
 
 Sweet April, many a thought 
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
 Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 
 
 Life's golden fruit is shed. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIV. 
 May. J. G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 
 
 The winds, that fan the flowers, 
 And wHh their welcome breathings fill the sail, 
 
 Tell of serener hours, 
 Of hours that glide unfelt away 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 
 
 From his blue throne of air, 
 And where his whispering voice in music falls, 
 
 Beauty is budding there ; 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 
 
 And the wide forest weaves, 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 
 A canopy of leaves ; 
 And, from its darkening shadow, floats 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 
 
 The tresses of the woods, 
 With the light dallying of the west- wind play ; 
 
 And the full-brimming floods, 
 As gladly to their goal they run, 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 LESSON LXXXV. 
 
 The Voice of Spring. MRS. HEM'ANS, 
 
 I COME, I come ! ye have called me long, 
 I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
 Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
 
154 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
 By the green leaves opening as I pass. 
 
 I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut-flowers, 
 By thousands, have burst from the forest-boAvers, 
 And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
 Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. 
 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
 To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 
 
 I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, 
 
 And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
 
 The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 
 
 And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, 
 
 And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
 
 And the moss looks bright where my step has been. 
 
 I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, 
 And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, 
 From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
 In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
 To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
 When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. 
 
 From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; 
 They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
 They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, 
 They are flinging spray on the forest boughs, 
 They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
 And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. 
 
 Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! 
 Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
 Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, 
 And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, 
 With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay : 
 Come forth to the sunshine : I may not stay ! 
 
 Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
 The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ; 
 Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, 
 The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ; 
 Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
 And youth is abroad in my green domains. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 155 
 
 But ye ! ye are changed since ye met me last ; 
 A shade of earth has been round you cast ! 
 There is that come over your brow and eye 
 Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 
 Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet 
 Oh ! what have ye looked on since last we met ? 
 
 Ye are changed, ye are changed ! and I see not here 
 All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
 There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
 Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
 There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
 No faint remembrance of dull decay. 
 
 There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 
 
 As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 
 
 There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, 
 
 And had not a sound of mortality ! 
 
 Are they gone ? is their mirth from the green hills passed ? 
 
 Ye have looked on Death since ye met me last ! 
 
 I know whence the shadow comes o'er ye now : 
 Ye have strown the dust on the sunny brow ! 
 Ye have given the lovely to Earth's embrace ; 
 She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race ! 
 With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 
 They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 
 
 They are gone from amongst you, the bright and fair ; 
 Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
 But I know of a world where there falls no blight : 
 I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
 Where Death, 'midst the blooms of the morn, may dwell, 
 I tarry no longer : farewell, farewell ! 
 
 The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne : 
 
 Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
 
 For me, I depart to a brighter shore : 
 
 Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. 
 
 I go where the loved, who have left you, dwell, 
 
 And the flowers are not Death's : fare ye well, farewell ! 
 
156 NATIONAL READEIt. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVI. 
 
 Folly of deferring, to a Future Time, the Religious Duties 
 of the Present. WELLBELOVED. 
 
 THERE are few young persons so careless and indifferent, 
 as not occasionally to look forward to the time when they 
 shall become devout. However they may neglect God, and 
 disregard the duties of religion at present, they hope to serve 
 and obey God, and to live virtuously, before they die. 
 
 Alas ! they reflect not, that, by a continuance in evil 
 practices, they render it almost impossible that they should 
 attain to any love of virtue; that, by forming habits incon- 
 sistent with piety, in the early period of their lives, they 
 expose themselves to the almost certain hazard of never 
 acquiring one pious sentiment, how protracted soever their 
 existence in the present world. 
 
 Be careful. I entreat you, my young friends, not to indulge 
 such fallacious hopes. To whatever you now devote your- 
 selves, to that you will, most probably, continue to adhere to 
 the last hour. Your future pursuits may be in some respects 
 altered, but they will never be totally changed. A vicious 
 youth almost invariably becomes a vicious man ; and they 
 whose declining years are dignified by virtue and piety, 
 are, for the most part, those who sought wisdom early and 
 found her. 
 
 We are the creatures of habit ; and, if we wish to be 
 found, in old age, proceeding in the paths of wisdom and 
 virtue, we must yield ourseives to the counsels of religion 
 in the days of our youth. It is both the safest and the 
 easiest way to form no habits which you propose hereafter 
 to break ; to cherish no dispositions which you hope, when 
 time has confirmed them, to relinquish ; to gain a fondness 
 for no practices which you know will, if not abandoned, dis- 
 qualify you for the happiness of a future state. 
 
 If you cannot resolve to be pious now, how can you hope 
 for the resolution hereafter? If passion exerts so strong an 
 influence at present, how can you expect that long indul- 
 gence will lessen its power ? If you neglect to form habits 
 of virtue, when every thing invites and assists you in this 
 important work, how can you trust to that period, when, to 
 the labour and difficulty of acquiring new principles, will 
 be added that of undoing all that the former years of your 
 lives have effected ? 
 
NATIONAL READER. 157 
 
 A moment's reflection will show you, that the attainment 
 of pious affections in old age, after a long pursuit of folly, 
 must require nothing less than an entire change of disposi- 
 tions and of conduct, a complete regeneration of the mind 
 and character. Old things must pass away, and all things 
 become new. From reflecting, turn yourselves to the ex- 
 perience of mankind, and observe how few are capable of 
 the exertion so necessary in this momentous concern. 
 
 "Remember, then, your Creator, in the days of your youth, 
 while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, in 
 which," disturbed by reflections upon the past, oppressed by 
 the consciousness of your inability to relinquish what you 
 disapprove, and alarmed at the prospect of futurity, " ye shall 
 say, We have no pleasure in them." 
 
 It is an error, too commonly prevalent, that the duties of 
 piety are inconsistent with the enjoyment of youth, and that 
 they tend to damp, if not extinguish, the vivacity which 
 adorns that season of life. You will perhaps be told, that 
 devotion is not required in you ; that it will serve only to 
 render you gloomy, disqualify you for the society of those 
 who are young like yourselves, and render you a fit com- 
 panion for those only, who have forgotten the days of former 
 years, and have arrived at the verge of the grave. 
 
 Be not influenced by such assertions ; make the experiment 
 for yourselves; and, if you do not find that the ways of piety 
 are the only ways of pleasantness, and her paths the only 
 paths of peace, I ask you riot to walk in them : if the service 
 of God do hot yield you the only rational and pure pleasure, 
 I will cease from advising you to avoid the debasing slavery 
 of sin. 
 
 That devotion will interfere with the pursuits which young 
 persons sometimes follow, and prohibit the pleasures in 
 which they are too frequently seen to indulge, I will not deny. 
 Yes, my young friends, if you will be virtuous and devout, 
 you must refrain from all those pleasures which end in pain; 
 you must abandon all those pursuits which lead to disgrace 
 and ruin; you must apply to other sources of gratification 
 than those, which, however sweet to the taste, contain a 
 deadly poison; you must fly the society of those "whose 
 feet go down to death, whose steps take hold on hell;" and 
 often send your thoughts to that land of promise, where all 
 the wise and virtuous shall enjoy inconceivable and uninter- 
 fupted happiness. 
 
 Are these requisitions unreasonable ? are these injunc- 
 14 
 
158 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 lions oppressive ? will these destroy your innocent gayety, or 
 render you gloomy and austere ? The most thoughtless and 
 inexperienced will acknowledge, that no joys but such as 
 are innocent can be pure and lasting ; and piety requires of 
 you no more, than that you indulge not in those that are 
 impure and deceitful. 
 
 The peculiar enjoyment of youth arises from innocence, 
 inexperience in the vicissitudes and trials of life, and ardent 
 hope. Devotion, therefore, will increase your enjoyment, in- 
 stead of lessening it, by rendering you secure against temp- 
 tations, assuring you of the favour and friendship of God, 
 encouraging you to contemplate, with satisfaction and with 
 pleasure, whatever his providence shall reserve for you in 
 future ; and, above all, by giving a wider scope for your ex- 
 pectations to range in, by opening before you the eternal 
 abodes of the wise and the good. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVII. 
 
 Religion the lest Preparation for the Duties of Life. NORTON. 
 
 THE interest which we feel in the young should direct our 
 attention to all those means, by which their virtue and hap- 
 piness may be secured, and by which they may be saved, as 
 far as possible, from the evils that are in the world. The 
 worst sufferings, to which they are exposed, are those which 
 may be avoided ; for they are those which we bring upon 
 ourselves. 
 
 The best preparation, which we can give them, for meet* 
 ing the trials, and performing the duties, of life, is religious 
 principle. Through the influence of this only can a charac- 
 ter be formed, which will lead one to act, and suffer, and re- 
 sist, wisely and honourably, in every situation. This only 
 can deliver man from the power of the world, and secure him 
 from becoming the slave of circumstances and accidents. 
 
 The essential truths of religion are those truths, which 
 we know concerning God ; and concerning ourselves, con- 
 sidered as immortal beings. It is religion which teaches 
 us what we are, and on whom we depend ; and which, 
 widening immeasurably our sphere of view, discovers to us 
 by far the most important of our relations, those which 
 connect us with God, and with eternity. It is little to say 
 
NATIONAL READER. 1-59 
 
 that it is the most sublime, it is the most practical, of all 
 sciences. ^ * ^ ^ 
 
 The foundation of all true religion is a belief of the ex- 
 istence and perfections of God. We must conceive of him, 
 and represent him to the young, as the Maker and Preserver 
 of all things ; as a being on whom the whole creation is 
 entirely and continually dependent ; who is every where 
 invisibly present, and knows all our thoughts and actions ; 
 from whom we receive all that we enjoy ; to whom we must 
 look for all that we hope ; who is our constant Benefactor, 
 our Father in Heaven. 
 
 The feelings toward him, which should be first formed 
 and cultivated in the minds of the young, are those of grati- 
 tude, love, and reverence. In endeavouring to impress them 
 with these sentiments toward God, we ought to take advan- 
 tage of those occasions when they are most cheerful and 
 satisfied with themselves. It is then that his idea is to be 
 presented to their minds. Should they be touched by the 
 beauty or sublimity of nature, we may then endeavour to 
 give them some just conceptions of that infinite Spirit, 
 whose agency is displaying itself on every side, and of 
 whose presence all visible forms are the marks and symbols. 
 
 When we teach them something respecting the immensity 
 of the universe ; that the portion of this earth with which 
 they are acquainted, is only a very small part of an immense 
 globe, forever wheeling through void space ; that this globe 
 is but an inconsiderable thing, compared w^ith others that 
 are known to us ; that the stars of heaven are a multitude 
 of suns, which cannot be numbered, placed at distances 
 from each other, which cannot be measured ; we may then 
 direct their thoughts to that Power, by whom this illirnitabla 
 universe was created, and is kept in motion, and who super- 
 intends all the concerns of every individual in every one of 
 these myriads of worlds. 
 
 When we point out to them any of the admirable contri- 
 vances of nature, which appear around us in such inex- 
 haustible profusion and variety, so that we tread them with- 
 out thought under our feet ; when we explain to them, that 
 each of the countless insects of a summer's day is a miracle 
 of curious mechanism ; we can hardly avoid telling them 
 by whose wisdom these contrivances were formed, and by 
 whose goodness their benevolent purposes were designed. 
 
 When their hearts are opened by gladness, and their feel- 
 ings spread themselves out to find objects to which to cling j 
 
160 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 you may then, by a word or two, direct their thoughts to 
 God as their Benefactor. When the occasion is of impor- 
 tance enough to give propriety to the introduction of religious 
 ideas, you may lead them in their sorrows to the consolation 
 and hope which a belief in him affords. 
 
 You may thus do what is in your power to enthrone the 
 idea of God in their minds, so that all the thoughts and 
 affections shall pay homage to it. You may thus do what 
 is in your power toward forming that temper of habitual 
 devotion, to which God is continually revealing himself in 
 his works, and in his providence. You may thus give the 
 first impulse to those feelings of love, reverence, and trust, 
 which connect a good man so strongly with God, that, if it 
 were possible for him to be deprived of the belief of his ex- 
 istence, it would be with the same feeling of horror, with 
 which he would see the sun darkening and disappearing 
 from the heavens. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVHI. 
 
 The Young, of every Rank, entitled to Education. 
 GREENWOOD. 
 
 THE benefits of education should be extended to all chil* 
 dren, without exception. They never have been denied to 
 those who are born to rarik and wealth, or even to a compe- 
 tency and mediocrity of estate, except till very lately, and, 
 in some respects, in the case of the female sex. Bat, even 
 at this enlightened day, it is not entirely a superfluous task 
 to vindicate the claims of the offspring of the poor, of the 
 poorest, of the vilest, to that mental cultivation, which it is 
 in the power of every community to bestow. 
 
 That old notion is not yet stowed away among the forgotten 
 rubbish of old times, that those, who were born to labour and 
 servitude, were born for nothing but labour and servitude, and 
 that, the less they knew, the better they would obey, and 
 that the only instruction, which was necessary or safe for 
 them, was that which would teach them to move, like auto* 
 matons, precisely as those above them pulled the strings. 
 I say, we still hear this principle asserted, though perhaps 
 in more guarded and indefinite language ; and a more self- 
 ish, pernicious, disgraceful principle, in whatever terms it 
 maybe muffled up, never insulted human nature, nor degraded 
 
NATIONAL READER. 101 
 
 human society, It is the leading principle of despotism, 
 the worst feature of aristocracy, and a profane contradiction 
 of that indubitable Word, which has pronounced all men to 
 be brethren, and, in every thing which relates to their com- 
 mon nature, equal. 
 
 In short, it is only to the domestic animals, to the brutes 
 that God has given for our use, that this principle can with 
 justice be applied. Their education is not to be carried be- 
 yond obedience, because their faculties will not authorize a 
 more liberal discipline. We are to feed them well, and use 
 them gently, and our duty toward them is performed. But, 
 to say that this is the extent of our obligations toward any 
 class or description of our fellow beings, is to advance the 
 monstrous proposition, that their capacity is as low as their 
 circumstantial situation, and their degree among those who 
 bear the yoke, and eat the grass of the field. 
 
 But the truth is, that the minds of any one class are as 
 improvable as the minds of any other class of men, and may 
 therefore be improved in the same way, by the same means, 
 and to as good purposes. Once grant that all human beings 
 have the same human faculties, and you grant, to all, the 
 complete right of the unlimited cultivation of those facul- 
 ties. Nor is it at all more rational to suppose, that a judi- 
 cious education of the poor, conducted to any attainable 
 extent, will be liable to abuse in their hands, and lead them 
 to forget their station and their duty, than that it will have 
 similar effects on those who are nourished on the lap of 
 affluence. The experience, that has been collected on this 
 point, only strengthens the deductions of analogy, and con- 
 firms the important position, which has hitherto gained too 
 little practical faith in the world, that, the more a people 
 know, the less exposed they are to every description of 
 extravagance. ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Wherever there is an unimproved mind, there is an un- 
 known amount of lost usefulness and dormant energy. If 
 this is so through the negligence or perversity of the indi- 
 vidual, with him is the guilt, and with him be the punish- 
 ment ; but if it is so through the influence of sentiments 
 which are current in society, the fearful responsibility rests 
 with those who avow and maintain them/ _ I see not why 
 the man who would repress, and who does repress, as far as 
 in him lies, the. moral and intellectual capabilities of a fel- 
 low creature, is not as culpable as if he abused and destroyed 
 his own. 
 
162 NATIONAL READER, 
 
 I have said, that even the children of the vilest and lowest 
 portion of the community share in the general right to the 
 advantages of education. Their claim possesses a peculiar 
 title to our consideration. Some have spoken, as if such 
 were beyond or beneath our assistance, and would bring 
 contamination from their birth-place. Their lot is in the 
 region of irreclaimable wickedness, it is said ; and as their 
 parents are, so are they destined to become. 
 
 Destined ! and so they are, if you will not save them. 
 They are destined, and forever chained down, to a state of 
 moral loathsomeness, in which degradation seems to be 
 swallowed with the food, and vice breathed in with the air. 
 And shall they stay in such a pit of darkness ? Is not their 
 situation the strongest possible appeal, which can be made 
 to your pity, and your generosity, and your sense of justice, 
 and your love of good ? Does it not call on you, most loud- 
 ly and imperatively, to pluck these brands from the burning, 
 ere yet they have been scorched too deeply and darkly by the 
 flame? 
 
 Nothing is more probable, than that such children may be 
 preserved to virtue by a timely interference ; nothing is 
 more certain, than that they will be lost, if they remain. I 
 know of no case, which promises such ample success and 
 reward to the spirited efforts of benevolence, as this. Vice 
 may be cut off, in a great measure, of her natural increase, 
 by the adoption of her offspring into the family of virtue ; 
 and, though it is true, that the empire of guilt receives con- 
 stant emigrations and fresh accessions of strength, from all 
 the regions of society, yet it is equally as true, that they, 
 whose only crime it is that they were born within its con'- 
 fines, may be snatched away, and taught another allegiance, 
 before they have become familiar with its language, its cus- 
 toms, and its corruptions, and have vowed a dreadful fidelity 
 to its laws. 
 
 LESSON LXXX1X. 
 
 Childhood and Manhood an Apologue. CE 
 " Men are but children of a larger growth. 
 
 'TwAS eight o'clock, and near the lire 
 My ruddy little bqy was seated, 
 
 And with the title of a sire 
 
 My ears expected to be greeted : 
 
NATIONAL READER. 163 
 
 But vain the thought : by sleep oppressed, 
 
 No father there the child descried \ 
 His head reclined upon his breast, 
 
 Or, nodding, rolled from side to side. 
 
 " Let this young rogue be sent to bed" 
 
 Nought further had I time to say, 
 When the poor urchin raised his head 
 
 To beg that he might longer stay. 
 Refused, towards rest his steps he bent 
 
 With tearful eye and aching heart ; 
 But claimed his playthings ere he went, 
 
 And took up stairs his horse and cart. 
 
 For new delay, though oft denied, 
 
 He pleaded ; wildly craved the boon : 
 Though past his usual hour, he cried 
 
 At being sent away so soon. 
 If stern to him, his grief I shared ; 
 
 (Unmoved who hears his offspring weep ?) 
 Of soothing him I half despaired ; 
 
 But soon his cares were lost in sleep. 
 
 "Alas! poor infant!" I exclaimed, 
 
 " Thy father blushes now to scan, 
 In all which he so lately blamed, 
 
 The follies and the fears of man. 
 The vain regret, the anguish brief, 
 
 Which thou hast known, sent up to bed, 
 Portrays of man the idle grief, 
 
 When doomed to slumber with the dead." 
 
 And more I thought, when, up the stairs, 
 
 With " longing, lingering looks," he crept, 
 To mark of man the childish cares, 
 
 His playthings carefully he kept. 
 Thus mortals, on life's later stage, 
 
 When nature claims their forfeit breath 
 Still grasp at wealth in pain and age, 
 
 And cling to golden toys in death. 
 
 'Tis morn ; and see, my smiling boy 
 
 Awakes to hail returning light, 
 To fearless laughter boundless joy, 
 
 Forgot the tears of yesternight. 
 
164 NATIONAL HEADER. 
 
 Thus shall not man forget his wo ? 
 
 Survive of age and death the gloom ? 
 Smile at the cares he knew below ? 
 
 And, renovated, burst the tomb ? 
 
 O, my Creator ! when thy will 
 
 Shall stretch this frame on earth's cold bed 
 Let that blest hope sustain me still, 
 
 Till thought, sense, memory all are fled. 
 And, grateful for what thou may'st give, 
 
 No tear shall dim my fading eye, 
 That 'twas thy pleasure I should live, 
 
 That -Us thy mandate bids me die. 
 
 LESSON XC. 
 
 The Skies. BRYANT. 
 
 AY, gloriously thou standest there, 
 Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 
 
 That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
 And round the horizon bent, 
 
 With that bright vault and sapphire wall, 
 
 Dost overhang and circle all. 
 
 Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
 Arise, and piles built up of old, 
 
 And hills, whose ancient summits freeze 
 In the fierce light and cold. 
 
 The eagle soars his utmost height ; 
 
 Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 
 
 Thou hast thy frowns : with thee, on high, 
 The storm has made his airy seat : 
 
 Beyond thy soft blue curtain lie 
 His stores of hail and sleet : 
 
 Thence the consuming lightnings break ; 
 
 There the strong hurricanes awake. 
 
 Yet art thou prodigal of smiles 
 
 Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern : 
 
 Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 
 A song at their return : 
 
NATIONAL READER. 165 
 
 The glory that comes down from thee 
 Bathes in deep joy the land and sea. 
 
 The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, 
 
 The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 
 
 The clouds that round him change and shine, 
 The airs that fan his way. 
 
 Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 
 
 The meek moon walks the silent air. 
 
 The sunny Italy may boast 
 
 The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
 And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 
 
 May thy blue pillars rise : 
 I only know how fair they stand 
 About my own beloved land. 
 
 And they are fair : a charm is theirs, 
 
 That earththe proud, green earth has not, 
 
 With all the hues, and forms, and airs, 
 That haunt her sweetest spot. 
 
 We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, 
 
 And read of heaven's eternal year. 
 
 Oh ! when, amid the throng of men. 
 The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
 
 How willingly we turn us, then, 
 Away from this cold earth, 
 
 And look into thy azure breast, 
 
 For seats of innocence and rest ! 
 
 LESSON XCI. 
 
 Address to the Stars. NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
 
 YE are fair, ye are fair ; and your pensive rays 
 Steal down like the light of parted days ; 
 But have sin and sorrow ne'er wandered o'er 
 The green abodes of each sunny shore ? 
 Hath no frost been there, and no withering blast, 
 Cold, cold, o'er the flower and the forest, passed ? 
 
166 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Does the playful leaf never fall nor fade ? 
 
 The rose ne'er droop in the silent shade ? 
 
 Say, comes there no cloud on your morning beam ? 
 
 On your night of beauty no troubled dream ? 
 
 Have ye no tear the eye to annoy ? 
 
 No grief to shadow its light of joy ? 
 
 No bleeding breasts, that are doomed to part ? 
 
 No blighted bower, and no broken heart ? 
 
 Hath death ne'er saddened your scenes of bloom ? 
 
 Have your suns ne'er shone on the silent tomb ? 
 
 Did their sportive radiance never fall 
 
 On the cypress tree or the ruined wall ? 
 
 'Twere vain to guess ; for no eye hath seen 
 
 O'er the gulf eternally fixed between. 
 
 We hear not the song of your early hours ; 
 
 We hear not the hymn of your evening bowers. 
 
 The strains that gladden each radiant sphere 
 
 Nq'er poured their sweets on a mortal ear ; 
 
 Though such I could deem, on the evening's sigh, 
 
 The air-harp's unearthly melody ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! I go to my rest ; 
 For the shades are passing into the west, 
 And the beacon pales on its lonely height. 
 Isles of the blessed, good-night, good-night ! 
 
 LESSON XCII. 
 
 So?ig of the Stars. BRYANT. 
 
 WHEN the radiant mom of creation broke, 
 And the world in the smile of God awoke, 
 And the empty realms of darkness and death 
 Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath 
 And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, 
 From the void abyss, by myriads came, 
 In the joy of youth, as they darted away, 
 Through the widening wastes of space to play, 
 Their silver voices in chorus rung ; 
 And this was the song the bright ones sung : 
 
 " Away, away ! through the wide, wide sky,- 
 The fair blue fields that before us lie, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 16 
 
 Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll, 
 Each planet, poised on her turning pole, 
 With her isles of green, and her clouds of white. 
 And her waters that lie like fluid light. 
 
 * For the Source of glory uncovers his face, 
 And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ; 
 And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
 In our ruddy air and our blooming sides. 
 Lo, yonder the living splendors play : 
 Away, on our joyous path away ! 
 
 " Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 
 In the infinite azure, star after star, 
 How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 
 How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 
 And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 
 Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 
 
 " And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 
 How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
 And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, 
 Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ; 
 And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, 
 With her shadowy cone, the night goes round ! 
 
 " Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers, 
 In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours, 
 In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
 See, love is brooding, and life is born, 
 And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
 To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 
 
 " Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 
 To weave the dance that measures the years. 
 Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 
 To the farthest wall of the firmament, 
 The boundless visible smile of Him, 
 To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim." 
 
168 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XCIII. 
 
 The Bells of St. Mary's, Limerick. LONDON LITERARY 
 GAZETTE. 
 
 " Those evening bellsthose evening 1 bells !" 
 
 Moore's National Melodies. 
 
 THERE is a delight, which those only can appreciate who 
 have felt it, in recalling to one's mind, when cast by fortune 
 upon a strange soil and among strangers, the sights and 
 sounds which were familiar to one's infant days. It is plea- 
 sant, too, though, perhaps, like the praise of one's own friend, 
 rather obtrusive, to snatch those memories from their rest, 
 and give them to other ears, to tinge them with an inte- 
 rest, and bid them live again. When we perceive, likewise, 
 that places and circumstances of real beauty and curiosity 
 remain neglected and unknown, for want of " some tongue 
 to give their worthiness a voice," there is a gratification 
 to our human pride in the effort to procure them, even for a 
 space, 
 
 A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time 
 
 And razure of oblivion. 
 
 I shall not, in this letter, as in my last, give any thing 
 characteristic any thing Irish. I will be dull rather than 
 descend from the elevation I intend to keep ; but, in com- 
 pensation, I will tell you a fine old story ; and, if you have 
 but the slightest mingling of poetical feeling in your com- 
 position, (and who is there now-a-days that will not pretend 
 to some ?) I promise myself that you shall not be disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 The city of Limerick, though surrounded by some very 
 tolerable demesnes,^ is sadly deficient in one respect, 
 not an unimportant one in any large town; there is no 
 public walk of any consequence immediately adjoining it. 
 The canal which leads to Dublin is bleak, from its want of 
 trees ; and unhealthy, from the low marshy champaign,! 
 which lies on either side its banks. ^ ^ * ^ 
 
 But, at the head of this canal, where it divides itself into 4 
 two branches, which, gradually widening arid throwing off 
 their artificial appearance, form a glittering circlet around a 
 small island, which is covered with water shrubs on thi$ 
 spot I have delightedly reposed in many a sweet 
 * Pron. domains'. t Pron. sham'pane. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 169 
 
 when I loved to seek a glimpse of inspiration in such scenes, 
 to imitate Moore's poetry, and throw rhymes together, about 
 the rills and hills, streams and beams, and even and heaven, 
 and fancy I was a genius ! " 'Tis gone 'tis gone 'tis 
 gone !" as old Capulet says. 
 
 But let us recall it for a moment. Have the com'plaisance 
 to indulge me in a day-dream, and fancy, if you can, that 
 you sit beside me on the bank. We are beyond the hearing 
 of the turmoil and bustle of the town ; " the city's voice 
 itself is soft, like solitude's ;" and there is a hush around 
 us that is delightful the beautiful repose of the evening. 
 The sun, that, but a few minutes since, rushed down the west 
 with the speed of a wandering star, pauses, ere he shall set, 
 upon the very verge of the horizon, and smiles upon his own 
 handiwork the creation of his fostering fervour. 
 
 Hark ! one sound alone reaches us here ; and how grand, 
 and solemn, and harmonious, in its monotony ! These are 
 the great bells of St. Mary's. Their deep-toned vibrations 
 undulate so as to produce a sensible effect on the air around 
 us. The peculiar fineness of the sound has been often re- 
 marked ; but there is an old story connected with their his- 
 tory, which, whenever I hear them ring out over the silent 
 city, gives a something more than harmony to the peal. I 
 shall merely say, that what I am about to relate is told as a 
 real occurrence ; and I consider it so touchingly poetical in 
 itself, that I shall not dare to supply a fictitious name, and 
 fictitious circumstances, where I have been unable to procure 
 the actual ones. 
 
 They were originally brought from Italy ; they had been 
 manufactured by a young native (whose name the tradition 
 has not preserved,) and finished after the toil of many years ; 
 and he prided himself upon his work. They were conse- 
 quently purchased by the prior of a neighbouring convent ; 
 and, with the profits of this sale, the young Italian procured 
 a little villa, where he had the pleasure of hearing the tolling 
 of his bells from the convent cliff, and of growing old in the 
 bosom of domestic happiness. 
 
 This, however, was not to continue. In some of those 
 broils, whether civil or foreign, which are the undying worm 
 in the peace of a fallen land, the good Italian was a sufferer 
 amongst many. He lost his all ; and, after the passing of 
 the storm, found himself preserved alone amid the wreck 
 of fortune, friends, family, and home. The convent, in 
 which the bells, the master-pieces of his skill, were hung, 
 
170 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 was razed to the earth, and these last carried away into 
 another land. 
 
 The unfortunate owner, haunted by his memories, and 
 deserted by his hopes, became a wanderer over Europe. 
 His hair grew gray, arid his heart withered, before he again 
 found a home or a friend. In this desolation of spirit, he 
 formed a resolution of seeking the place, to which those 
 treasures of his memory had been finally borne. He sailed 
 for Ireland ; proceeded up the Shannon ; the vessel anchor- 
 ed in the Pool, near Limerick, and he hired a small boat for 
 the purpose of landing. 
 
 The city was now before him ; and he beheld St. Mary's 
 steeple, lifting its turreted head above the . smoke and mist 
 of the Old Town. He sat in the stern, and looked fondly 
 toward it. It was at evening, so calm and beautiful, as to 
 remind him of his own native haven in the sweetest time 
 of the year the death of the spring. The broad stream 
 appeared like one smooth mirror, and the little vessel glided 
 through it with almost a noiseless expedition. 
 
 On a sudden, amid the general stillness, the bells tolled 
 from the cathedral ; the rowers rested on their oars, and 
 the vessel went forward with the impulse it had received. 
 The old Italian looked towards the city, crossed his arms 
 on his breast, and lay back in his seat. Home, happiness, 
 early recollections, friends, family all were in the sound, 
 and went with it to his heart. When the rowers looked 
 round, they beheld him with his face still turned toward the 
 cathedral ; but his eyes were closed, and, when they land- 
 ed they found him cold ! 
 
 Such are the associations, which the ringing of St. Mary's 
 bells brings to my recollection. I do not know how I can 
 better conclude this letter than with the little melody, from 
 which I hove taken the line above. It is a good specimen 
 of the peculiar tingling melody of the author's poetry a 
 quality in which he never has been equalled in his own lan~ 
 guage ; nor exceeded in any other : Why ! you can almost 
 fancy you hear them ringing ! 
 
 " Those evening bells those evening bells 
 How many a tale their music tells 
 Of youth, and home, and native clime, 
 When I last heard their soothing chime. 
 
 " Those pleasant hours have passed away, 
 And many a heart, that then was sray, 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 171 
 
 11 And so 'twill be when I am gone : 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
 When other bards shall walk those dells, 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells 1" 
 
 LESSON XCIV. 
 
 Description of Jerusalem and the surrounding Country. 
 LETTERS FROM THE EAST. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the size of Jerusalem was not extensive, its 
 very situation, on the brink of rugged hills, encircled by 
 deep and wild valleys, bounded by eminences whose sides 
 were covered with groves and gardens, added to its nume- 
 rous towers, and temple, must have given it a singular and 
 gloomy magnificence scarcely possessed by any other city in 
 the world. 
 
 The most pleasing feature in the scenery around the city 
 is the valley of Jehoshaphat. Passing out of the gate of 
 St. Stephen, you descend the hill to the torrent of the 
 Ked'ron : a bridge leads over its dry and deep bed : it must 
 have been a very narrow, though, in winter, a rapid stream. 
 On the left is a grotto, handsomely fitted up, and called the 
 tomb of the Virgin Mary, though, it is well known, she nei- 
 ther died nor was buried near Jerusalem. Being surprised, 
 however, on the hills by a long and heavy shower of rain, we 
 were glad to take shelter beneath the doorway of this grotto. 
 
 A few steps beyond the .Kedron, you come to the garden 
 of Gethsem'ane, of all gardens the most interesting and 
 hallowed; but how neglected and decayed ! It is surround- 
 ed by a kind of low hedge ; but the soil is bare ; no verdure 
 grows on it, save six fine venerable olive-trees, which have 
 stood here for many centuries. This spot is at the foot of 
 Olivet, and is beautifully situated : you look up and down 
 the romantic valley ; close behind rises the mountain ; be- 
 fore you are the walls of the devoted city. 
 
 While lingering here, at evening, and solitary, for it is 
 not often a footstep passes by, that night of sorrow and dis- 
 may rushes on the imagination, when the Redeemer was 
 betrayed, and forsaken by all, even by the loved disciple. 
 Hence the path winds up the Mount of Olives : it is a beau- 
 tiful hill : the words of the Psalmist, " the mountains around 
 Jerusalem," must not be literally applied, as none are within 
 
172 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 view, save those of Arabia. It is verdant, and covered, in 
 some parts, with olive-trees. From the summit you enjoy 
 an admirable view of the city : it is beneath, and very near ; 
 and looks, with its valleys around it, exactly like a panora- 
 ma.^ Its noble temple of Omar, and large area planted 
 with palms ; its narrow streets, ruinous places, and towers, 
 are all laid out before you. 
 
 On the summit are the remains of a church, built by the 
 Empress HeTena; and, in a small edifice, containing one 
 large and lofty apartment, is shown the print of the last 
 footstep of Christ, when he took his leave of earth. The 
 fathers should have placed it nearer to Bethany, in order to 
 accord with the account given us in Scripture ; but it an- 
 swers the purpose of drawing crowds of pilgrims to the spot. 
 Descending Olivet to the narrow valley of Jehoshaphat, you 
 soon come to the pillar of Absalom : it has a very antique! 
 appearance, and is a pleasing object in the valley : it is of a 
 yellow stone, adorned with half columns, formed into three 
 stages, and terminates in a cupola. 
 
 The tomb of Zacharias, adjoining, is square, with four or 
 five pillars, and is cut out of the rock. Near these is a sort 
 of grotto, hewn out of an elevated part of the rock, with 
 four pillars in front, which is said to have been the apostles' 
 prison at the time they were confined by the rulers. The 
 small and wretched village of Siloa is built on the rugged 
 sides of the hill above ; and just here the valleys of Hinnom 
 and Jehoshaphat meet, at the south-east corner of Mount 
 Zion : they are both sprinkled with olive-trees. 
 
 Over the ravinet of Hinnom, and directly opposite the 
 city, is the Mount of Judgment, or of Evil Counsel ; because 
 there, they say, the rulers took counsel against Christ, and 
 the palace of Caiaphas stood. It is a broad, and barren hill, 
 without any of the picturesque II beauty of Olivet, though 
 loftier. On its side is pointed out the Aceldama, IT or field 
 where Judas hung himself: a small and rude edifice stands 
 on it, and it is used as a bury ing-place. 
 
 But the most interesting portion of this hill, is where its 
 rocks descend precipitously into the valley of Hinnom, and 
 are mingled with many a straggling olive-tree. All these 
 rocks are hewn into sepulchres of various forms and sizes : 
 no doubt they were the tombs of the ancient Jews, and are 
 in general cut with considerable care and skill. They are 
 often the resting-place of the benighted passenger. Some 
 
 * Pron. pan-o-ra'-ma a as in father. t an-teek'. t ra-veen'. 
 Cay'-a-phas. 11 pic-tshu-resk'. U" A-sel'-da-ma* 
 
NATIONAL READER. 173 
 
 of them, open into inner apartments, and are provided with 
 small windows or ap'ertures cut in the rock. 
 
 In these there is none of the darkness or sadness of the 
 tomb ; but in many, so elevated and picturesque is the situa- 
 tion, a traveller may pass hours, with a book in his hand, 
 while valley and hill are beneath and around him. Before 
 the door of one large sepulchre stood a tree on the brink of 
 the rock ; the sun was going down on Olivet on the right, 
 and the resting-place of the dead commanded a sweeter 
 scene than any one of the abodes of the living. 
 
 Many of the tombs have nights of steps leading up to 
 them : it was in one of these that a celebrated traveller 
 would fix the site of the holy sepulchre : it is certainly 
 more picturesque ; but why more just, is hard to conceive ; 
 since the words of Scripture do not fix the identity of the 
 sacred tomb to any particular spot, and tradition, on so 
 memorable an occasion, could hardly err. The fathers de- 
 clare, it long since became absolutely necessary to cover the 
 native rock with marble, in order to prevent the pilgrims 
 from destroying it, in their zeal to carry off pieces to their 
 homes; and on this point their relation may, one would 
 suppose, be believed. 
 
 The valley of Hinnom now turns to the west of the city, 
 and extends rather beyond the north wall : here the plain 
 of Jeremiah commences, and it is the best wooded tmct in 
 the whole neighbourhood. In this direction, but further on, 
 the historian of the siege speaks " of a tower, that afforded 
 a prospect of Arabia at sunrising, and of the utmost limits 
 of the Hebrew possessions at the sea westward/' The 
 former is still enjoyed from the city ; but the latter could 
 only be had at a much greater distance north, where there is 
 no hill in front. 
 
 About half a mile from the wall, are the tombs of the 
 kings. In the midst of a hollow, rocky, and adorned with 
 a few trees, is the entrance ; you then find a large apartment, 
 above fifty feet long, at the side of which a low door, over 
 which is a beautiful frieze,* leads into a seriest of small 
 chambers, in the walls of which are several deep recesses, 
 hewn out of the rock, of the size of the human body. There 
 are six or seven of these low and dark apartments, one or 
 two of which are adorned with vine-leaves and clusters of 
 grapes. Many parts of the stone coffins, beautifully orna- 
 
 * Pron. freeze. t se'-re-ds, 
 
174 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 merited in the Saracenic manner, are strewed^ on the floor : 
 it would seem, that some hand of ravage had broken them 
 to pieces, with the view of finding something valuable with- 
 in. The sepulchres of the judges, so called, are situated in 
 a wild spot about two miles from the city. They bear much 
 resemblance to those of the kings, but are not so handsome 
 or spacious. 
 
 Returning to the foot of the Mount of Olives, you pro- 
 ceed up the vale of Jehoshaphat on a line with the plain : 
 it widens as you advance, and is more thickly sprinkled with 
 olives. When arrived at the hill in which it terminates, the 
 appearance of the city and its en'virons is rich and magnifi- 
 cent ; and you cannot help thinking, that, were an English 
 party suddenly transported here, they would not believe it 
 was the sad and dreary Jerusalem they were gazing on. 
 
 This is the finest point to view it from ; for its numerous 
 min'arets and superb mosque are seen to great advantage 
 over the trees of the plain and valley, and the foreground is 
 verdant and cultivated. One or two houses of the Turks 
 stood in this spot, and we had trespassed on the rude garden 
 of one of them, where the shade of a spreading tree invited 
 us to linger over the prospect. For some days there had 
 been heavy falls of rain, yet the bed of the Kedron was still 
 dry, and has been so, most probably, for many centuries. 
 
 The climate of the city and country is in general very 
 healthy. The elevated position of the former, and the nu- 
 merous hills which cover the greater part of Palestine, must 
 conduce greatly to the purity of the air. One seldom sees a 
 country overrun with hills in the manner this is : in general 
 they are not in ranges,- but more or less is'olated, and of a 
 picturesque form. Few of them approach to the character 
 of mountains, save Carmel, the Quaranti'na, the shores of 
 the lakes, and those which bound the valley of the Jordan. 
 
 To account for the existence of so large a population in 
 the promised lands, the numerous hills must have been en- 
 tirely cultivated : at present, their appearance, on the sides 
 and summits, is, for the most part, bare and rocky. In old 
 time, they were probably formed into terraces, as is now 
 seen on the few cultivated ones, where the vine, olive, and 
 fig-tree flourish. 
 
 On a delightful evening, we rode to the wilderness of St. 
 John. The mon'astery of that name stands at the entrance : 
 it is a good and spacious building, and its terrace enjoys a 
 
 t Pron. strowed. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 175 
 
 fine prospect, in which is the lofty hill of Modin, with the 
 ruins of the palace of the Maccabees on its summit. A 
 small village adjoins the convent, in which are shown the 
 remains of the house of Elizabeth, where the meeting with 
 Mary took place. But few monks reside in the convent, 
 which affords excellent accommodations for a traveller. 
 # ^ * =fc 
 
 In the church, a rich altar is erected on the spot where 
 St. John was born, with an inscription over it. The next 
 morning we visited the wilderness : it is narrow, partially 
 cultivated, and sprinkled with trees; the hills rise rather 
 steep on each side ; from that on the right, a small stream 
 flows into the ravine below. The whole appearance of the 
 place is' romantic ; and the prophet might have resided here, 
 while exercising his ministry, with very little hardship. 
 The neighbourhoocj/still, no doubt, produces excellent honey, 
 which is to be had throughout Palestine. 
 
 High up the rocky side of the hill on the left, amidst a 
 profusion of trees, is the cave or grotto 01 St. John. A 
 fountain gushes out close by. When we talk of wilder- 
 nesses, mountains, and plains, in Palestine, it is to be under- 
 stood, that they seldom answer to the size of the same ob- 
 jects in more extensive countries ; that they sometimes pre- 
 sent but a beautiful miniature of them. It certainly deserved 
 the term, given by the Psalmist to the city, of being a 
 * compact" country. 
 
 The Baptist, in his w r ild garb, surrounded by an assem- 
 blage of various characters, warning them to repentance, in 
 this wild spot, must have presented a fine subject for the 
 painter. In wandering over the country, we feel persuaded, 
 that its very scenery lent wings to the poetical and figurative 
 discourses of its prophets and seers. Sublime and diversi- 
 fied, it is yet so confined and minute as to admit the deepest 
 seclusion in the midst of a numerous population. 
 
 The monks in the convent are of the Catholic order, and 
 have the advantage of all their brethren in point of situation 
 and comfort ; and yet nothing will induce these Franciscans 
 to keep their habitations clean : the Greek and Armenian 
 monasteries are palaces compared to them. The fathers are, 
 in general, a very ignorant race of men, chiefly from the 
 lowest orders of society. Their tables, except during lent, 
 axe spread plentifully, twice a day, with several dishes of 
 meat and wine ; and so well do many of them thrive, that 
 they would consider it banishment to be sent home to Eu- 
 rope to their friends. 
 
176 NATIONAL READER/ 
 
 From the east end of the wilderness, you enter the 
 famous valley of Elah, where Goli'ah was slain by the 
 champion of Israel. It is a pretty and interesting spot ; 
 the hottom covered with olive-trees. Its present appearance 
 answers exactly to the description given in Scripture ; the 
 two hills, on w r hich the armies stood, entirely confining it on 
 the right and left. The valley is not above half a mile 
 broad. Tradition was not required to identify this spot : 
 nature has stamped it with everlasting features of truth. 
 The brook still flows through it in a winding course, from 
 which David took the smooth stones ; the hills are not pre- 
 cipitous, but slope gradually down ; and the vale is varied 
 with banks and undulations, and not a single habitation is 
 visible in it. * * * * 
 
 LESSON XCV. 
 
 The same, concluded. 
 
 AT the south-east of Zion, in the vale of Jehoshaphat, 
 they say the gardens of Solomon stood, and also on the sides 
 of the hill adjoining that of Olivet. It was not a bad, though 
 rather a confined, site for them. The valley here is covered 
 with a rich verdure, divided by hedges into a number of 
 small gardens. A mean looking village stands on the rocky 
 side of the hill above. Not a single palm-tree is to be seen 
 in the whole territory around, where once every eminence 
 was covered with them. 
 
 The roads leading to the city are bad, except to the north, 
 being the route to Damascus ; but the supplies of wood 
 and other articles for building the temple, must have come 
 by another way than the near and direct one from Jaffa, 
 which is impassable for burthens of a large size, from the 
 defiles and rocks amidst which it is carried; the circuitous 
 routes by land from Tyre or Acre were probably used. The 
 Turk, who is chief of the guard that keeps watch at the 
 entrance of the sacred church, waited on us two or three 
 times ; he is a very fine and dignified looking man, and 
 ensured us entrance at all hours, which permission we avail- 
 ed ourselves of, to pass another night amidst its hallowed 
 scenes, with interest and pleasure but little diminished. 
 
 We chose a delightful morning for a walk to Bethany. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 177 
 
 The path leads up the side of Olivet, by the veiy way which 
 our Saviour is said to have descended in his last entry into 
 Jerusalem. At a short distance are the ruins of the village 
 of Bethphage ; and, half a mile further, is Bethany. The dis- 
 tance is about two miles from the city. The village is beau- 
 tifully situated ; and the ruins of the house of Lazarus are 
 still shown, and do credit to the good father's taste. 
 
 On the right of the road is the tomb of Lazarus, cut out 
 of the rock. Carrying candles, we descended ten or twelve 
 stone steps to the bottom of the cave: in the middle of the 
 floor is the tomb, a few feet deep, and large enough to admit 
 one body only. Several persons can stand conveniently 
 in the cave around the tomb, so that Lazarus, when restor- 
 ed, did not, as some suppose, descend from a sepulchre cut 
 out of the wall, but rose out of the grave, hewn in the floor 
 of the grotto. 
 
 The light that enters from above does not find its way to 
 the bottom ; the fine painting in the Louvre, of this resur- 
 rection, was probably faithful in representing it by torch- 
 light. Its identity cannot be doubted : "the position of Betha- 
 ny could never have been forgotten, and this is the only 
 sepulchre in the whole neighbourhood. It is a delightful 
 Sunday afternoon's walk to Bethany : after crossing the 
 mounts, the path passes along the side of a hill, that looks 
 down into a wild and long valley, in which are a few scat- 
 tered cottages. The view, just above the village, is very 
 magnificent, as it embraces the Dead Sea, the valley and river 
 of the Jordan, and its confluence with the lake. 
 
 On the descent of Olivet is shown the spot where Christ 
 wept over Jerusalem : tradition could not have selected a 
 more suitable spot. Up this ascent David went, when he 
 fled from Absalom, weeping. And, did a Jew wish to breathe 
 his last where the glory of his land and fallen city should 
 meet his departing gaze, he would desire to be laid on the 
 summit of the Mount of Olives. 
 
 The condition of the Jews in Palestine is more insecure, 
 and exposed to insult and exaction, than in Egypt and Syria, 
 from the frequent lawless and oppressive conduct of the 
 governors and chiefs. These distant pachalics^ are less 
 under the control of the Porte t; and, in Egypt, the subjects 
 of Mahmoud enjoy a more equitable and quiet government 
 than in any other part of the empire. There is little na- 
 
 *Pron. p&'-shaw-lics. t The Ottoman government 
 
178 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 * 
 
 tional feeling or enthusiasm among them ; though there are 
 some exceptions, where these exist in an intense degree. In 
 the city, they appear fearful and humbled ; for the contempt 
 in which they are held by the Turks is excessive, and they 
 often go poorly clad to avoid exciting suspicion. 
 
 Yet it is an interesting sight, to meet with a Jew, wander- 
 ing, with his staff in his hand, and a venerable beard sweep- 
 ing his tosom, in the rich and silent plain of Jericho, on the 
 sides of his native mountains, or on the banks of the ancient 
 river Kish'on, where the arm of the mighty was withered in 
 the battle of the Lord. Did a spark of the love of his coun- 
 try warm his heart, his feelings must be exquisite, but his 
 spirit is suited to his condition, 
 
 LESSON XCVI. 
 
 that ye } through his poverty r , might be rich"- 
 
 W. RUSSELL. 
 
 Low in the dim and sultry west 
 
 Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky ; 
 The evening's grateful hour of rest, 
 
 Its hour of feast and joy, is nigh. 
 
 But he, with thirst and hunger spent, 
 Lone, by the wayside faintly sinks ; 
 
 A lowly hand the cup hath lent, 
 
 And from the humble well he drinks. 
 
 * # # # # # 
 
 On the dark wave of Galilee 
 
 The gloom of twilight gathers fast, 
 
 And o'er the waters drearily 
 Sweeps the bleak evening blast. 
 
 The weary bird hath left the air, 
 And sunk into his sheltered rest ; 
 
 The wandering beast hath sought his lair, 
 And laid him down to welcome rest. 
 
 Still, near the lake, with weary tread, 
 Lingers a form of human kind ; 
 
NATIONAL READER. 179 
 
 And, from his lone, unsheltered head, 
 Flows the chili night-damp on the wind. 
 
 Why seeks not he a home of rest? 
 
 Why seeks not he the pillowed bed? 
 Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest ; 
 
 He hath not where to lay his head! 
 
 Such was the lot he freely chose, 
 
 To bless, to save, the human race ; 
 And, through his poverty, there flows 
 
 A rich, full stream of heavenly grace. 
 
 LESSON XCVIL 
 Elijah fed ly Ravens. GRAHAME. 
 
 SORE was the famine throughout all the bounds 
 Of Israel, when Elijah, by command 
 Of God, toiled on to Cherith's failing brook. 
 No rain-drops fall, no dew- fraught cloud, at morn, 
 Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale. 
 The withering herbage dies. Among the palms, 
 The shrivelled leaves send to the summer gale 
 An autumn rustle. No sweet songster's lay 
 Is warbled from the branches. Scarce is heard 
 The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around, 
 And trusts in God, and lays' his silvered head 
 Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps, 
 Nor wakes till dawning. Then, with hands enclasped, 
 And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, he prays 
 To Him who manna on the desert showered, 
 To Him who from the rock made fountains gush. 
 Entranced the man of God remains; till, routed 
 By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart 
 He sees the ravens fearless by his side 
 Alight, arid leave the heaven-provided food. 
 
180 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON XCVIII. 
 Mount Sinai. LETTERS FROM THE EAST. 
 
 LEAVING the valley of Paran, the path led over a rocky 
 wilderness, to render which more gloomy, the sky became 
 clouded, and a shower of rain fell. By moonlight we as- 
 cended the hills, and, after some hours' progress, rested for 
 the night on the sand. The dews had fallen heavy for some 
 nights, and the clothes that covered us were quite wet in tho 
 morning ; hut, as we advanced, the dews ceased. 
 
 Our mode of life, though irregular, was quite to a wander- 
 er's taste. We sometimes stopped for an hour, at mid-day, 
 or, more frequently, took some hread and a draught of water 
 on the camel's back ; but we were repaid for our fatigues, 
 when we halted for the evening, as the sun was sinking in 
 the desert, and, having taken our supper, strolled amidst the 
 solitudes, or spent the hours in conversation till dark. 
 
 But the bivouac^ by night was the most striking, when, 
 arriving, fatigued, long after dark, the two fires were light- 
 ed. I have frequently retired to some distance to gaze at 
 the group of Arabs round theirs, it was so entirely in keep 
 ing. They were sipping their coffee, and talking with ex- 
 pressive action and infinite vivacity ; and, as they addressed 
 each other, they often bent over the flame which glanced on 
 their white turbans and drapery and dark countenances, and 
 the camels stood behind, and stretched their long necks over 
 their masters. 
 
 Having finished our repast, we wrapped ourselves in our 
 cloaks, and lay down round the fire : and let not that couch 
 be pitied ; for it was delightful, as well as romantic, to sink 
 to rest as you looked on that calm and glorious sky, the 
 stars shining with a brilliancy you have no conception of in 
 our climate. Then, in the morning, we were suddenly sum- 
 moned to depart, and, the camels being loaded, we were soon 
 on the march. Jouma frequently chanted his melancholy 
 Arab song, for at this time we were seldom disposed to con- 
 verse, and were frequently obliged to throw a blanket over 
 our cloak, and walk for some hours, to guard against the 
 dullness of the air. 
 
 The sunsets in Egypt are the finest; but to see a sunrise in 
 its glory, you must be in the desert : nothing there obscures 
 or obstructs it. You are travelling on, chill and silent, 
 *JPron. be-voo-acj an encampment for a nigh*. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 1S1 
 
 your looks bent toward the east; a variety of glowing hues 
 appear and die away again; and, for some time, the sky is 
 blue and clear ; when the sun suddenly darts above the hori- 
 zon, and such a splendour is thrown instantly on the wide 
 expanse of sand and rocks, that, if you were a Persian adorer, 
 you would certainly break out, like the muezzin^ from the 
 minaret, in praise and blessing. 
 
 The way now became very interesting, and varied by 
 several narrow, deep valleys, where a few stunted palms 
 grew. The next morning, we entered a noble desert, lined 
 on each side by lofty mountains of rock, many of them per- 
 fectly black, with sharp and ragged summits. In the midst 
 of the plain, which rose with a continual yet gentle ascent, 
 were isolated rocks of various forms and colours, and over 
 its surface were scattered a number of shrubs of a lively 
 green. Through all the route, we had met few passengers. 
 One or two little caravans, or a lonely wanderer with his 
 camel, had passed at times, and given us the usual salute 
 of "Peace be unto you."" * * * * 
 
 A few hours more we got sight of the mountains round 
 Sinai. Their appearance was magnificent ; when we drew 
 nearer, and emerged out of a deep pass, the scenery was 
 infinitely striking, and, on the right, extended a vast range 
 of mountains as far as the eye could reach, from the vicinity 
 of Sinai down to Tor. They were perfectly bare, but of 
 grand and singular form. We had hoped to reach the con- 
 vent by day-light, but the moon had risen some time, when 
 we entered the mouth of a narrow pass, where our conduc- 
 tors advised us to dismount 
 
 A gentle yet perpetual ascent, led on, mile after mile, up 
 this mournful valley, whose aspect was terrific, yet ever 
 varying. It was not above two hundred yards in width, and 
 the mountains rose to an immense height on each side. 
 The road wound at their feet along the edge of a precipice, 
 and amidst masses of rock that had fallen from above. It 
 was a toilsome path, generally over stones, placed like steps, 
 probably by the Arabs; and the moonlight was of little ser- 
 vice to us in this deep valley, as it only rested on the frown- 
 ing summits above. 
 
 Where is Mount Sinai ? was the inquiry of every one. 
 The Arabs pointed before to Gabel Mousa, the Mount of 
 
 * Muezzin^ one of a religious order, among the Mahommedans, whose 
 clear and Mmorous voice, from the minaret, or steeple of a mosque, answers 
 the purpose of a bell, among Christians; to call the people to morning and 
 
 16 
 
182 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Moses, as it is called, but we could not distinguish it. Again, 
 and again, point after point was turned, and we saw but the 
 same stern scenery. But what had the softness and beauty 
 of nature to do here ? Mount Sinai required an approach 
 like this, where all seemed to proclaim the land of miracles, 
 and to have been visited by the terrors of the Lord. 
 
 The scenes, as you gaze around, had an unearthly charac- 
 ter, suited to the sound of the fearful trumpet that was once 
 heard there. We entered at last on the more open valley, 
 about half a mile wide, and drew near this famous mountain. 
 Sinai is not so lofty as some of the mountains around it, and 
 in its form there is nothing graceful or peculiar, to distin- 
 guish it from others. ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 On the third morning we set out early from the convent 
 for the summit of Mount Sinai, with two Arab guides. The 
 ascent was, for some time, over long and broken flights of 
 stone steps, placed there by the Greeks. The path was often 
 narrow and steep, and wound through lofty masses of rock 
 on each side. In about half an hour, we came to a well of 
 excellent water; a short distance above which is a small, 
 ruined chapel. 
 
 About half way up was a verdant and pleasant spot, in the 
 midst of which stood a high and solitary palm, and the rocks 
 rose in a small and wild amphitheatre around. We were 
 not very long now in reaching the summit, which is of limit- 
 ed extent, having two small buildings on it, used formerly 
 by the Greek pilgrims, probably for worship. 
 
 But Sinai has four summits ; and that of Moses stands 
 almost in the middle of the others, and is not visible from 
 below, so that the spot where he received the law must have 
 been hid from the view of the multitudes around ; and the 
 smoke and flame, which, Scripture says, enveloped the en- 
 tire Mount of Sinai, must have had the more awful appear- 
 ance, by reason of its many summits and great extent ; and 
 the account delivered gives us reason to imagine, the sum- 
 mit or scene where God appeared was shrouded from the 
 hosts around. 
 
 But what occasions no small surprise at first, is the scar- 
 city of plains, valleys, or open places, where the children 
 of Israel could have stood conveniently to behold the glory 
 on the mount. From the summit of Sinai you see only in- 
 numerable ranges of rocky mountains. One generally pla- 
 ces, in imagination, around Sinai, extensive plains, or sandy 
 deserts, where the camp of the hosts was placed, where the 
 
NATIONAL READER. 183 
 
 families of Israel stood at the doors of their tents, and the 
 line was drawn round the mountain, which no one might 
 break through on pain of death. 
 
 But it is not thus : save the valley by which we approach- 
 ed Sinai, about half a mile wide, and a few miles in length, 
 and a small plain we afterwards passed through, with ajocky 
 hill in the middle, there appear to be few open places around 
 the mount. We did not, however, examine it on all sides. 
 On putting the question to the superior of the convent, 
 where he imagined the Israelites stood; "Every where," he 
 replied, waving his hands about " in the ravines, the val- 
 leys, as well as the plains." 
 
 Having spent an hour here, we descended to the place of 
 verdure, and, after resting awhile, took our road, with one of 
 the guides, towards the mountain of St. Catharine. T?he 
 rapture of Mr. Wolf's feelings on the top of Sinai was in- 
 describable ; I expected to see him take flight for a better 
 region. Being the son of a rabbi at Munich, the conviction 
 of being on the scene where God visited his people, and con- 
 ferred such glory on them, was almost too much for him. 
 
 After ascending again, in another direction, we came 
 to a long and steep descent, that commanded a very no- 
 ble scene, and reached, at last, a little valley at the bottom, 
 that was to be our resting-place for the night. The moun- 
 tains rose around this valley in vast precipices : a line of 
 beautiful verdure ran along its whole extent, in the midst of 
 which stood a deserted mon'astery. The fathers had long 
 been driven from it by the Arabs, but its various apartments 
 were still entire, and afforded an excellent asylum for a tra- 
 veller. 
 
 This deep solitude had an exceeding and awful beauty : 
 the palms, the loftiest I ever saw, rose moveless, and the 
 garden and grove were desolate and neglected ; the fountain 
 in the latter was now useless, and the channel of the rivulet 
 that ran through the valley was quite dry ; the walls were 
 in ruins, and the olive, the poplar, and other trees, grew in 
 wild luxuriance. 
 
 Within, some old books of devotion were yet left behind. 
 Having chosen an apartment in the upper story, which open- 
 ed into the corridor, and had been one of the cells of the 
 exiled fathers, we took possession of it at night, kindled a 
 fire on a large stone in a corner, and made a good supper of 
 the rude provisions we had. There needed no spirit of ro- 
 mance in order to enjoy the situation exquisitely: few ideal 
 
184 
 
 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 pictures ever equalled the strangeness and savageness of this 
 forsaken sanctuary in the retreats of Sinai. 
 
 LESSON XCIX. 
 
 The Summit of Mount Sinai. MONTGOBIERY. 
 
 I SEEK the mountain cleft : alone 
 I seem in this sequestered place : 
 
 Not so : I meet, unseen, yet known, 
 My Maker, face to face. 
 
 My heart perceives his presence nigh, 
 And hears his voice proclaim, 
 
 While bright his glory passes by, 
 His noblest name. 
 
 LOVE is that name for " God is Love." 
 Here, where, unbuilt by mortal hands 
 
 Mountains below, and heaven above 
 His awful temple stands, 
 
 I worship. Lord, though I am dust 
 And ashes in thy sight, 
 
 Be thou my strength ; in thee I trust ; 
 Be thou my light. 
 
 Hither, of old, the Almighty came : 
 
 Clouds were his car, his steeds the wind : 
 
 Before him went devouring flame, 
 And thunder rolled behind. 
 
 At his approach the mountains reeled, 
 Like vessels, to and fro ; 
 
 Earth, heaving like a sea, revealed 
 The gulfs below. 
 
 Borne through the wilderness in wrath, 
 He seemed, in power alone, a God : 
 
 But blessings followed in his path, 
 For Mercy seized his rod. 
 
 He smote the rock, and, as he passed, 
 Forth gushed a living stream ; 
 
 The fire, the earthquake, and the blast, 
 Fled as a dream. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 185 
 
 LESSON C. 
 
 Religious Education indispensable to individual Happiness^ 
 and to national Prosperity. GREENWOOD. 
 
 RELIGION is the only sure foundation of virtue ; and what 
 is any human being, young or old, rich or poor, without vir- 
 tue ? He cannot be trusted, he cannot be respected, confided 
 in, or loved. Religion is the only sure index of duty ; and 
 how can any one pursue an even, or a reputable course, with- 
 out rules and without principles ? Religion is the only guide 
 to true happiness ; and who is there so hardy as to assume 
 the tremendous responsibility of withholding those instruc- 
 tions and consolations, which dispel doubt, soothe affliction, 
 make the bed of sickness, spread the dying pillow, and open 
 the gates of an effulgent futurity ? 
 
 Let, then, religion be the primary object in the education 
 of the young. Let it mingle, naturally, easily, and graceful- 
 ly, in all their pursuits and acquirements. Let it be rendered 
 intelligible, attractive, and practical. Let it win their affec- 
 tions, command their reverence, and ensure their obedience. 
 Children, of any class whatever, may be taught in a great 
 compass and liberality of knowledge, not only without appre- 
 hension, but with assiduity and encouragement ; but let them 
 above all things, be " taught of the Lord." 
 
 And what follows ? When all thy children shall be taught 
 of the Lord, what is the promise, the reward, and the con- 
 summation ? " Great shall be the peace of thy children." 
 All the blessings, signified 'by that word peace, shall be the 
 lot of those who are thus wisely instructed, and shall descend 
 on the community, in proportion as it has exerted itself to 
 diffuse light and religion throughout its whole mass. 
 
 Knowledge of itself is power ; and when the knowledge 
 of the Lord is united with it, it is happiness and real pros- 
 perity. Order reigns the best order that which is pro- 
 duced, not so much by the coercive operations of authority 
 and law, as by the independent righteousness of each indi- 
 vidual, who bears about with him his own law : freedom 
 finds its congenial habitation and home ; for general intelli- 
 gence inspires mutual respect, and self-respect ; and, " where 
 the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." 
 
 Benevolence is ever active and zealous ; for knowledge is 
 the enemy of selfishness. Religion warms and expands the 
 
186 
 
 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 heart, and the disciple of Christ is assured, that the best ser- 
 vice of God is the service of mankind. In short, there can- 
 not be other than a sense of security, and a composed coun- 
 tenance of peace, felt and experienced throughout society, 
 when those principles of religious knowledge are generally 
 and practically received, which hold up plainly before the 
 face of every man, his duty to his Maker, to his neighbour, 
 and to his own self. 
 
 Then there is that separate, individual peace, which takes 
 up its dwelling in the hearts of all those who have been 
 taught of the Lord ; a peace, holy, heavenly, profound, 
 which the world cannot give, because it is above the world, 
 and independent of it ; the peace of a quiet conscience, of a 
 regulated mind, of innocent hopes, of calm desires, of the 
 love which embraces humanity, and the trust which reposes 
 on Heaven ; a gentle river, running through the life, im- 
 parting beauty, pouring out refreshment, and lending its 
 grateful moisture to the most hidden and attenuated roots 
 and threads of sentiment and feeling, clothing the sands 
 with verdure, and sprinkling the lonely places with sweet 
 flowers. Add this peace of each single bosom to that gene- 
 ral peace which pervades the community, and how truly may 
 it be called great ! 
 
 I deny not that a nation may become powerful, victorious, 
 renowned, wealthy, and full of great men, even though it 
 should neglect the education of the humbler classes of its 
 population ; but I do deny, that it can ever become a happy 
 or a truly prosperous nation, till all its children are taught 
 of the Lord. 
 
 To say nothing of the despotisms of the east, look at the 
 kingdoms of Europe, with their battles, and their alliances, 
 and their pompous and gaudy ceremonies, and their impos- 
 ing clusters of high titles and celebrated names ; and, after 
 this showy phantasmagoria has passed away, mark the con- 
 dition of the majority, observe their superstition, their sla- 
 vishness, their sensual enjoyments, their limited range of 
 thought, their almost brutalized existence ; mark this, and 
 say whether a heavenly peace is among them. Alas ! they 
 know not the things which belong to their peace, nor 
 are their rulers desirous that they should know, but rather 
 prefer that they should live on in submissive ignorance, that 
 they may be at all times ready to swell the trains of their 
 masters' pride, and be sacrificed by hecatombs to their mas- 
 ters' ambition. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 1S7 
 
 Far different were the views of those gifted patriarchs 
 who founded a new empire here. They were determined 
 that all their children should be taught of the Lord; and, 
 side by side with the humble dwellings, which sheltered 
 their heads from the storms of a strange world, arose the 
 school-house and the house of God. And, ever after, the 
 result has been peace, great, unexampled peace ; peace to 
 the few, who gradually encroached on the primeval forests 
 of the land, and peace to the millions, who have now spread 
 themselves abroad in it from border to border. In the 
 strength and calm resolution of that peace they stood up 
 once, and shook themselves free from the rusted fetters of 
 the old world ; and in the beauty and dignity of that peace 
 they stand up now, self-governed, orderly, and independent, 
 a wonder to the nations. 
 
 If a, stranger should inquire of me the principal cause and 
 source of this greatness of my country, would I hid him look 
 on the ocean widely loaded with our merchandise, and 
 proudly ranged by our navy? or on the land where it is 
 girdled by roads, and scored by canals, and burthened with 
 the produce of our industry and ingenuity ? would I bid 
 him look on these things as the springs of our prosperity ? 
 
 Indeed. I would not. Nor would I show him our colleges 
 and literary institutions ; for he can see nobler ones else- 
 where. I would pass all these by, and would lead him out 
 by some winding highway among the hills and woods, and, 
 when the cultivated spots grew small and infrequent, and 
 the houses became few and scattered, and a state of primi- 
 tive nature seemed to be immediately before us, I would 
 stop in some sequestered spot, and, directed by a steady 
 hum, like that of bees, I would point out to him a lowly 
 building, hardly better than a shed, but full of blooming 
 happy children, collected together from the remote and 
 unseen farm-houses, conning over their various tasks, or 
 reading with a voice of reverential monotony, a portion of 
 the Word of God ; and I would bid him note, that, even 
 here, in the midst of poverty and sterility, was a specimen 
 of the thousand nurseries, in which all our children are taught 
 of the Lord, and formed, some to legislate for the land, and 
 all to understand its constitution and laws, to maintain their 
 unspotted birthright, and contribute to the great aggregate 
 of the intelligence, the morality, the power and peace of this 
 mighty commonwealth. 
 
188 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CI. 
 
 Importance of Science to a Practical Mechanic. 
 G. B. EMERSON. 
 
 LET us imagine for a moment the condition of an indi- 
 vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements 
 of knowledge, who understands nothing of the principles 
 even of his own art, and inquire what change will be 
 wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in all 
 that makes up the character, by the gradual inpouring of 
 knowledge. 
 
 He has now the capacity of thought, but it is a barren 
 faculty, never nourished by the food of the mind, and never 
 rising above the poor objects of sense. Labour and rest, the 
 hope of mere animal enjoyment, or the fear of want, the care 
 of providing covering and food, make up the whole sum of 
 his existence. Such a man may be industrious, but he can- 
 not love labour, for it is not relieved by the excitement of 
 improving or changing the processes of his art, nor cheered 
 by the hope of a better condition. 
 
 When released from labour he does not rejoice ; for mere 
 idleness is not enjoyment, and he has no book, no lesson 
 of science, no play of the mind, no interesting pursuit, to 
 give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home has few charms 
 for him ; he has little taste for the quiet, the social converse, 
 and exchange of feeling and thought, the innocent enjoy- 
 ments, that ought to dwell there. Society has little to in- 
 terest him ; for he has no sympathy for the pleasures or pur- 
 suits, the cares or troubles of others, to whom he cannot feel 
 nor perceive his bonds of relationship. 
 
 All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and happy 
 for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold him to 
 this negative existence be not broken. Happy for him if 
 that best and surest friend of man, that messenger of good 
 news from heaven to the poorest wretch on earth, Religion, 
 bringing the fear of God, appear to save him. Without her 
 to support, should temptation assail him, what an easy victim 
 would he fall to vice or crime ! How little would be neces- 
 sary to overturn his ill-balanced principles, and leave him 
 grovelling in intemperance, or send him abroad on the ocean 
 or the highway, an enemy to himself and his kind ! 
 
 But, let the light of science fail upon that man ; open to 
 
NATIONAL READER. 1S9 
 
 him the fountain of knowledge. A few principles of phi- 
 losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of 
 thought. He begins to look upon his art with an altered 
 eye. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he 
 cannot understand ; he regards it as an object of inquiry, and 
 begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new mastery 
 over his own instruments. 
 
 He finds other and better modes of doing what he had 
 done before, blindly and without interest, a thousand times. 
 He learns to profit by the experience of others, and ventures 
 upon untried paths. Difficulties, which before would have 
 stopped him at the outset, receive a ready solution from some 
 luminous principle of science. 
 
 He gains new knowledge and new skill, and can improve 
 the quality of his manufacture, while he shortens the pro- 
 cess and diminishes his own labour. Then labour becomes 
 sweet to him ; it is accompanied by the consciousness of 
 increasing power ; it is leading him forward to a higher 
 place among his fellow men. Relaxation, too, is sweet to 
 him, as it enables him to add to his intellectual stores, and 
 to mature, by undisturbed meditation, the plans and concep- 
 tions of the hour of labour. 
 
 His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a 
 man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace arid seclu- 
 sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the honest 
 complacency, which is the companion of well-earned success. 
 There, too, bright visions of the future sphere open upon 
 him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those who are to 
 share in his prosperity. 
 
 Thus his mind and heart expand together. He has be- 
 come an intelligent being, and, while he has learned to 
 esteem himself, he has also learned to live no longer for 
 himself alone. Society opens like a new world to him ; he 
 looks upon his fellow creatures with interest and sympathy, 
 and feels that he has a place in their affections and respect. 
 Temptations assail him in vain. He is armed by high and 
 pure thoughts. He takes a wider view of his relations with 
 the beings about and above him. He welcomes every gene- 
 rous virtue that adorns and dignifies the human character. 
 He delights in the exercise of reason. He glories in the 
 consciousness and the hope of immortality. 
 
190 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON OIL 
 
 Story of Rabli Ak'ila. HURWITZ'S HEBREW TALES. 
 
 COMPELLED, by violent persecution, to quit his native land, 
 Rabbi Akiba wandered over barren wastes and dreary de- 
 serts. His whole equipage consisted of a lamp, which he 
 used to light at night, in order to study the law; a cock, 
 which served him instead cf a watch, to announce to him 
 the rising dawn ; and an ass, on which he rode. 
 
 The sun was gradually sinking behind the horizon, 
 night was fast approaching, and the poor wanderer knew 
 not where to shelter his head, or where to rest his weary 
 limbs. Fatigued, and almost exhausted, he came at last 
 near a village. He was glad to find it inhabited, thinking, 
 where human beings dwelt, there dwelt, also, humanity and 
 compassion. 
 
 But he was mistaken. He asked for a night's lodging. It 
 was refused. Not one of the inhospitable inhabitants would 
 accommodate him. He was, therefore, obliged to seek shel- 
 ter in a neighbouring wood. " It is hard, very hard," said 
 he, "not to find a hospitable roof to protect me against the 
 inclemency of the weather; but God is just, and whatever 
 he does is for the best." 
 
 He seated himself beneath a tree, lighted his lamp, and 
 began to read the law. He had scarcely read a chapter, 
 when a violent storm extinguished the light. "What!" ex- 
 claimed he, " must I not be permitted even to pursue my 
 favorite study! But God is just, and whatever he does is 
 for the best." 
 
 He stretched himself on the earth, willing, if possible, to 
 have a few hours' sleep. He had hardly closed his eyes, 
 when a fierce wolf came and killed the cock. " What new 
 misfortune is this!" ejaculated the astonished Akiba. "My 
 vigilant companion is gone ! Who, then, will henceforth 
 awaken me to the study of the law ? But God is just ; he 
 knows what is good for us poor mortals." 
 
 Scarcely had he finished the sentence, when a terrible lion 
 came and* devoured the ass. "What is to be done now?" 
 exclaimed the lonely wanderer. "My lamp and my cock 
 are gone my poor ass, too, is gone all is gone ! But, 
 praised be the Lord, whatever he does is for the best." 
 He passed a sleepless night, and, early in the morning, went 
 
NATIONAL READER. 191 
 
 to the village to see whether he could procure a horse, or 
 any other beast of burden, to enable him to pursue his jour- 
 ney. But what was his surprise, not to find a single indi- 
 vidual alive ! 
 
 It appears, that a band of robbers had entered the village 
 during the night, killed its inhabitants, and plundered their 
 houses. As soon as Akiba had sufficiently recovered from 
 the amazement, into which this wonderful occurrence had 
 thrown him,- he lifted up his voice, and exclaimed, " Thou 
 great God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, arid Jacob, now I 
 know, by experience, that poor mortal men are short-sighted 
 and blind ; often considering as evils, what was intended for 
 their preservation ! But thou, alone, art just, and kind, and 
 merciful. 
 
 "Had not the hard-hearted people driven me, by their 
 inhospitality, from the village, I should assuredly have shar- 
 ed their fate. Had not the wind extinguished my lamp, the 
 robbers would have been drawn to the spot, and have mur- 
 dered me. I perceive, also, that it was thy mercy which 
 deprived me of my companions, that they might not, by 
 their noise, give notice to the banditti where I was. Praised, 
 then, be thy name for ever and ever!" 
 
 LESSON CHI. 
 
 Alice Fell. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE post-boy drove with fierce career, 
 
 For threatening clouds the moon had drowned,- 
 
 When suddenly I seemed to hear 
 A moan, a lamentable sound. 
 
 As if the wind blew many ways 
 
 I heard the sound, and more and more : 
 
 It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
 And still I heard it, as before. 
 
 At length, I to the boy called our : 
 
 He stopped his horses at the word , 
 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
 
 Nor ought else like it, could be heard 
 
192 NATIONAL HEADER. 
 
 The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
 The horses scampered through the rain ; 
 
 And soon I heard, upon the blast, 
 
 The voice, and bade^ him halt again. 
 
 Said I, alighting on the ground, 
 
 "What can it be, this piteous moan ?" 
 
 And there a little girl I found, 
 Sitting behind the chaise alone. 
 
 "My cloak!" the word was last and first, 
 
 And loud and bitterly she wept, 
 As if her very heart would burst ; 
 
 And down from off the chaise she leapt. 
 
 "What ails you, child?"' She sobbed, "Look here!" 
 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
 
 From any garden scare-crow dangled. 
 
 'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke : 
 Her help she lent, and, with good heed, 
 
 Together we released the cloak, 
 A wretched, wretched rag, indeed! 
 
 "And whither are you going, child, 
 
 To-night, along these lonesome ways ?" 
 
 " To Durham," answered she, half wild-: 
 "Then come with me into the chaise." 
 
 She sat like one past all relief; 
 
 Sob after sob she forth did send 
 In wretchedness, as if her grief 
 
 Could never, never, have an end. 
 
 " My child, in Durham do you dwell ?" 
 She checked herself in her distress, 
 
 And said, "My name is Alice Fell : 
 I'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 "And I to Durham, sir, belong." 
 
 And then, as if the thought would choke 
 
 Her very heart, her grief grew- strong ; 
 And all was for her tattered cloak. 
 * Prvn. bad. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 103 
 
 The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
 r Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
 
 A.S if she'd lost her only friend, 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
 Up to the tavern-door we post: 
 Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
 
 And I gave money to the host, 
 To buy a new cloak for the old. 
 
 " And let it be of duffil gray, 
 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell!" 
 
 Proud creature was she, the next day, 
 The little orphan, Alice Fell. 
 
 LESSON CIV. 
 
 To the Molian Harp. EUROPEAN MAGAZINE. 
 
 HARP of the Zephyr, whose least breath, o'er 
 Thy tender string moving, is felt by thee ; 
 
 Harp of the whirlwind, whose fearfullest roar 
 Can arouse thee to nought but harmony ; 
 
 The leaf that curls upon youth's warm hand, 
 Hath not a more sensitive soul than thou ; 
 
 Yet the spirit that's in thee, unharmed, can withstand 
 The blast that shivers the stout oak bough. 
 
 When thankless flowers in silence bend, 
 
 Thou hailest the freshness of heaven with song; 
 
 When forests the air with their howlings rend, 
 Thou soothest the storm as it raves along. 
 
 Yes : thine is the magic of Friendship's bower, 
 
 That holiest temple of all below : 
 Thou hast accents of bliss for the calmest hour, 
 
 But a heavenlier note for the season of wo. 
 
 Harp of the breeze, whether gentle or strong, 
 When shall I feel thv enchantment again ? 
 17 
 
194 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Hark! hark! even the swell of my own wild song 
 Hath awakened a mild, responsive strain. 
 
 It is not an echo : 'tis far too sweet 
 
 To be born of a lay so rude as mine : 
 But, oh ! when terror and softness meet, 
 
 How pure are the hues of the wreath they twine! 
 
 _ Thus the breath of my rapture hath swept thy chords, 
 % And filled them with music, alas ! not its own, 
 Whose melody tells but how much my words, 
 Though admiring, have wronged that celestial tone. 
 
 I hear it, I hear it, now fitfully swelling, 
 Like a chorus of seraphim earthward hying ; 
 
 And now, as in search of a loftier dwelling, 
 The voices away, one by one, are dying. 
 
 Heaven's own harp! save angel fingers, 
 
 None should dare open thy mystic treasures. 
 
 Farewell ! for each note on mine ear still lingers, 
 And mine may not mingle with thy blest measures 
 
 LESSON CV. 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore.* C. WOLFE. 
 
 NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning, 
 
 By the struggling moon -beam's misty light, 
 And the lantern, dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him; 
 But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 
 * Who fell in the battle of Corunna, in Spain, 1808 
 
NATIONAL READER. 195 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe would be rioting over his head, 
 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, 
 
 In the grave where a BriUm has laid him. 
 
 'I , 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; 
 And we heard, by the distant random gun, 
 
 That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
 But left him alone with his glory. 
 
 LESSON CVI. 
 
 War contrary to the Courses of Nature, and. the Spirit of 
 the Gospel. MELLEN. 
 
 OH ! how shall man his crime extenuate ! 
 What sees he in this brave o'erarching sphere, 
 The rich domain of nature, that will hold 
 A moment's friendship with his cheerless way ! 
 He looks upon the wide and glowing earth, 
 And hears the hum of bees, and sees its bloom 
 Rolling in all its luxury for him. 
 He sees the trees wave in the peaceful sky, 
 And dally with the breezes as they pass. 
 He sees the golden harvest stoop for him, 
 And feels a quietness on all the hills. 
 He looks upon the seasons, as they come, 
 In beautiful succession, from the heavens, 
 With bud and blossoming, and fruits, and snows. 
 
196 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 There is no war among them ; they pass on, 
 Light beaming from their footsteps as they go, 
 And, with the cheerful voice of sympathy, 
 They give a melody to all the earth, 
 Each calling to the other through the year ! 
 He looks upon the firmament, at night : 
 There are a thousand lustres hanging there, 
 Mocking the splendors of Golconda : there 
 He sees the glorious company of stars, 
 Journeying in peace and beauty through the deep, 
 Shining in praise forever ! They look down, 
 Each like a bright and calm Intelligence, 
 Above a sphere they all compassionate. 
 There is no war among these sparkling hosts : 
 They go in silence through the great profound, 
 Each on its way of glory ; they proclaim 
 The order and magnificence of Him, 
 Who bade them roll in peace around his throne. 
 
 Oh ! when the planet shone o'er Bethlehem, 
 And light came round the shepherds on the hills, 
 And wise men rose in wonder from their dreams, 
 There came a voice sublime upon the winds, 
 Proclaiming Peace above a prostrate world ! 
 The morning stars sang Peace : the sons of God 
 Struck all their heavenly lyres again ; and Peace 
 Died in symphonious murrrturs round the babe. 
 Thus broke Salvation's morning. But the day 
 Has heard new sounds ; and, dissonant and dire, 
 The mingled tumult swelled the coming storm, 
 Darkening its path with black, portentous front, 
 Until it burst in havoc and in war ! 
 Oh ! may the fearful eventide of time, 
 Find man upon the dust in penitence, 
 In the strong brotherhood of Peace and prayer. 
 
 LESSON CVII. 
 
 Brief Account of the first Settlers of New England ; their de- 
 parture from Europe; and their landing at Plymouth, Mass. 
 22d Dec. 1620. Abridged from ROBERTSON and NEAL. 
 
 ROBERT BROWN, a popular preacher in high estimation 
 among the Puritans of England, in the reign of Queen 
 
NATIONAL READER. 197 
 
 Elizabeth, maintained that a society of Christians, uniting 
 together to worship God, constituted a church, possessed of 
 complete jurisdiction in the conduct of its own affairs, inde- 
 pendent of any other society, and accountable to no supe- 
 rior : that the priesthood neither was a distinct order in the 
 church, nor conferred an indelible character ; but that every 
 man, qualified to teach, might be set apart for that office by 
 the election of the brethren, and by imposition of their hands ; 
 and that, in like manner, by their authority, he might be dis- 
 charged from that function, and reduced to the rank of a 
 private Christian. 
 
 Those who adopted this democratical form of government, 
 which abolished ail distinction of ranks in the church, and 
 conferred an equal portion of power on each individual, were, 
 from the founder of the sect, denominated Brownists : and, 
 as their te'nets were more hostile to the established religion 
 than those of other separatists, the fiercest storm of persecu- 
 tion fell upon their heads. Many of them were fined or 
 imprisoned, and some were put to death. 
 
 Still, the sect not only subsisted, but continued to spread. 
 But, as all their motions were carefully watched, both by the 
 ecclesiastical and civil courts, which, as often as they were 
 detected, punished them with the utmost rigour, a body of 
 them, weary of living in a state of continual danger and 
 alarm, fled to Holland, and settled in Leyden, under the care 
 of Mr. John Robinson their pastor. 
 
 There they resided for several years, unmolested and ob- 
 scure. But, many of their aged members dying, and some 
 of the younger marrying into Dutch families, while their 
 church received no increase, either by recruits from England, 
 or by proselytes gained in the country, they began to be 
 afraid, that all their high attainments in spiritual knowledge 
 would be lost, and that that perfect fabric of policy, which 
 they had erected, would be dissolved, and consigned to obli- 
 vion, if they remained longer in a strange land. 
 
 At length, after several solemn addresses to Heaven, the 
 younger part of the congregation resolved to remove into 
 some part of America , under the protection of the king of 
 England, where they might enjoy the liberty of their con- 
 sciences, and be capable of encouraging their friends and 
 countrymen to follow them. 
 
 Accordingly, they sent over agents into England, who, 
 having obtained a patent from the crown, agreed with seve- 
 ral merchants to become adventurers in the undertaking. Se- 
 17* 
 
198 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 veral of Mr. Robinson's congregation sold their estates, and 
 made a common bank, with which they purchased a small 
 ship of sixty tons,^ and hired another of one hundred and 
 eighty, t 
 
 The agents sailed into Holland with their own ship, to 
 take in as many of the congregation as were willing to em- 
 bark) w r hi3e the other vessel was freighting with all necessa- 
 ries for the new plantation. All things being ready, Mr. 
 Robinson observed a day of fasting and prayer with his con- 
 gregation, and took his leave of the adventurers with the 
 following truly generous and Christian exhortation : 
 
 " Brethren, We are now quickly to part from one ano- 
 ther, and whether I may ever live to see your faces on earth 
 any more, the God of heaven only knows ; but, \vhether the 
 Lord has appointed that or no, I charge you, before God and 
 his blessed angels, that you follow me no farther than you 
 have seen me follow the Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 " If God reveal any thing to you, by any other instrument 
 of his, be as ready to receive it as ever you were to receive 
 any truth by my ministry ; for I am verily persuaded, the 
 Lord has more truth yet to break forth out of his holy word. 
 For my part, I cannot sufficiently bewail the condition of 
 the reformed churches, who are come to a period in religion, 
 and will go at present no farther than the instruments of 
 their reformation. The Lutherans cannot be drawn to go 
 beyond what Luther saw : whatever part of his will our God 
 has revealed to Calvin, they w^ill rather die than embrace it ; 
 and the Calvinists, you see, stick fast where they were left 
 by that great man of God, who yet saw not all things. 
 
 "This is a misery much to be lamented ; for, though they 
 were burning and shining lights in their times, yet they pe- 
 netrated not into the whole counsel of God, but, were they 
 now living, would be as willing to embrace further light as 
 that which they first received. I beseech you remember, it 
 is an article of your church covenant, that you be ready to 
 receive whatever truth shall be made known to you from the, 
 written word of God. Remember that, and every other 
 article of your sacred covenant. But I must herewithal ex- 
 hort you to take heed what you receive as truth ; examine it, 
 consider it, and compare it with other scriptures of truth, 
 before you receive it j for it is not possible the Christian 
 
 * The Speedwell. t The May-Flower. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 199 
 
 World should come so lately out of such thick antichristian 
 darkness, and that perfection of knowledge should break 
 forth at once. 
 
 "I must also advise you to abandon, avoid, and shake ofF 
 the name of Brownists; it is a mere nick-name, and a brand 
 for the making of religion, and the professors of it, odious to 
 the Christian world." 
 
 On the 1st of July, 1620, the adventurers went from Ley- 
 den to Delfthaven, whither Mr. Robinson and the ancients 
 of his congregation accompanied them ; they continued to- 
 gether all night ; and next morning, after mutual embraces, 
 Mr. Robinson kneeled down on the sea-shore, and, with a 
 fervent prayer, committed them to the protection and bless- 
 ing of Heaven. The adventurers were about one hundred 
 and twenty, who, having joined their other ship, sailed for 
 New England, August 5th ; but, one of their vessels proving 
 leaky, they left it, and embarked in one vessel, which arriv- 
 ed at Cape Cod, November 9th, 1620. 
 
 Sad was the condition of these poor men, who had the 
 winter before them, and no accommodations at hand for their 
 entertainment : most of them were in a weak and sickly con- 
 dition with the voyage : but there was no remedy : they 
 therefore manned their long boat, and, having coasted the 
 shore, at length found a tolerable harbour, where they land- 
 ed, with a part of their effects, on the 22d of December, and, 
 on the 25th, began to build a storehouse, and some small 
 cottages, to preserve them from the weather. 
 
 Their company was divided into nineteen families, each 
 family having an allotment of land for lodging and gardens, 
 in proportion to the number of persons of which it consisted ; 
 and, to prevent disputes, the situation of each family was 
 decided by lot. They agreed likewise upon some laws for 
 their civil and military government, and, having chosen a 
 governor, they called the place of their settlement by the 
 name of New Plymouth. 
 
 Inexpressible were the hardships these new planters un- 
 derwent, the first winter. A sad mortality raged among 
 them, occasioned by the fatigues of their late voyage, by the 
 severity of the weather, and their want of necessaries. The 
 country was full of woods and thickets ; their poor cottages 
 could not keep them warm ; they had no physician, or 
 wholesome food ; so that, within two or three months, half 
 their company was dead, and of them who remained alive 
 about fifty not above six or seven at a time were capa- 
 
200 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 ble of helping the rest. But, as the spring^came on, these re- 
 covered, and, having received some fresh supplies from their 
 friends in England, they maintained their station, and laid 
 the foundation of one of the noblest settlements in America, 
 which from that time has proved an asylum for the Protest- 
 ant Non-conformists under all their oppressions. 
 
 LESSON CVIII. 
 
 Extract from an Oration, delivered at Plymouth, Mass. 
 Dec. 1824, in commemoration of the landing of the Pil- 
 grims. E. EVERETT. 
 
 IT is not by pompous epithets or lively antitheses, that the 
 exploits of the pilgrims are to be set forth by their children. 
 We can only do this worthily, by repeating the plain tale of 
 their sufferings, by dwelling on the circumstances under 
 which their memorable enterprise was executed, and by 
 cherishing and uttering that spirit, which led them across 
 the ocean, and guided them to the spot where we stand. 
 We need no voice of artificial rhetoric to celebrate their 
 names. The bleak and deathlike desolation of nature pro- 
 claims, with touching eloquence, the fortitude and patience 
 of the meek adventurers. On the bare and wintry fields 
 around us, their exploits are written in characters, which 
 will last, and tell their tale to posterity, when brass and 
 marble have crumbled into dust. 
 
 The occasion which has called us together is certainly one 
 to which no parallel exists in the history of the world. Other 
 countries, and our own also, have their national festivals. 
 They commemorate the birthdays of their illustrious chil- 
 dren ; they celebrate the foundation of important institutions : 
 momentous events, victories, reformations, revolutions, awak- 
 en, on their anniversaries, the grateful and patriotic feelings 
 of posterity. But we commemorate the birthday of all New 
 England ; the foundation, not of one institution, but of all 
 the institutions, the settlements, the establishments, the com- 
 munities, the societies, the improvements, comprehended 
 within our broad and happy borders. 
 
 Were it only as an act of rare adventure ; were it a trait 
 in foreign or ancient history ; we should fix upon the 
 achievement of our fathers, as one of the noblest deeds in 
 the annals of the world. Were we attracted to it by no 
 
NATIONAL READER. 201 
 
 other principle than that sympathy we feel in all the for- 
 tunes of our race, it could lose nothing it must gam in 
 the contrast, with whatever history or tradition has pre- 
 served to us of the wanderings and settlements of the tribes 
 of man. A continent for the first time eiFectually explored ; 
 a vast ocean traversed by men, women, and children, volun- 
 tarily exiling themselves from the fairest regions of the old 
 world ; and a great nation grown up, in the space of two 
 centuries, on the foundations so perilously laid by this pious 
 band : point me to the record, to the tradition, nay, to the 
 iiction, of any thing, that can enter into competition with 
 it. It is the language, not of exaggeration, but of truth and 
 soberness, to say, that there is nothing in the accounts of 
 Phenician, of Grecian, or of Roman colonization, that can 
 stand in the comparison. 
 
 What new importance, then, does not the achievement 
 acquire to our minds, when we consider that it was the deed 
 of our fathers ; that this grand undertaking was accomplish- 
 ed 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 admira- 
 tion, 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 comforts, the blessings, the privileges, which make 
 our lot the envy of mankind. 
 
 LESSON CIX. 
 
 Second Extract, from the same. 
 
 IT was not enough that our fathers were of England : the 
 masters of Ireland, and the lords of Hindostan, are of Eng- 
 land too. But our fathers were Englishmen, aggrieved, per- 
 secuted, and banished. It is a principle, amply borne out 
 by the history of the great and powerful nations of the earth, 
 and by that of none more than the country of which we 
 speak, that the best fruits and choicest action of the com'- 
 mendable qualities of the national character, are to be found 
 on the side of the oppressed few, and not of the triumphant 
 
202 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 many. As, in private character, adversity is olten requisite 
 to give a proper direction and temper to strong qualities ; so 
 the noblest traits of national character, even under the freest 
 and most independent of hereditary governments, are com- 
 monly to be sought in the ranks of a protesting minority, or 
 of a dissenting sect. Never was this truth more clearly il- 
 lustrated than in the settlement of New England. 
 
 Could a common calculation of policy have dictated the 
 terms of that settlement, no doubt our foundations would 
 have been laid beneath the royal smile. Convoys and na- 
 vies would have been solicited to waft our fathers to the 
 coast ; armies, to defend the infant communities ; and the 
 flattering patronage of princes and lords, to espouse their in- 
 terests in the councils of the mother country. Happy, that 
 our fathers enjoyed no such patronage ; happy, that they 
 fell into no such protecting hands ; happy, that our founda- 
 tions were silently and deeply cast, in quiet insignificance, 
 beneath a charter of banishment, persecution, and contempt ; 
 so that, when the royal arm was at length outstretched against 
 us, instead of a submissive child, tied down by former graces, 
 it found a youthful giant in the land, born amidst hard- 
 ships, and nourished on the rocks, indebted for no favours, 
 and owing no duty. From the dark portals of the star cham- 
 ber, and in the stem text of the acts of uniformity, the pil- 
 grims received a commission more efficient than any that 
 ever bore the royal seal. Their banishment to Holland was 
 fortunate ; the decline of their little company in the strange 
 land was fortunate ; the difficulties which they experienced 
 in getting the royal consent to banish themselves to this 
 wilderness were fortunate ; all the tears and heart-breakings 
 of that ever-memorable parting at Delfthaven had the hap- 
 piest influence on the rising destinies of New England. 
 All this purified the ranks of the settlers. These rough 
 touches of fortune brushed off the light, uncertain, selfish 
 spirits. They made it a grave, solemn, self-denying expe- 
 dition, and required of those who engaged in it, to be so 
 too. They cast a broad shadow of thought and seriousness 
 over the cause, and, if this sometimes deepened into melan- 
 choly and bitterness, can we find no apology for such a hu- 
 man weakness ? 
 
 It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters, which the little 
 band of pilgrims encountered ; sad to see a portion of 
 them, the prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously em- 
 barked in an unsound, unseaworthy ship, which they are 
 
NATIONAL READER. 1203 
 
 soon obliged to abandon, and crowd themselves into one 
 vessel one hundred persons, besides the ship's company, 
 in a vessel of one hundred and eighty tons. One is touched 
 at the story of the long, cold, and weary autumnal passage ; 
 of the landing on the inhospitable rocks at this dismal sea- 
 son, where they are deserted, before long, by the ship which 
 had brought them, and which seemed their only hold upon 
 the world of fellow men, a prey to the elements and to 
 want, and fearfully ignorant of the numbers, the power, and 
 the temper of the savage tribes, that filled the unexplored 
 continent, upon whose verge they had ventured. But all this 
 wrought together for good. These trials of wandering and 
 exile, of the ocean, the winter, the wilderness, and the savage 
 foe, were the final assurance of success. It was these that 
 put far away from our fathers' cause all patrician softness, 
 all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. No effeminate nobility 
 crowded into the dark and austere ranks of the pilgrims ; 
 no Carr nor Villiers would lead on the ill-provided band 
 of despised Puritans ; no well-endowed clergy were on the 
 alert to quit their cathedrals, and set up a pompous hierarchy 
 in the frozen wilderness ; no craving governors were anxious 
 to be sent over to our cheerless El Dorados of ice and of 
 snow. No ; they could not say they had encouraged, patron- 
 ised, or helped the pilgrims : their own cares, their own 
 labours, their own councils, their own blood, contrived all, 
 achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They could not after- 
 wards fairly pretend to reap where they had not strown : 
 and, as our fathers reared this broad and solid fabric with 
 pains and watchfulness, unaided, barely tolerated, it did not 
 fall when the favour, which had always been withholden, 
 was changed into wrath ; when the arm, which had never 
 supported, was raised to destroy. 
 
 Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous ves- 
 sel, the May-Flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the 
 prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown 
 sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the 
 uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks 
 and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, 
 but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I 
 see them now scantily supplied with provisions, crowded 
 almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by 
 calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; and now driven in fury 
 before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 
 The awful voice of the storrn howls through the rigging; 
 
204 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 the labouring masts seem straining from their base ; the 
 dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it 
 were, madly, from billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, and 
 settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and 
 beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the stag- 
 gered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pur- 
 suing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, 
 after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Ply- 
 mouth, weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, 
 scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship- 
 master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but 
 water on shore, without shelter, without means, sur- 
 rounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history, 
 and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what 
 shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, 
 man of military science, in how many months were they all 
 swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the 
 early limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how 
 long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions 
 and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? 
 Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the 
 deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other 
 times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's 
 storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and chil- 
 dren ; was it hard labour and spare meals ; was it dis- 
 ease ; was it the tomahawk ; was it the deep malady of a 
 blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, 
 aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved 
 and left, beyond the sea ; was it some, or all of these 
 united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- 
 choly fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, 
 that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? 
 Is it possible, that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so 
 worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone 
 forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expan- 
 sion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be 
 fulfilled, so glorious ? ^ * * ^ 
 
 I do not fear that we shall be accused of extravagance in 
 the enthusiasm we feel at a train of events of such aston- 
 ishing magnitude, novelty and consequence, connected, by 
 associations so intimate, with the day we now hail, with 
 the events we now celebrate, with the pilgrim fathers of 
 New England. Victims of persecution ! how wide an em- 
 pire acknowledges the sway of your principles ! Apostles 
 
NATIONAL READER. 205 
 
 of liberty ! what millions attest the authenticity of your 
 mission ! Meek champions of truth ! no stain of private in- 
 terest, or of innocent blood, is on the spotless garments of 
 your renown ! The great continents of America have be- 
 come, at length, the theatre of your achievements ; the At- 
 lantic and the Pacific the highways of communication, on 
 which your principles, your institutions, your example, are 
 borne. From the o'dest abodes of civilization, the venerable 
 plains of Greece, to the scarcely explored range of the Cor- 
 dilleras, the impulse you gave at length is felt. While other 
 regions revere you as the leaders of this great march of hu- 
 manity, we are met, on this joyful day, to offer to your 
 memories our tribute of filial affection. The sons and 
 daughters of the pilgrims, we have assembled on the spot 
 where you, our suffering fathers, set foot on this happy shore. 
 Happy, indeed, it has been for us. O that you could have 
 enjoyed those blessings, which you prepared for your chil- 
 dren ! that our comfortable homes could have shielded you 
 from the wintry air; our abundant harvests have supplied 
 you in time of famine ; and the broad shield of our be- 
 loved country have sheltered you from the visitations of 
 arbitrary power ! We come, in our prosperity, to remember 
 your trials ; and here, on the spot where New England be- 
 gan to be, we come to learn, of our pilgrim fathers, a deep 
 and lasting lesson of virtue, enterprise, patience, zeal, and 
 faith ! 
 
 LESSON CX. 
 
 Claim of the Pilgrims to the Reverence and Gratitude of 
 their Descendants. O. DEWEY. 
 
 LET it not be forgotten, at least by us, the immediate de- 
 scendants of the Puritans for the sake of our gratitude and 
 our virtue, too, let it not be forgotten that, when the weary 
 pilgrim traversed this bleak coast, his step was lightened, 
 and his heart was cheered, by the thoughts of a virtuous 
 posterity ; that, when our fathers touched this land, they 
 would fain have consecrated it as a holy land : that, when 
 they entered it, they lifted up their eyes towards heaven 
 and said, " Let this be the land of refuge for the oppressed 
 and persecuted, the land of knowledge; and, O! let it be 
 18 
 
206 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 the land of piety." Let the descendants of the pilgrims 
 know, that if their fathers wept, it was not for themselves 
 alone ; if they toiled, they toiled, or as one of them nobly 
 said, they " spent their time, and labours, and endeavours, 
 for the benefit of them who should come after;" that if 
 they prayed, they prayed not for themselves alone, but for 
 their posterity. And little, it may be, do we know of the 
 fervour and fortitude of that prayer. When we pray, we 
 kneel on pillows, of down, beneath our own comfortable 
 dwellings : but the pilgrims kneeled on the frozen and flinty 
 shore. Our prayers ascend within the walls of the conse- 
 crated temple : but the mighty wave and the shapeless 
 rock, and the dark forest, were their walls : and no shelter- 
 ing dome had they, but the rolling clouds of winter, and the 
 chill and bleak face of heaven. We pray in peace, and 
 quietness, and safety : but their anxious and wrestling sup- 
 plication went up amidst the stirring of the elements, and the 
 struggle for life ; and often was the feeble cry of the defence- 
 less band broken by the howling of wild beasts, and the war- 
 whoop of wilder savages. 
 
 Yes, our lot has fallen to us in different times ; and now it 
 is easy for us, no doubt, calmly to survey the actions of those 
 who were engaged in the heat of the contest; and we have 
 leisure to talk at large about ignorance, and bigotry, and su- 
 perstition ; and we can take the seat of grave wisdom, arid 
 philosophize upon the past, when to philosophize is all that 
 we can do. Yes, it is easy, now that the forest is cleared 
 away, and we bask in the sunshine which they have opened 
 upon us, through the deep and dark foliage, it is easy, no 
 doubt, coolly and. nicely to mark their mistakes and errors : 
 but go back to their struggle with fear, and want, and dis- 
 ease ; go to the fields which they cultivated, and see them with 
 the felling axe in one hand, and the weapon of defence in the 
 other ; go back to all the rude dwellings of their poverty and 
 trouble : but you cannot, even in imagination, you cannot. 
 No : the days of trial and suffering have been ; but it is not 
 for us even to understand what they were ! This little only 
 is required of us to do justice to the virtues which we have 
 no longer any opportunity to imitate. 
 
 Nor, in urging such an obligation as this, has it often been 
 found necessary to com'bat the prejudices of mankind. On 
 the contrary, there has been a universal propensity to do more 
 than justice, to do honour, to the achievements of past times. 
 There never was a people, unless we are the exceptions who 
 
NATIONAL READER. 207 
 
 were not inclined to receive the most specious story that 
 could be told of their ancestry, who were not glad to have 
 their actions set forth in splendid fable. The epic histories 
 of Homer and Virgil, all fabulous as they were, were receiv- 
 ed with uncontrollable bursts of enthusiasm by their respec- 
 tive nations. The Israelites sung the early history of their 
 wandering tribes, in all their solemn assemblies. The 
 memory of former days and of elder deeds, has always, and 
 among all nations, been held sacred. The rudest people 
 have not been wanting to their still ruder ancestry. Immor- 
 tal poems have preserved their memory ; or their ballads of 
 olden time have kept alive, with their simple tale, the recol- 
 lection of ancient heroism and suffering. In after days 
 History takes up the theme, and, 
 
 " Proud of the treasure, marches down with it 
 To latest times ; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
 Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass, 
 To guard them, and to immortalize her trust." 
 
 This propensity has given a language to nature itself. 
 There is no portion of the earth but has had its consecrated 
 spots: places, the bare mention of which is enough to 
 awaken, in all ages, the reverence and enthusiasm of man- 
 kind. There is some hill or mountain, that stands as a 
 monument of ancient deeds. There is some field of conflict, 
 which needs no memorial but a name ; or some rude heap 
 of stones at Gilgal, that needs no inscription; or some rod 
 that is ever budding afresh with remembrance. 
 
 And is our own land destitute of every scene that is wor- 
 thy to be remembered ? Among all these rich and peaceful 
 scenes around us, there is not a plain, but it has been the 
 trenched field of the warrior : there is not a hill, but it 
 stands as a monument. And the structures of art, that shall 
 rise upon them, shall only point them out to other times, as 
 holy. But harder contests than those of blood and battle 
 have been sustained in this land. And the Rock of Ply- 
 mouth shall, in all ages, be celebrated as the Thermopylae 
 of this new world, where a handful of men held conflict 
 with ghastly famine, and sweeping pestilence, and the win- 
 try storrn ; held conflict, and were not conquered. And, so 
 long as centuries shall roll over this happy and rising na- 
 tion, shall wealth, and taste, and talent, resort to that hallow- 
 ed spot, to pay homage to the elder fathers of New Eng- 
 land. Go, children of the pilgrims, might we say to all 
 
208 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 the inhabitants of the land, it is well to gather around that 
 shrine of our fathers' virtues, that monument of their toils 
 and sufferings, which the chafing billows of the ocean shall 
 never wear away. It is well to make a holy pilgrimage to 
 that sacred spot. It is well that gifted orators and states- 
 men should proclaim our enthusiasm and our gratitude in 
 the listening assembly. But with what striking emphasis 
 might it be said, to those who make this pilgrimage at the 
 present day, " Ye go, not as your fathers came, in weariness 
 and sorrow not as they came, amidst poverty, and peril, and 
 sickness not through the solitary glooms and howling 
 storms of the wilderness ; but ye go, through rich planta- 
 tions and happy villages, with chariots, and horses, and 
 equipage, and state, with social mirth and joyful minstrelsy 
 and music ; but, ah ! remember that ye are gathering to the 
 spot, which was once trodden by the steps of the houseless 
 wanderer, which was marked with the pilgrim's staff, and 
 watered with the pilgrim's tears." =& Sfc =& =fc 
 
 The claims of ancestry, we know, are commonly held 
 sacred, in proportion as its date is removed back into ages 
 of antiquity ; in proportion to the number of successive 
 generations that have intervened ; in proportion as fiction 
 and romance find aid in the darkness of some remote and 
 unknown period. But, though the character of our fathers 
 needs no such aid, yet I can scarcely conceive any thing 
 more romantic even, than their entrance into this vast do- 
 main of nature, never before disturbed by the footsteps of 
 civilized man. They came to the land where fifty centuries 
 had held their reign, with no pen to write their history. 
 Silence, which no occupation of civilized life had broken, 
 was in ail its borders, and had been from the creation. 
 The lofty oak had grown through its lingering age, and de- 
 cayed, and perished, without name or record. The storm 
 had risen and roared in the wilderness ; and none had caught 
 its sublime inspiration. The fountains had flowed on ; the 
 mighty river had poured its useless waters ; the cataract had 
 lifted up its thunderings to the march of time ; and no eye 
 had seen it, but that of the wild tenants of the desert. A band 
 of fugitives came to this land of- barbarism, with no patron- 
 age, but the prayers of the friends they had left behind 
 them ; with no wealth, but habits of industry ; with no 
 power, but what lay in firm sinews and courageous hearts ; 
 and with these they turned back the course of ages. 
 Pilgrims from the old world, they became inheritors of the 
 
NATIONAL READER* 209 
 
 new. They set up the standard of Christianity ; they open- 
 ed the broad pathways of knowledge ; the forest melted 
 away before them, like a dark vapour of the morning ; the 
 voice of comfort, the din of business, went back into its 
 murmuring solitudes ; the wilderness and solitary place 
 were glad for them ; the desert rejoiced and blossomed as 
 the rose. We might almost take the description of it from 
 the language of prophecy. The lamb lies down in the den 
 of the wolf; and where the wild beast prowled, is now the graz- 
 ing ox. " The cow and the bear feed, and their young ones lie 
 down together. The suckling child plays on the hole of the 
 asp, and the weaned child puts his hand on the adder's den." 
 Where the deep \vood spread its solitary glooms, and the 
 fierce savage laid his dark and deadly ambush, are now the 
 sunny hill-side, and the waving field, and the flowery plain ; 
 and the unconscious child holds his gambols on the ground 
 that has been trodden with weariness, and watered with 
 tears, and stained with the blood of strife and slaughter. 
 
 These are the days, these are the men, that we are called 
 upon to remember and to honour. But it is not enough 
 to remember their deeds : we are bound to imitate their 
 virtues. This is the true, the peculiar honour, which we 
 are bound to render to such an ancestry. The common 
 measure of national intelligence and virtue is no rule for us. 
 It is not enough for us to be as wise and improved, as virtu- 
 ous and pious, as other nations. Providence, in giving to 
 us an origin so remarkable and signally favoured, demands 
 of us a proportionate improvement. We are in our infancy, 
 it is true, but. our existence began in an intellectual maturity. 
 Onr fathers' virtues were the virtues of the wilderness, yet 
 without its wildness ; hardy, and vigorous, and severe, 
 indeed, but not rude, nor mean. Let us beware lest we 
 become more prosperous than they, more abundant in 
 luxuries, and refinements, only to be less temperate, upright, 
 and religious. Let us beware lest the stern and lofty features 
 of primeval rectitude should be regarded with less respect 
 among us. Let us beware lest their piety should fall with 
 the oaks of their forests ; lest the loosened bow of early 
 habits and opinions, which was once strung in the wilder- 
 ness, should be too much relaxed. 
 IS* 
 
210 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXI. 
 
 Song of the Pilgrims. UPIIAM. 
 Written, 1823. 
 
 THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail, 
 The blue waves curl beneath the gale, 
 And, bounding with the wave and wind, 
 We leave Old England's shores behind: 
 Leave behind our native shore, 
 Homes, and all we loved before. 
 
 The deep may dash, the winds may blow, 
 The storm spread out its wings of wo, 
 Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud, 
 Hung in the folds of every cloud ; 
 Still, as long as life shall last, 
 From that shore well speed us fast. 
 
 For we would rather never be, 
 Than dwell where mind cannot be free, 
 But bows beneath a despot's rod 
 Even where it seeks to worship God. 
 
 Blasts of heaven, onward sweep! 
 
 Bear us o'er the troubled deep ! 
 
 O, see what wonders meet our eyes ! 
 
 Another land, and other skies ! 
 
 Columbian hills have met our view ! 
 
 Adieu ! Old England's shores, adieu ! 
 Here, at length, our feet shall rest, 
 Hearts be free, and homes be blest. 
 
 As long as yonder firs^ shall spread 
 Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,- 
 As long as yonder cliffs shall stand, 
 Where join the ocean and the land, 
 
 Shall those cliffs and mountains be 
 
 Proud retreats for liberty. 
 
 Now to the King of kings we'll raise 
 The pae'an loud of sacred praise, 
 
 * Pron. i?rz. 
 
NATIONAL READER 211 
 
 More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, 
 More loud than speak the rolling seas ! 
 
 Happier lands have met our view ! 
 
 England's shores, adieu ! adieu ! 
 
 LESSON CXII. 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. MRS. HEM'ANS. 
 
 Written, 1825. 
 
 THE breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast ; 
 And the woods, against a stormy sky, 
 
 Their giant branches tossed ; 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark, 
 
 The hills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 In silence, and in fear : 
 They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 
 To the anthem of the free. 
 
 The ocean-eagle soared 
 
 From his nest, by the white wave's foam, 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared : 
 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : 
 
212 NATIONAL READER, 
 
 Why had they come to wither there, 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine? 
 The wealth of seas? the spoils of war? 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine. 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod ! 
 They have left unstained what there they found - 
 
 Freedom to worship God! 
 
 LESSON CXIII. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers. ORIGINAL. 
 
 Written, 1824. 
 
 THE pilgrim fathers where are they? 
 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore : 
 Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 
 
 When the May-Flower moored below, 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, 
 
 When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
 As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The pilgrim exile sainted name ! 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 
NATIONAL READER. 213 
 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hill-side and the sea, 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head; 
 
 But the pilgrim where is he ? 
 
 The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 
 
 When Summer's throned on high, 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The pilgrim spirit has not fled : 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light ; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With the holy stars, by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
 
 And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, 
 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 LESSON CXIV. 
 
 Character of the Puritan Fathers of New England. 
 GREENWOOD. 
 
 ONE of the most prominent features, which distinguished 
 our forefathers, was their determined resistance to oppres- 
 sion. They seemed born and brought up, for *lie high and 
 special purpose of showing to the world, that the civil and 
 religious rights of man, the rights of self-government, of con- 
 science and independent thought, are not merely things to 
 be talked of, and woven into theories, but to be adopted with 
 the whole strength and ardour of the mind, and felt in the 
 profoundest recesses of the heart, and carried out into the 
 general life, and made the foundation of practical usefulness, 
 and visible beauty, and true nobility. 
 
 Liberty, with them, was an object of too serious desire 
 and stern resolve, to be personified, allegorized and enshrin- 
 
214 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 ed. They made no goddess of it, as the ancients did ; they 
 had no time nor inclination for such trifling ; they felt that 
 liberty was the simple birthright of every human creature ; 
 they called it so ; they claimed it as such ; they reverenced 
 and held it fast as the unalienable gift of the Creator, which 
 was not to be surrendered to power, nor sold for wages. 
 
 It was theirs, as men ; without it, they did not esteem 
 themselves men ; more than any other privilege or pos- 
 session, it was essential to their happiness, for it was essen- 
 tial to their original nature ; and therefore they preferred it 
 above wealth, and ease, and country ; and, that they might 
 enjoy and exercise it fully, they forsook houses, and lands, 
 and kindred, their homes, their native soil, and their fathers' 
 graves. 
 
 They left all these ; they left England, which, whatever 
 it might have been called, was not to them a land of free- 
 dom ; they launched forth on the pathless ocean, the wide, 
 fathomless ocean, soiled not by the earth beneath, and 
 bounded, all round and above, only by heaven ; and it seem- 
 ed to them like that better and sublimer freedom, which their 
 country knew not, but of which they had the conception and 
 image in their hearts ; and, after a toilsome and painful 
 voyage, they came to a hard and wintry coast, unfruitful 
 and desolate, but unguarded and boundless ; its calm silence 
 interrupted not the ascent of their prayers ; it had no eyes 
 to watch, no ears to hearken, no tongues to report of them ; 
 here again there was an answer to their souls' desire, and 
 they were satisfied, and gave thanks ; they saw that they 
 were free, and the desert smiled. 
 
 I am telling an old tale ; but it is one which must be told, 
 when we speak of those men. It is to be added, that they 
 transmitted their principles to their children, and that, peo- 
 pled by such a race, our country was always free. So long 
 as its inhabitants were unmolested by the mother country 
 in the exercise of their important rights, they submitted to 
 the form of English government ; but when those rights were 
 invaded, they spurned even the form away. 
 
 This act was the revolution, which came of course, and 
 spontaneously, and had nothing in it of the wonderful or un- 
 foreseen. The wonder would have been, if it had not occurred. 
 It was indeed a happy and glorious event, but by no means 
 unnatural ; and I intend no slight to the revered actors in 
 the revolution, when I assert, that their fathers before them 
 were as free as they, every whit as free. 
 
 The principles of the revolution were not the suddenly 
 
NATIONAL READER. 215 
 
 acquired property of a few bosoms ; they were abroad in the 
 land in the ages before ; they had always been taught, like 
 the truths of the Bible ; they had descended from father to 
 son, down from those primitive days, when the pilgrim, 
 established in his simple dwelling, and seated at his blazing 
 fire, piled high from the forest which shaded his door, re- 
 peated to his listening children the story of his wrongs and 
 his resistance, and bade them rejoice, though the wild winds 
 and the wild beasts were howling without, that they had 
 nothing to fear from great men's oppression and the bishops' 
 rage. 
 
 Here were the beginnings of the revolution. Every set- 
 tler's hearth was a school of independence ; the scholars 
 were apt, and the lessons sunk deeply; and thus it came 
 that our country was always free ; it could not be other than 
 free. 
 
 As deeply seated as was the principle of liberty and resist- 
 ance to arbitrary power, in the breasts of the Puritans* it 
 was not more so than their piety and sense of religious obli- 
 gation. They were emphatically a people, whose God was 
 the Lord. Their form of government was as strictly theo- 
 cratical, if direct communication be excepted, as was that of 
 the Jews ; insomuch that it would be difficult to say where 
 there was any civil authority among them entirely distinct 
 from ecclesiastical jurisdiction. 
 
 Whenever a few of them settled a town, they immediately 
 gathered themselves into a church ; and their elders were 
 magistrates, and their code of laws was the Pentateuch. 
 These were forms, it is true, but forms which faithfully in- 
 dicated principles and feelings; for no people could have 
 adopted such forms, who were not thoroughly imbued with 
 the spirit, and bent on the practice, of religion. 
 
 God was their King ; arid they regarded him as truly and 
 literally so, as if he had dwelt in a visible palace in the midst 
 of their state. They were his devoted, resolute, humble 
 subjects ; they undertook nothing which they did not beg of 
 him to prosper ; they accomplished nothing without render- 
 ing to him the praise ; they suffered nothing without carry- 
 ing up their sorrows to his throne ; they ate^ nothing which 
 they did not implore him to bless. 
 
 Their piety was not merely external ; it was sincere ; it 
 had the proof of a good tree, in bearing good fruit ; it pro- 
 duced and sustained a strict morality. Their tenacious pu- 
 rity of manners and speech obtained for them, in the mother 
 * Pron. et. 
 
216 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 country, their name of Puritans ; which, though given in 
 derision, was as honourable a one as was ever bestowed by 
 man on man. 
 
 That there were hypocrites among them, is not to be 
 doubted ; but they were rare ; the men who voluntarily ex- 
 iled themselves to an unknown coast, and endured there 
 every toil and hardship for conscience' sake, and that they 
 might serve God in their own manner, were not likely to set 
 conscience at defiance, and make the service of God a mock- 
 ery ; they were not likely to be, neither were they, hypo- 
 crites. I do not know that it would be arrogating too much 
 for them to say, that, on the extended surface of the globe, 
 there was not a single community of men to be compared 
 with them, in the respects of deep religious impressions, aad 
 an exact performance of moral duty. 
 
 LESSON CXV. 
 
 The same, concluded. 
 
 WHAT I would especially inculcate is, that, estimating as 
 impartially as we are able the virtues and defects of our 
 forefathers' character, we shoald endeavour to imitate the 
 first, and avoid the last. 
 
 Were they tenderly jealous of their inborn rights, and resolv- 
 ed to maintain them, in spite of the oppressor ? And shall 
 we ever be insensible to their value, and part with the vigi- 
 lance which should watch, and the courage which should de- 
 fend them ? Rather let the ashes of our fathers, which have 
 been cold so long, warm and quicken in their graves, and 
 return imbodied to the surface, and drive away their degene- 
 rate sons from the soil which their toils and sufferings pur- 
 chased ! 
 
 Rather let the beasts of the wilderness come back to a wil- 
 derness, and couch for prey in our desolate gardens, and 
 bring forth their young in our marts, and howl nightly to 
 the moon, amidst the grass-grown ruins of our prostrate 
 cities ! Rather let the red sons of the forest reclaim their 
 pleasant hunting grounds, and rekindle the council fires 
 which once threw their glare upon the eastern water, and 
 roam over our hills and plains, without crossing a single 
 fcfatsk of the white man ! 
 
NATIONAL READER. 217 
 
 I am no advocate for war. I abominate its spirit and its 
 cruelties. But to me there appears a \vide and essential 
 difference between resistance and aggression. It is aggres- 
 sion, it is the love of arbitrary domination, it is the insane 
 thirst for what the world has too long and too indiscrimi- 
 nately called glory, which light up the flames of war and 
 devastation. 
 
 Without aggression on the one side, no resistance would 
 he roused on the other, and there would be no war. And if 
 all aggression was met by determined resistance, then, too, 
 there would be no war; for the spirit of aggression would 
 be humbled and repressed. I would that it Plight be the 
 universal principle of our countrymen, and the determina- 
 tion of our rulers, never to offer the slightest injury, never to 
 commit the least outrage, though it were to obtain territory, 
 or fame, or any selfish advantage. 
 
 In this respect I would that the example which was some- 
 times set by our forefathers, might be altogether forsaken. 
 But let us never forsake their better example of stern resist- 
 ance ; let us cherish and perpetuate their lofty sentiments 
 of freedom ; let us tread the soil which they planted for us 
 as free as they did, or lie down at once beside them. 
 
 " The land we from our fathers had in t-ru,.t 
 
 We to our children will transmit, or die. 
 
 This is our maxim, this our piety, 
 
 And God and nature say that it is just. 
 
 That which we -would perform In arms, we must ! 
 
 We read the dictate in the infant's eye, 
 
 In the wife's smile, and in the placid sky, 
 
 And at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 
 Of them that were before us." 
 
 Our fathers were pious eminently so. Let us forever 
 venerate and imitate this part of their character. When 
 the children of the pilgrims forget that Being, who was the 
 pilgrim's Guide and Deliverer; when the descendants of the 
 Puritans cease to acknowledge, and obey, and love that 
 Being, fur \\hose service the Puritans forsook all that men 
 chiefly, love, enduring scorn and reproach, exile and poverty, 
 and finding at last a superabundant reward; when the sons 
 of a religious and holy ancestry fail away from its high 
 connn union, and join themselves to the assemblies of the 
 profane; they have stained the lustre of their parentage; 
 they have forfeited the dear blowings of their inheritance ; 
 and they deserve to be cast out from this fair land without 
 19 
 
218 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 even a wilderness for their refuge. No ! Let us still keep 
 the ark of God in the midst of us ; let us adopt the prayer 
 of the wise monarch of Israel, " The Lord our God be with 
 us, as he was with our fathers ; let him not leave us, nor 
 forsake us ; that he may incline our hearts unto him, to walk 
 in all his ways, and to keep his commandments, and his 
 statutes, and his judgements, which he commanded our 
 fathers.'* 
 
 But our fathers were too rigidly austere. It may be 
 thought, that, even granting this to be their fault, we are so 
 rapidly advancing toward an opposite extreme, that any thing 
 like a caution against it is out of season, and superfluous. 
 And yet I see not why the notice of every fault should not 
 be accompanied with a corresponding caution. 
 
 That we are in danger of falling into one excess, is a rea- 
 son why we should be most anxiously on our guard at the 
 place of exposure ; but it is no reason why another excess 
 should not be reprobated, and pointed out with the finger of 
 warning. The difficulty is, and the desire and effort should 
 be, between these, as well as all other extremes, to steer an 
 equal course, and preserve a safe medium. 
 
 I acknowledge that luxury, and the blandishments of pros- 
 perity and wealth, are greatly to be feared ; and if our soft- 
 nesses ; and indulgences, and foreign fashions, must, inevita- 
 bly, accomplish our seduction, and lead us away from the 
 simplicity, honesty, sobriety, purity, and manly independence 
 of our forefathers, most readily and fervently would I ex- 
 claim, Welcome back to the pure old times of the Puritans ! 
 welcome back to the strict observances of their strictest days ! 
 welcome, thrice welcome, to all their severity, all their 
 gloom ! for infinitely better would be hard doctrines and 
 dark brows, Jewish Sabbaths, strait garments, formal man- 
 ners, and a harsh guardianship, than dissoluteness and ef- 
 feminacy ; than empty pleasures and shameless debauch- 
 ery ; than lolling ease, and pampered pride, and fluttering 
 vanity ; than unprincipled, faithless, corrupted rulers, and a 
 people unworthy of a more exalted government. 
 
 But is it necessary that we must be either gloomy or cor- 
 rupt, either formal or profane, either extravagant in strict- 
 ness, or extravagant in dissipation and levity ? Can we not 
 so order our habits, and so fix our principles, as not to suf- 
 fer the luxuries of our days to choke, and strangle, with 
 their rankness, the simple morality of our fathers' days, nor 
 permit a reverence for their stiff and inappropriate formal!- 
 
NATIONAL READER. 219 
 
 ties and austerities to overshadow and repress our innocent 
 comforts and delights ? 
 
 Let us attempt, at least, to maintain ourselves in so desira- 
 ble a medium. Let us endeavour to preserve whatever was 
 excellent in the manners and lives of the Puritans, while we 
 forsake what was inconsistent or unreasonable ; and then 
 we shall hardly fail to be wiser and happier, and even better 
 than they were. 
 
 LESSON CXVI. 
 
 Extract from the Speech of W. PITT, Earl of Chatham, in 
 the British Parliament, January, 1775. 
 
 MY lords I rise with astonishment to see these papers 
 brought to your table at so late a period of this business ; 
 papers, to tell us what? Why, what all the world knew 
 before ; that the Americans, irritated by repeated injuries, 
 and stripped of their inborn rights and dearest privileges, 
 have resisted, and entered into associations for the preser- 
 vation of their common liberties. 
 
 Had the early situation of the people of Boston been at- 
 tended to, things would not have come to this. But the 
 infant complaints of Boston were literally treated like the 
 capricious squalls of a child, who, it was said, did not know 
 whether it was aggrieved or not. But, full well I knew, at 
 that time, that this child, if not redressed, would soon as- 
 sume the courage and voice of a man. Full well I knew, 
 that the sons of ancestors, born under the same free consti- 
 tution, and once breathing the same liberal air, as English- 
 men; would resist upon the same principles, and on the same 
 occasions. 
 
 What has government done ? They have sent an armed 
 force, consisting of seventeen thousand men, to dragoon' the 
 Bostonians into what is called their duty ; and, so far from 
 once turning their eyes to the impolicy and destructive con- 
 sequence of this scheme, are constantly sending out more 
 troops. And we are told, in the language of menace, that, 
 if seventeen thousand men won't do, fifty thousand shall. 
 
 It is true, my lords, with this force, they may ravage the 
 country, waste and destroy as they march; but, in the pro- 
 gress of fifteen hundred miles, can they occupy the places 
 
220 
 
 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 they have passed ? Will not a country, which can pioduce 
 three millions of people, wronged and insulted as they are, 
 start up, like hydras, in every corner, and gather fresh 
 strength from fresh opposition ? Nay, what dependence 
 can you have upon the soldiery, the unhappy engines of 
 your wrath ? They are Englishmen, who must feel for the 
 privileges, of Englishmen. Do you think that these men 
 can turn their arms against their brethren? Surely not. 
 A victory must be to them a defeat ; and carnage, a sa- 
 crifice. 
 
 But it is not merely three millions of people, the pro- 
 duce of America, w r e have to contend with, in this unnatu- 
 ral struggle ; many more are on their side, dispersed over 
 the face of this wide empire. Every whig in this country 
 and in Ireland is with them. Who, then, let me demand 
 has given, and continues to give, this strange and unconsti- 
 tutional advice ? I do not mean to level at any one man. 
 or any particular set of men ; but, thus much I will venture 
 to declare, that, if his majesty continues to hear such coun- 
 sellors, he will not only be badly advised, but undone. He 
 may continue, indeed, to \vear his crown ; but it will not be 
 worth his wearing. Robbed of so principal a jewel as Ame- 
 rica, it will lose its lustre, and no longer beam that efful- 
 gence, which ^should irradiate the brow of majesty. 
 
 In this alarming crisis, I corne, with this paper in my 
 hand, to offer you the best of my experience and advice ; 
 which is, that an humble petition be presented to his majes- 
 ty, beseeching him, that, in order to open the way towards 
 a happy settlement of the dangerous troubles in America, 
 it may graciously please him, that immediate orders be given 
 to General Gage for removing his majesty's forces from the 
 town of Boston. 
 
 And this, my lords, upon the most mature and deliberate 
 grounds, is the best advice I can give you, at this juncture. 
 Such conduct will convince America that you mean to try 
 her cause in the spirit of freedom and inquiry, and not in let- 
 ters of blood. There is no time to be lost. Every hour is 
 big with danger. Perhaps, while I am now speaking, the 
 decisive blow is struck, which may involve millions in the 
 consequence. And, believe me, the very first, drop of blood 
 which is shed, will cause a wound which may nevei be 
 healed. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXVII. 
 
 Extract from the Speech of PATRICK HENRY, in the Conven- 
 tion of Delegates of Virginia, in Support of his Resolution 
 for putting the Colony into a State of Defence, and for 
 arming and disciplining a number of Men sufficient for 
 that Purpose: -23d March, 1775. 
 
 MR. PRESIDENT It is natural for man to indulge in the 
 illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a 
 painful truth ; and listen to the song of that syren till she 
 transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, en- 
 gaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we 
 disposed to be of the number of those, who, having eyes, 
 see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so 
 nearly concern their temporal salvation ? For my part, 
 whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to 
 know the whole truth ; to know the worst, arid to provide 
 for it. 
 
 I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and 
 that is the lamp of experience. I know of no \vay of judg- 
 ing of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, 
 I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the 
 British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes 
 with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace them- 
 selves and the house ? Is it that insidious smile, with which 
 our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir ; it 
 will' prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be 
 betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious re- 
 ception of our petition comports with those warlike prepara- 
 tions, which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets 
 and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? 
 Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that 
 force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not 
 deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war 
 and subjugation- the last arguments to which kings resort. 
 I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its 
 purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen 
 assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain 
 any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this 
 accumulation of navies and armies ? No, sir, she has none. 
 They are meant for us : they can be meant for no other. 
 They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains 
 19* 
 
222 NATIONAL READEit. 
 
 which the British ministry have been so long forging. And 
 what have we to oppose to them ? Shall we try argument 1 
 Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have 
 we any thing new to offer upon the subject ? Nothing. 
 We have held the subject up in every light of which it is 
 capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to 
 entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall we 
 find, which have not been already exhausted ? Let us not, 
 I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have 
 done eveiy thing that could be done, to avert the storm 
 which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have re- 
 monstrated ; we have supplicated ; we have prostrated our- 
 selves before the throne, and have implored its interposition 
 to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia : 
 ment. Our petitions have been slighted ; our remonstrances 
 have produced additional violence and insult; our suppli- 
 cations have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned, 
 with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after 
 these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and 
 reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If 
 we wish to be free ; if we mean to preserve inviolate those 
 inestimable privileges, for which we have been so long con- 
 tending ; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble strug- 
 gle, in which we have been so long engaged, and which we 
 have pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious 
 object of our contest shall be obtained we must fight ! I 
 repeat it, sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms, and to 
 the God of hosts, is all that is left us. They tell us, sir, 
 that we are weak unable to cope with so formidable an 
 adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be 
 the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are 
 totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be station- 
 ed in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolu- 
 tion and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual 
 resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the 
 delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have 
 bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we 
 make a proper use of those means which the God of nature 
 hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed 
 in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that 
 which we possess, are invincible by any force which our 
 enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight 
 our battles alone. There is a just God, who presides over 
 the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to 
 
NATIONAL READER, 223 
 
 fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong 
 alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active* the brave. Besides, 
 sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire 
 it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is 
 no retreat, but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are 
 forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of 
 Boston ! The war is inevitable and let it come ! I repeat 
 it, sir, let it come ! 
 
 It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may 
 cry, Peace, peace but there is no peace. The war is ac- 
 tually begun ! 
 
 The next gale, that sweeps from the north, will bring to 
 our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are 
 already in the field ! Why stand we here idle ! What is it 
 that gentlemen wish ? what would they have ? Is life so 
 dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of 
 chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God. I know 
 not what course others may take, but, as for me, give me 
 liberty or give me death ! 
 
 LESSON CXVIII. 
 
 Account of the first hostile Attack upon the American Colo* 
 nists, by the British Troops, in the. War of the Revolution, at 
 Lexington and Concord, Mass. I9th 'April, 1775. BOTTA. 
 
 WAR being every moment expected, the particular fate of 
 the inhabitants of Boston had become the object of general 
 solicitude. The garrison was formidable ; the fortifications 
 were carried to perfection ; and little hope remained, that this 
 city would be wrested from British domination. Nor could 
 the citizens flatter themselves more with the hope of escap- 
 ing by sea; as the port was blockaded by a squadron. 
 
 Thus confined, amidst an irritated soldiery, the Bostoni- 
 ans found themselves exposed to endure all the outrages 
 to be apprehended from military license. Their city had 
 become a close prison, and themselves no better than hos- 
 tages in the hands of the British commanders. This conside- 
 ration alone sufficed greatly to impede all civii and military 
 operations projected by the Americans. 
 
 Various expedients were suggested, in order to extricate 
 the Bostonians from this embarrassing situation ; which, if 
 
224 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 they evinced no great prudence, certainly demon'strated no 
 ordinary obstinacy. Some advised, that all the inhabitants 
 of Boston should abandon the city ; and take refuge in other 
 places, where they should be succoured at the public ex- 
 pense : but this design was totally impracticable, since it de- 
 pended on General Gage to prevent its execution. 
 
 Others recommended, that a valuation should be made of 
 the houses and furniture belonging to the inhabitants ; that 
 the city should then be fired ; and that all the losses should 
 be reimbursed from the public treasure. After mature de- 
 liberation, this project was also pronounced not only very 
 difficult, but absolutely impossible to be executed. 
 
 Many inhabitants, however, left the city privately, and 
 withdrew into the interior of the country ; some, from dis- 
 gust at this species of captivity ; others, from fear of the ap- 
 proaching hostilities ; and others, finally, from apprehensions 
 of being questioned for acts against the government : but a 
 great number, also, with a firm resolution, preferred to re- 
 main, and brave all consequences whatever. 
 
 The soldiers of the garrison, weary of their long confine- 
 ment, desired to sally forth, and drive away these rebels, 
 who intercepted their provisions, and for whom they cherish- 
 ed so profound a contempt. The inhabitants of Massachu- 
 setts, on the other hand, were proudly indignant at this 
 opinion of their cowardice, entertained by the soldiers ; and 
 panted for an occasion to prove, by a signal vengeance, the 
 falsehood of the reproach. 
 
 In the mean time, the news arrived of the king's speech 
 at the opening of parliament ; of the resolutions adopted by 
 this body ; and, finally, of the act by which the inhabitants 
 of Massachusetts were declared rebels. All the province 
 flew to arms : indignation became fury, obstinacy, despe- 
 ration. All idea of reconciliation had become chimerical: 
 necessity stimulated the most timid ; a thirst of vengeance 
 fired every breast. The match is lighted, the materials 
 disposed, the conflagration impends. The children are 
 prepared to combat against their fathers ; citizens against 
 citizens-; and, as the Americans declared, the friends of 
 liberty against its oppressors, against the founders of ty- 
 ranny. 
 
 " In these arms," said they, " in our right hands, are 
 placed the hope of safety, the existence of country, the de- 
 fence of property, the honour of our wives and daughters. 
 V\ 7 ith these alone can we repulse a licentious soldiery, pro 
 
NATIONAL READER. 225 
 
 tect what man holds dearest upon earth, and, unimpaired, 
 transmit our rights to our descendants. The world will 
 admire our courage ; all good men will second us with their 
 wishes and prayers, and celebrate our names with immortal 
 praises. Our memory will become dear to posterity. It 
 will be the example, as the hope, of freemen, and the dread 
 of tyrants, to the latest ages. It is time that old and con- 
 taminated England should be made acquainted with the 
 energies of America, in the prime and innocence of her 
 youth : it is time she should know how much superior are 
 our soldiers, in courage and constancy, to vile mercenaries. 
 We must look back no more ! We must conquer, or die ! 
 We are placed between altars smoking with the most grate- 
 ful incense of glory and gratitude, on the one part, and blocks 
 and dungeons on the other. Let each, then, rise, and gird^ 
 himself for the combat. t The dearest interests of this world 
 command it : our most holy religion enjoins it : that God, 
 who eternally rewards the virtuous, and punishes the wick- 
 ed, ordains it. Let us accept these happy 'auguries ; for 
 already the mercenary satellites, sent by wicked ministers to 
 reduce this innocent people to extremity, are imprisoned 
 within the walls of a single city, where hunger emaciates 
 them, rage devours them, death consumes them. Let us 
 banish every fear, every alarm : fortune smiles upon the 
 efforts of the brave !" 
 
 By similar discourses, they excited one another, and pre- 
 pared themselves for defence. The fatal moment is arrived : 
 the signal of civil war is given. 
 
 General Gage was informed, that the provincials had 
 amassed large quantities of arms and ammunition, in the 
 towns of Worcester and Concord; which last is eighteen 
 miles distant from the city of Boston. Excited by the loy- 
 alists, who had persuaded him that he would find no resist- 
 ance, considering the cowardice of the patriots, and, perhaps, 
 not imagining that the sword would be drawn so soon, he 
 resolved to send a few companies to Concord, in order to 
 seize the military stores deposited there, and transport them 
 lo Boston, or destroy them. 
 
 It was said, also, that he had it in view, by this sudden ex- 
 pedition, to get possession of the persons of John Hancock 
 and Samuel Adams, two of the most ardent patriot chiefs, 
 and the principal directors of the provincial congress, then 
 
 * Pron. gerd. t cum'-bat 
 
226 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 assembled in the town of Concord. But, to avoid exciting 
 irritation, and the popular tumults, which might have ob- 
 structed his design,*- he resolved to act with caution, and in 
 the shade of mystery. 
 
 Accordingly, he ordered the grenadiers, and several com 
 panics of light infantry, to hold themselves in readiness to 
 march out of the city, at the first signal ; adding, that it was 
 in order to pass review, and execute different manoeuvres 
 and military evolutions. The Bostonians entertained suspi- 
 cions, and sent to warn Adams and Hancock to he upon 
 their guard. The committee of public safety gave direc- 
 tions, that the arms and ammunition should be distributed 
 about in different places. 
 
 Meanwhile, General Gage, to proceed with more secrecy, 
 commanded a certain number of officers, who had been made 
 acquainted with his designs, to go, as if on a party of plea- 
 sure, and dine at Cambridge, which is situated very near 
 Boston, and upon the road to Concord. It was on the 18th 
 of April, in the evening, that these officers dispersed them- 
 selves here and there upon the road and passages, to inter- 
 cept the courierst that might have been despatched to give 
 notice of the movement of the troops. 
 
 The governor gave orders that no person should be allow- 
 ed to leave the city : nevertheless, Dr. Warren, one of 
 the most active patriots, had timely intimation of the scheme, 
 and immediately despatched confidential messengers ; some 
 of whom found the roads interdicted by the officers that 
 guarded them ; but others made their way, unperceived, to 
 Lexington, a town upon the road leading to Concord. 
 
 The intelligence was soon divulged ; the people flocked 
 together ; the bells, in all parts, were rung, to give the 
 alarm ; the continual firing of cannon spread the agitation 
 through all the neighbouring country. In the midst of this 
 tumultuous scene, at eleven in the evening, a strong detach- 
 ment of grenadiers, and of light infantry, was embarked at 
 Boston, and landed at a place called Phipps's Farm, now, 
 Lechmere's Point whence they marched towards Concord. 
 In this state of things, the irritation had become so intense, 
 that a spark only was wanting, to produce an explosion ; as 
 the event soon proved. 
 
 * Pron. desine, not deziue. t coc'-rT-fcrs. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 227 
 
 LESSON CXIX. 
 
 t The same, concluded. 
 
 THE troops were under the command of Lieutenant-Colo- 
 nel Smith, and Major Pitcairn, who led the vanguard. The 
 militia of Lexington, as the intelligence of the movement 
 of this detachment was uncertain, had separated in the 
 course of the night. Finally, at five in the morning of the 
 19th, advice was received of the near approach of the royal 
 troops. 
 
 The provincials that happened to be near, assembled, to 
 the number of about seventy, certainly too few to have had 
 the intention to engage in combat. The English appeared, 
 and Major Pitcairn cried in a loud voice, " Disperse, rebels ! 
 lay down your arms, and disperse!" The provincials did 
 not obey ; upon which he sprung from the ranks, discharged 
 a pistol, and, brandishing his sword, ordered his soldiers to 
 fire. The provincials retreated ; the English continuing 
 their fire, the former faced about to return it. 
 
 Meanwhile, Hancock and Adams retired from danger ; 
 and it is related, that, while on the march, the latter, enrap- 
 tured with joy, exclaimed, " Oh ! what an ever-glorious 
 morning is this !" considering this first effusion of blood as 
 the preTude of events, which must secure th'e happiness of 
 his country. 
 
 The soldiers advanced towards Concord. The inhabit- 
 ants assembled, and appeared disposed to act upon the de- 
 fensive ; but, seeing the numbers of the enemy, they fell 
 back, and posted themselves on the bridge, north of the 
 town, intending to wait for re-enforcements from the neigh- 
 bouring places; but the light infantry assailed them with fury, 
 routed them, and occupied the bridge, whilst the others en- 
 tered Concord, and proceeded to the execution of their orders. 
 
 They spiked two pieces of twenty-four pound cannon, 
 destroyed their carriages, and a number of wheels for the 
 use of the artillery ; threw into the river and into wells five 
 hundred pounds of bullets ; and wasted a quantity of flour, 
 deposited there by the provincials. These were the arms 
 and provisions which gave the first occasion to a long and 
 cruel war ! 
 
 But the expedition was not yet terminated: the minute- 
 men arrived, and the forces of the provincials were increased 
 
228 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 by continual accessions from every quarter. The light in* 
 fantry, who scoured the country above Concord, were obliged 
 to retreat, and, on entering the town, a hot skirmish ensued. 
 A great number were killed on both sides. 
 
 The light infantry having joined the main body of the de- 
 tachment, the English retreated precipitately towards Lex- 
 ington. Already the whole country had risen in arms, and 
 the militia from all parts flew to the succour of their friends. 
 Before the British detachment had arrived at Lexington, its 
 rear guard and flanks suffered great annoyance from the 
 provincials, who, posted behind the trees, walls, and frequent 
 hedges, kept up a brisk fire, which the enemy could not 
 return. The soldiers of the king found themselves in a most 
 perilous situation. 
 
 General Gage, apprehensive of the event, had despatched, 
 in haste, under the command of Lord Percy, a re-enforcement 
 of sixteen companies, with some marines,^ and two field 
 pieces. This corps! arrived very opportunely at Lexington, 
 at the moment w r hen the royal troops entered the town from 
 the other side, pursued with fury by the provincial militia. 
 
 It appears highly probable, that, without this re-enforce- 
 ment, they would have been all cut to pieces, or made pri- 
 soners: their strength was exhausted, as well as their am- 
 munition. After making a considerable halt at Lexington, 
 they renewed their march towards Boston, the number of 
 the provincials increasing every moment, although the rear 
 guard of the English w r as less molested, on account of the 
 two field pieces, which repressed the impetuosity of the 
 Americans. But the flanks of the column remained exposed 
 to a very destructive fire, which assailed them from all the 
 points that were adapted to serve as coverts. 
 
 The royalists were also annoyed by the heat, which was 
 excessive, and by a violent wind, which blew a thick dust in 
 their eyes. The enemy's scouts, adding to their natural 
 celerity a perfect knowledge of the country, came up unex- 
 pectedly through cross roads, and galled the English severe- 
 ly, taking aim especially at the officers, who, perceiving it, 
 kept much on their guard. 
 
 Finally, after a inarch of incredible fatigue, and a conside- 
 rable loss of men, the English, overwhelmed with lassitude, 
 arrived at sun-set in Charlestown. Independently of the 
 combat they had sustained, the ground they had measured 
 
 * Pron. marociis. t cOre. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 229 
 
 that day was above five and thirty miles. The day foDovv- 
 ing they crossed over to Boston. 
 
 Such was the affair of Lexington, the first action which 
 opened the civil war. The English soldiers, and especially 
 their officers, were filled with indignation at the fortune of 
 the dity : they could not endure, that an undisciplined mul- 
 titude, that a flock of Yankees, as they contemptuously 
 named the Americans, should not only have maintained 
 their ground against them, but even forced them to show 
 their backs, and take refuge behind the walls of a city. 
 
 The provincials, on the contrary, felt their courage im- 
 measurably increased, since they had obtained a proof, that 
 these famous troops were not invincible ; and had made so 
 fortunate an essay of the goodness of their arms. 
 
 LESSON CXX. 
 
 Extract of an Oration delivered at Concord, Mass. 19 th 
 April, 1825, in Commemoration of the Battles of Lexing- 
 to?i a?id Concord, I9tk April, 1775. E. EVERETT. 
 
 THIS is a proud anniversary for our neighbourhood. We 
 have cause for honest complacency, that, when the distant 
 citizen of our own republic, when the stranger from foreign 
 lands, inquires for the spots where the noble blood of the 
 revolution began to flow, where the first battle of that great 
 and glorious contest was fo.ught, he is guided through the 
 villages of Middlesex, to the plains of Lexington and Con- 
 cord. It is a commemoration of our soil, to which ages, as 
 they pass, will add dignity and interest; till the names of 
 Lexington and Concord, in the annals of freedom, will stand 
 by the side of the most honourable names in Roman or 
 Grecian story. 
 
 It was one of those great days, one of those elemental 
 occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise, and 
 act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had 
 been made ; but, from the nature of the case, with scarce 
 any effect on the events of that day. It may be doubted, 
 whether there was an efficient order given, the whole day, 
 to any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the peo- 
 ple, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, start- 
 ing from their beds at midnight, from their firesides, and 
 L>0 
 
230 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 from their fields, to take their own cause into their own 
 hands. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sublime ; 
 when the want of every thing is fully made up by the spirit 
 of the cause ; and the soul within stands in place of disci- 
 pline, organization, resources. In the prodigious efforts of 
 a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendor of their ar- 
 ray, there is something revolting to the reflective mind. 
 The ranks are filled with the desperate, the mercenary, the 
 depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name of subordination, 
 merges the free will of one hundred thousand men in the 
 unqualified despotism of one; the humanity, mercy, and 
 remorse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, are 
 sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irration- 
 al monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is hard to say 
 who are most to be commiserated, the wretched people, on 
 whom it is let loose, or the still more wretched people, whose 
 substance has been sucked out, to nourish it into strength 
 and fury. But, in the efforts of the people, of the people 
 struggling for their rights, moving not in organized, disci- 
 plined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, 
 and heart for heart, though I like not war, nor any of its 
 works, there is something glorious. They can then move 
 forward without orders, act together without combination, 
 and brave the flaming lines of battle, without entrenchments 
 to cover, or walls to shield them. No dissolute camp has 
 worn off, from the feelings of the youthful soldier, the fresh- 
 ness of that home, where his mother and his sisters sit .wait- 
 ing, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news 
 from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of a conqueror 
 has turned the veteran's heart into marble ; their valour 
 springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indifference 
 to the preservation of a life, knit by no pledges to the life 
 of others. But in the strength and spirit of the cause alone 
 they act, they contend, they bleed. In this, they conquer, 
 The people always conquer. They always must conquer 
 Armies may be defeated ; kings may be overthrown, and 
 new dy'nasties imposed, by foreign arms, on an ignorant and 
 slavish race, that care not in what language the covenant 
 of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of 
 their barter and sale is made out. But the people never in- 
 vade ; and when they rise against the invader, are never 
 subdued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to 
 the mountains. Steep rocks, and everlasting hills, are their 
 castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and 
 
NATIONAL READER. 231 
 
 nature, God, is their ally. Now he overwhelms the hosts 
 of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand ; 
 now he huries them beneath a falling atmosphere of polar 
 snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; he puts a 
 folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of their 
 leaders ; and he never gave, and he never will give, a full 
 and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant people, resolved 
 to be free. 
 
 LESSON CXXI. 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. GRAY. 
 
 THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandeiing near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 
 The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
232 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await, alike, the inevitable hour ; 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
 If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where, through tbe long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, 
 The pealing anthem swells the note -of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 
 
 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 
 
 Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol ; 
 
 Chili Penury repressed their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of bis country's blood. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 233 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command, 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame ; 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray : 
 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Vet even these bones from insult to protect, 
 
 Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their names, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic .moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb 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 ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies : 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 
 
 Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
 Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
 
 If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
 20* 
 
34 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 "Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 
 
 Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so highj 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love, 
 
 " One morn I missed hirn on the accustomed hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : 
 
 " The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
 
 Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn/' 
 
 The Epitaph. 
 
 HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth 
 A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 
 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 
 He gave to misery all he had a tear; 
 
 He gained from heaven 'twas all he wished a friend, 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they, alike", in trembling hope, repose^) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 236 
 
 LESSON CXXII. 
 The Grave of Korner.-*- MRS. HKM'ANS. 
 
 THEODORE KORNER, the young German t>oet and soldier. was 
 killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 26th 
 of August, 1813, a few hours after the composition of his most popular 
 piece, "The Sword Song-." lie was buried under a beautiful oaK, in a 
 recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while 
 Campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory, be- 
 neath this tree, is of cast. "iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre 
 and sword, a favourite emblem of Konier's, from which one of his works 
 had been entitled. 
 
 Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for 
 his loss, having survived him only long enough to complete his portrait, 
 and a drawing of his burial place. Over the gate of the cemetery is en- 
 graved one of his own lines, "Forget not the faithful dead." 
 
 GREEN wave the oak forever o'er thy rest ! 
 
 Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 
 And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
 
 Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest : 
 Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured, 
 Thou of the lyre and sword ! 
 
 Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! By the father's hand 
 Here shall the child of after-years be led, 
 
 With his wreath-offering silently to stand 
 
 In the hushed presence of the glorious dead, 
 
 Soldier and bard ! For thou thy path hast trod 
 With Freedom and with 
 
 The oak waved proudly 'o'er thy burial rite ; 
 
 On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee ; 
 And, with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight 
 
 Wept as they vailed their drooping banners o'er thee ; 
 And the deep guns, with rolling peal, gave token 
 That lyre and sword were broken. 
 
 Thou hast a hero's tomb ! A lowlier bed 
 Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, 
 
 The gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head, 
 When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 
 
 Brother ! true friend ! the tender and the brave ! 
 She pined to share thy grave. 
 
 * The poems of Korner, which were chiefly devoted to the cause of his 
 country, are strikingly distinguished by religious feeling, and a confidence 
 iii the Supreme Justice for the final deliverance of Germany. 
 
236 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 Fame was thy gift from others ; but for her, 
 To whom the wide earth held that only spot, 
 
 She loved thee ! lovely in your lives ye were, 
 And in your early deaths divided not. 
 
 Thou hast thine oak thy trophy what hath she 1 
 Her own blessed place by thee. 
 
 It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 
 
 The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, 
 
 Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played, 
 And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 
 
 Ye were but two ! and, when that spirit passed, 
 Wo for the one. the last ! 
 
 Wo: yet not long : she lingered but to trace 
 Thine image from the image in her breast ; 
 
 Once, once again, to see that buried face 
 But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 
 
 Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er; 
 It answered hers no more ! 
 
 The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
 The home too lonely whence thy step had fled : 
 
 What, then, was left for her, the faithful-hearted 7 
 Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! 
 
 Softly she perished. Be the flower deplored 
 Here, with the lyre and sword. 
 
 Have ye not met ere now ? So let those trust, 
 That meet for moments but to part for years, 
 
 That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, 
 That love, where love is but a fount of tears ! 
 
 Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell ! 
 Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell ! 
 
 LESSON CXXIII. 
 Gods Jirst Temples A Hymn. BRYANT. 
 
 TJIE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them, ere he framed 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 
 The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood, 
 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 
 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 
 Might not resist the sacred influences. 
 
 That, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
 
 And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven, 
 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
 
 Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once 
 
 All their green tops, stole over him, arid bowed 
 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless Power 
 
 And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why 
 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 
 That our frail hands have raised ! Let me, at least, 
 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 
 Offer one hymn ; thrice happy, if it find 
 
 Acceptance in his ear. 
 
 Father, thy hand 
 
 Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
 Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
 And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
 Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood, 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker. Here are seen 
 No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks 
 Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 
 Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show 
 The boast of our vain race to change the form 
 Of thy fair works. But thou art here ; thou fill'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
 That run along the summits of these trees 
 In music ; thou art in the cooler breath, 
 That, from the inmost darkness of the place, 
 Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, 
 The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
 Here is continual worship ; nature, here, 
 
238 NATIONAL 
 
 In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
 
 Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 
 
 From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
 
 Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, 
 
 Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots 
 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 
 
 Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, 
 
 Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak 
 
 By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem 
 
 Almost annihilated not a prince, 
 
 In all the proud old world beyond the deep, 
 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which 
 
 Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 
 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower 
 
 With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 
 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me, when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
 In silence, round me the perpetual work 
 Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
 Forever. Written on thy works, I read 
 The lesson of thy own eternity. 
 Lo ! all grow old and die : but see, again, 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 Youth presses ever gay and beautiful you th- 
 in all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave not less proudly than their ancestors 
 Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost 
 One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet 
 After the flight of untold centuries, 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
 Of his arch enemy Death; yea, seats himself 
 Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came forUi 
 From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 289 
 
 There have been holy men, who hid themselves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
 The generation born with them, nor seemed 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them ; and there have been holy men, 
 Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure 
 My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, 
 The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink, 
 And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill 
 With all the waters of the firmament, 
 The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, 
 And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
 Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
 Its cities ; who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
 O, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
 Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath 
 Of the mad, unchained elements to teach 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
 In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
 And, to the beautiful order of thy works, 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 LESSON CXXIV. 
 
 Hymn of Nature. PEA BODY. 
 \ 
 
 GOD of the earth's extended plains ! 
 
 The dark green fields contented lie : 
 The mountains rise like holy towers, 
 
 Where man might com'mune with the sky : 
 The tall cliff challenges the storm 
 
 That lowers upon the vale below, 
 Where shaded fountains send their streams, 
 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
240 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 God of the dark and heavy deep ! 
 
 The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
 Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 
 
 Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; 
 Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 
 
 Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, 
 Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 
 
 Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. 
 
 God of the forest's solemn shade ! 
 
 The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
 That wrestles singly with the gale, 
 
 Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
 But more majestic far they stand, 
 
 When, side by side, their ranks they form, 
 To wave on high their plumes of green, 
 
 And fight their battles with the storm. 
 
 God of the light and viewless air ! 
 
 Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
 Or, gathering in their angry might, 
 
 The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
 All from the evening's plaintive sigh, 
 
 That hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
 To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry 
 
 Breathe forth the language of thy power. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 
 How gloriously above us springs 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue, 
 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings ;- 
 Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, 
 
 Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
 In evening's purple radiance, gives 
 
 The beauty of its praise to thee. 
 
 God of the rolling orbs above ! 
 
 Thy name is written clearly bright 
 In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 
 
 Or evening's golden shower of light. 
 For every fire that fronts the sun, 
 
 And every spark that walks alone 
 Around the utmost verge of heaven, 
 
 Were kindled at thy burning throne. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 241 
 
 God of the world ! the hour must come, 
 
 And nature's self to dust return ! 
 Her crumbling altars must decay! 
 
 Her incense fires shall cease to burn ! 
 But still her grand and lovely scenes 
 
 Have made man's warmest praises flow ; 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace 
 
 The beauty of the world below. 
 
 LESSON CXXV. 
 
 w 
 
 Lines on revisiting the Country.- BRYANT. 
 
 I STAND upon my native hills again, 
 
 Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky. 
 With garniture of waving grass and grain, 
 
 Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie ; 
 While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
 Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 
 
 A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
 And ever-restless steps of one, who now 
 
 Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year : 
 There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, 
 
 As breaks "the varied scene upon her sight, 
 
 Upheaved, and spread in, verdure and in light: 
 
 For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 
 To. gaze upon the mountains; to behold, 
 
 With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, 
 And clouds along the blue abysses rolled ; 
 
 To love the song of waters, and to hear 
 
 The melody of winds with charmed ear 
 
 Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat. 
 Its horrid sounds and its polluted air ; 
 
 And, where the season's milder fervours beat, 
 And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
 
 The song of bird and sound of running stream. 
 
 Have come awhile to wander and to dream. 
 21 
 
242 NATIONAL READKU. 
 
 Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
 In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen; 
 
 The maize leaf and the maple bough but take. 
 From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green; 
 
 The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 
 
 Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away. 
 
 The mountain wind most spiritual thing of all 
 The wide earth knows when, in the sultry time, 
 
 He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
 He seems the breath of a celestial clime, 
 
 As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow 
 
 Kea||Jh *^r! rpfreshment on the world below. 
 
 LESSON CXXVI. 
 
 Lines on a Bee-Hive. MONTHLY REPOSITORY. 
 
 YE musical hounds of the fairy king, 
 
 Who hunt for the golden dew, 
 
 Who track for your game the green coverts of spring, 
 Till the echoes, that lurk in the flower-bells, ring 
 
 With the peal of your elfin crew ! 
 
 How joyous your life, if its pleasures ye Knew, 
 
 Singing ever from bloom to bloom ! 
 Ye wander the summer year's paradise through, 
 The souls of the flowers are the viands for you, 
 
 And the air that you breathe perfume. 
 
 But unenvied your joys, Avhile the richest you miss, 
 
 And before you no brighter life lies : 
 Who would part with his cares for enjoyment like this, 
 When the tears, that imbitter the pure spirit's bliss- 
 
 "M".-, v De pearls in the crown of the skies ! 
 
 LESSON CXXVII. 
 Account of the Battle of Bunker's Hill, llth June, 1775.- - 
 
 BOTTA. 
 
 THE succours that the British expected from England 
 bad arrived at Boston, and, with the garrison, formed no 
 
NATIONAL READER. 243 
 
 army of from ten to twelve thousand men, all excellent 
 troops. Three distinguished generals, Howe, Clinton, and 
 Burgoyne, were at the head of these re-enforcements. Great 
 events were looked for on both sides. 
 
 The English were inflamed with desire to wash out the 
 stain of Lexington : they could not endure the idea, that the 
 Americans had seen them fly : it galled them to think, that 
 the soldiers of the British King, renowned for their brilliant 
 exploits, were now closely imprisoned within the walls of a 
 city. They were desirous, at any price, of proving that their 
 vaunted superiority over the herds of American militia, was 
 not a vain chimera. 
 
 Above all, they ardently desired to terminate, by some de- 
 cisive stroke, this ignominious war ; arid thus satisfy, at 
 once, their own glory, the expectations of their country, the 
 orders, the desires, and the promises, of the ministers. But 
 victory was exacted of them still more imperiously by the 
 scarcity of food, which every day became more alarming ; 
 for, if they must sacrifice their lives, they chose rather to 
 perish by the sword than by famine. The Americans, on 
 their part, were not less eager for the hour of combat to ar- 
 rive : their preceding successes had stimulated their courage, 
 and promised them new triumphs. 
 
 In this state of things, the English generals deliberated 
 maturely upon the most expedient mode of extricating them- 
 selves from this difficult position, and placing themselves 
 more at large in the country. # =& =fc =fc 
 
 Accordingly, they directed their views towards the pe- 
 ninsula and neck of Charlestown. The American generals 
 had immediate notice of it, and resolved to exert their most 
 strenuous endeavours to defeat this new project of the ene- 
 my. Nothing was better suited to such a purpose, than to 
 fortify diligently the heights of Bunker's Hill, which com- 
 manded the whole extent of the peninsula of Charlestown. 
 Orders were, therefore, given to Colonel William Prescott, 
 to occupy tnem with a detachment of a thousand men, and 
 to intrench himself there by the rules of art. 
 
 But here an error was committed, which placed the gar- 
 rison of Boston in very imminent danger, and reduced the 
 two parties to the necessity of coming to action immediate- 
 ly. Whether he was deceived by the resemblance of name, 
 or from some other motive unknown, Colonel Prescott, in- 
 stead of repairing to Bunker's Hill, to fortify himself there, 
 advanced farther on in the peninsula, and immediately com- 
 
244 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 menced Ms intrenchments upon the summit of Breed's Hill, 
 another eminence, which overlooks Chariest own, from the 
 north-east, and is situated towards the extremity of the pe- 
 ninsula, nearer to Boston. 
 
 J/The works were pushed with so much ardour, that, the 
 fallowing morning, the 17th of June, by day -break, the 
 Americans had already constructed a square redoubt, capable 
 of affording them some shelter from the enemy's lire. The 
 labour had been conducted with such silence, that the Eng- 
 lish had no suspicion of what was passing. It was about 
 four in the morning, when the captain of a ship of war first 
 perceived it, and began to play his artillery. The report 
 of the cannon attracted a multitude of spectators to the 
 shore. 
 
 The English generals doubted the testimony of their 
 senses. Meanwhile, it appeared important to dislodge the 
 provincials, or at least prevent them from completing the 
 fortifications commenced : for, as the height of Breed's Hill 
 absolutely commands Boston, the city was no longer tena- 
 ble, if the Americans erected a battery upon this eminence. 
 
 The English, therefore, opened a general fire of artillery 
 from the city, the fleet, and the floating batteries stationed 
 around the peninsula of Boston. It hailed a tempest of bombs 
 and balls upon the works of the Americans : they were espe- 
 cially incommoded by the fire of a battery planted upon an 
 eminence named Copp's Hill, which, situated within the city, 
 overlooks Charlestown from the south, and is but three 
 fourths of a mile distant from Breed's Hill. 
 
 But all this was without effect. The Americans continu- 
 ed to work with unshaken constancy; and, by noon, they 
 had much advanced a trench, which descended from the re- 
 doubt to the foot of the hill, and almost to the bank of 
 Mystic River. The fury of the enemy's artillery, it is true, 
 had prevented them from carrying it to perfection. 
 
 In this conjuncture, there remained no alternative for the 
 English generals, but to drive the Americans, by dint of 
 force, from this formidable position. This resolution was 
 taken without hesitation ; and it was followed by the action 
 of Breed's Hill, known also by the name of Bunker's Hill ; 
 much renowned for intrepidity, not to say the temerity, of 
 the two parties ; for the number of the dead and wounded ; 
 and for the effect it produced upon the opinions of men, in 
 regard to the valour of the Americans, and the probable issue 
 of the whole war. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 245 
 
 The right -wing of the Americans was flanked by the 
 houses of Charlestown, which they occupied ; and the part 
 of this wing, which was connected with the main body, was 
 defended by the redoubt erected upon Breed's Hill. The 
 centre, and the left wing, formed themselves behind the 
 trench, which, following the declivity of the hill, extended 
 towards, but without reaching, Mystic River. 
 
 The American officers, observing that the weakest part 
 of their line was precisely this extremity of the left wing, 
 for the trench not extending to the river, and the land in 
 this place being smooth and nearly level, there was danger 
 of that wing's being turned, and attacked in the rear, 
 caused the passage, between the extreme left and the river, 
 to be obstructed, by setting down two parallel palisades, or 
 ranges of fence, and filling up the space between them with 
 new-mown grass. 
 
 The troops of Massachusetts occupied Charlestown, the 
 redoubt, and a part of the trench ; those of Connecticut, com- 
 manded by Captain Nolten, and those of New Hampshire, 
 under Colonel Starke, the rest of the trench. A few mo- 
 ments before the action commenced, Doctor Warren, a 
 man of great authority, and a zealous patriot, who had 
 been appointed general, arrived with some re-enforcements. 
 General Pomercy made his appearance at the same time. 
 The first joined the troops of his own province, Massachu- 
 setts ; the second took command of those from Connecti- 
 cut. General Putnam directed in chief, and held himself 
 ready to repair to any point where his presence should be 
 most wanted. 
 
 The Americans had no cavalry. Their artillery, without 
 being very numerous, was, nevertheless, competent. They 
 wanted not for muskets ; but the greater part of these were 
 without bayonets. Their sharp-shooters, for want of rides, 
 were obliged to use common firelocks ; but as marksmen 
 they had no equals. Such were the means of the Ameri- 
 cans ; but their hope was great, and they were all impatient 
 for the signal of combat. 
 
 Between mid-day and one o'clock, the heat being intense, 
 all was in motion in the British camp. A multitude of sloops 
 and boats, filled with soldiers, left the shore of Boston, and 
 stood for Charlestown : they landed at Moreton's Point, 
 about half a mile south-east of the summit of Breed's 
 Hill, without meeting resistance ; as the ships of war and 
 armed vessels effectually protected the debarkation by the 
 21* 
 
246 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 fire of their artillery, which forced the enemy to keep within 
 his intrenchments. 
 
 This corps consisted of ten companies of grenadiers, as 
 many of light infantry, and a proportionate artillery ; the 
 whole under the command of Major-general Howe and Briga- 
 dier-general Plg'ot. The troops, on landing, began to dis- 
 play, the light infantry upon the right, the grenadiers upon 
 the left : but, having observed the strength of the position, 
 and the good countenance of the Americans, General Howe 
 made a halt, and sent for a re-enforcement. 
 
 LESSON CXXVIII. 
 
 The saw?,, concluded. 
 
 ON being re-enforced, the English formed themselves in 
 two columns. Their plan was, that the left wing, under 
 General Pigot, should attack the rebels in Charlestown, 
 while the centre should assault the redoubt, and the right 
 wing, consisting of light infantry, force the passage near the 
 River Mystic, and thus assail the Americans in flank and 
 rear ; which would have given the English a complete vic- 
 tory. It appears, also, that General Gage had formed the 
 design of setting fire to Charlestown, when evacuated by the 
 enemy, in order that the corps destined to assail the redoubt, 
 thus protected by the flame and smoke, might be less exposed 
 to the fire of the provincials. 
 
 The dispositions having all been completed, the English 
 put themselves in motion. The provincials that were sta- 
 tioned to defend Charlestown, fearing lest the assailants 
 should penetrate between this town and the redoubt, and cut 
 them off from the rest of the army, retreated. The left wing 
 of the English army immediately entered the town, and fired 
 the buildings : as they were of wood, in a moment the com- 
 bustion became general. 
 
 The centre of the British force continued a slow march 
 against the redoubt and trench ; halting, from time to time, 
 for the artillery to come up, and act with some effect, pre- 
 vious to the assault. The flames and smoke of Charlestown 
 were of no use to them, as the wind turned them in a con- 
 trary direction. Their gradual advance, and the extreme 
 clearness of the air, permitted the Americans to level their 
 
NATIONAL READER. 247 
 
 muskets. They, however, suffered the enemy to approach, 
 before they commenced their fire ; and waited for the assault 
 in profound tranquillity. 
 
 It would be difficult to paint the scene of terror present- 
 ed by the actual circumstances ; a large town, all enve- 
 loped in flames, which, excited by a violent wind, rose to an 
 immense height, and spread every moment more and more; 
 an innumerable multitude, rushing from all parts, to witness 
 so unusual a spectacle, and see the issue of the sanguinary 
 conflict that was about to commence ; the Bostonians, and 
 soldiers of the garrison, not in actual service, mounted upon 
 the spires, upon the roofs, and upon the heights ; and the 
 hills, and circumjacent fields, from which the dread arena 
 could be viewed in safety, covered with swarms of spec- 
 tators of every rank, and age, and sex ; each agitated by fear 
 or hope, according to the party he espoused. 
 
 The English having advanced within reach of musketry, 
 the Americans showered upon them a volley of bullets. This 
 terrible fire was so well supported, and so well directed, that 
 the ranks of the assailants were soon thinned and broken : 
 they retired in disorder to the place of their landing : some 
 threw themselves precipitately into the boats. 
 
 The field of battle was covered with the slain. The offi- 
 cers were seen running hither and thither, with promises, 
 with exhortations, and with menaces, attempting to rally 
 the soldiers, and inspirit them for a second attack. Finally, 
 after the most painful efforts, they resumed their ranks, and 
 marched up to the enemy. The Americans reserved their 
 fire, as before, until their approach, and received them with 
 the same deluge of balls.. The English, overwhelmed and 
 routed, again fled to the shore. 
 
 In this perilous moment, General Howe remained for some 
 time alone upon the field of battle : all the officers who sur- 
 rounded him were killed or wounded. It is related, that, at 
 this critical conjuncture, upon which depended the issue of 
 the day, General Clinton, who, from Copp's Hill, examined 
 all the movements, on seeing the destruction of his troops, 
 immediately resolved to fly to their succour. 
 
 This experienced commander, by an able movement, re- 
 established order; and, seconded by the officers, who felt all 
 the importance of success, to English honour and the course 
 of events, he led the troops to a third attack. It was directed 
 against the redoubt, at three several points. 
 
 The artillery of the ships not only prevented all re-cnf u* fc* 
 
248 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 ments from coming to the Americans by the isthmus of 
 Charlestown, but even uncovered and swept the interior 
 of the trench, which was battered in front at the same time. 
 The ammunition of the Americans was nearly exhausted, 
 and they could have no hopes of a recruit. Their fire must, 
 of necessity, languish. 
 
 Meanwhile, the English had advanced to the foot of the 
 redoubt. The provincials, destitute of bayonets, defended 
 themselves valiantly with the butt-ends of their muskets. 
 But, the redoubt being already full of enemies, the American 
 general gave the signal of retreat, and drew off his men. 
 
 While the left wing and centre of the English army were 
 thus engaged, the light infantry had impetuously attacked 
 the palisades, which the provincials had erected, in haste, 
 upon the bank of the River Mystic. On each side the com- 
 bat was obstinate ; and, if the assault was furious, the re- 
 sistance was not feeble. / 
 
 In spite of all the efforts of the royal troops, the provin- 
 cials still maintained the battle in this part ; and had no 
 thoughts of retiring, until they saw the redoubt and upper 
 part of the trench in the power of the enemy. Their retreat 
 was executed with an order not to have been expected from 
 new-levied soldiers. 
 
 This strenuous resistance of the left wing of the Ameri- 
 can army, was, in effect, the salvation of the rest ; for, if it 
 had given ground but a few instants sooner, the enemy's 
 light infantry would have taken the main body and right 
 wing in the rear, and their situation would have been hope- 
 less. But the Americans had not yet reached the term 
 of their toils and dangers. The only way that remained of 
 retreat, was by the isthmus of Charlestown, and the Eng- 
 lish had placed there a ship of war and two floating batte- 
 ries, the balls of which raked every part of it. The Ame- 
 ricans, however, issued from the peninsula without any con- 
 siderable loss. * ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The possession of the peninsula of Charlestown was much 
 less useful than prejudicial to the royalists. Their army 
 was not sufficiently numerous to guard, conveniently, all the 
 posts of the city and of the peninsula. The fatigues of the 
 soldiers multiplied in an excessive manner; and, added to 
 the heat of the season, which was extreme, they generated 
 numerous and severe maladies, which paralyzed the move- 
 ments of the army, and enfeebled it from day to day. The 
 greater pan of the wounds became mortal, from the influence 
 of the climate, and the want of proper food. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 249 
 
 Thus, besides the honour of having conquered the field of 
 battle, the victors gathered no real fruit from this action , 
 and, if its effects be considered, upon the opinion of other 
 nations, and even of their own, as also upon the force of the 
 army, it was even of serious detriment. 
 
 In the American camp, on the contrary, provisions of 
 every sort were in abundance, and, the troops being accus- 
 tomed to the climate, the greater part of the wounded were 
 eventually cured : their minds were animated with the new 
 ardour of vengeance, and the blood they had lost exacted 
 a plen'ary expiation. These dispositions were fortified not 
 a little by the firing of Charlestown, which, from a flourish- 
 ing town, of signal commercial importance, was thus reduc- 
 ed to a heap of ashes and of ruins. The Americans could 
 never turn their eyes in this direction, without a thrill of in- 
 dignation, and without execrating the European soldiers. 
 
 But the loss they felt the most sensibly was that of Gene- 
 ral Warren. He was one of those men, who are more at- 
 tached to liberty than to existence ; but not more ardently the 
 friend of freedom, than a foe to avarice and ambition. He 
 was endowed with a solid judgement, a happy genius, and 
 a brilliant eloquence. In all private affairs, his opinion was 
 reputed authority, and in all public counsels, a decision. 
 
 Friends and enemies, equally knowing his fidelity and 
 rectitude in all things, reposed in him a confidence without 
 limits. Opposed to the wicked, without hatred; propitious 
 to the good, without adulation ; affable, courteous, and hu- 
 mane, towards each ; he was beloved, with reverence, by 
 all, and respected by envy itself. 
 
 Though in his person somewhat spare, his figure was pe- 
 culiarly agreeable. He mourned, at this epoch, the recent 
 loss of a wife, by whom he was tenderly beloved, and 
 whom he cherished with reciprocal affection. In dying so 
 gloriously for his country, on this memorable day, he left 
 several orphans still in childhood; but a grateful country 
 assumed the care of their education. 
 
 Thus was lost to the state, and to his family, in so impor- 
 tant a crisis, and in the vigour of his days, a man equally 
 qualified to excel in council or in the field. As for our- 
 selves, faithful to the purpose of history, which dispenses 
 praise to the good and blame to the perverse, we have not 
 been willing that this virtuous and valiant American should 
 be deprive 1, among posterity, of that honourable remem- 
 brance so rightfully due to his eminent qualities. 
 
250 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXXIX. 
 
 Warren's Address to the American Soldier s, lefore the battle 
 of Bunker's Hill. ORIGINAL. 
 
 STAND ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 
 Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
 Will ye look for greener graves ? 
 
 Hope ye mercy still ? 
 What's the mercy despots feel ! 
 Hear it in that battle peal ! 
 Read it on yon bristling steel ! 
 
 Ask it ye who will. 
 
 Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
 Will ye to your homes retire ? 
 Look behind you ! they're afire ! 
 
 And, before you, see 
 Who have done it ! From the vale 
 On they come ! and will ye quail ? 
 Leaden rain and iron hail 
 
 Let their welcome be ! 
 
 In the God of battles trust ! 
 
 Die we may 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 ! 
 
 LESSON CXXX. 
 
 Extract from an Address at the Laying of the Corner Stone of 
 the Bunker Hill Monument, 17th j2me,lS25. D. WEBSTER. 
 
 THE great event in the history of the continent, which 
 \ve are now met here to commemorate ; that prodigy of 
 
 * On the 17th of June, 1S25, half a century from the day of the battle, the 
 comer slone of a granite monument was laid on the ground where War- 
 ren fell. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 2ol 
 
 modern times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the 
 world, is the American revolution. In a day of extraordi- 
 nary prosperity and happiness, of high national honour, dis- 
 tinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place 
 by our love of country, by our admiration of exalted charac- 
 ter, by our gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion. 
 
 The society, whose organ I am, was formed for the pur- 
 pose of rearing some honourable and durable monument to 
 the memory of the early friends of American independence. 
 They have thought, that, for this object, no time could be 
 more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful 
 period ; that no place could claim preference over this me- 
 morable spot ; and that no day could be more auspicious to 
 the undertaking, than the anniversary of the battle which 
 was here fought. The foundation of that monument we 
 have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, 
 with prayers to almighty God for his blessing, and in the 
 midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun the work. 
 We trust it will be prosecuted ; and that, springing from a 
 broad foundation, rising high in massive solidity and una- 
 dorned grandeur, it may remain, as long as Heaven permits 
 the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events in 
 memory of which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those 
 who have raised it. 
 
 We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is 
 most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of man- 
 kind. We know, that, if we could cause this structure to 
 ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced 
 them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, 
 which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread 
 over the earth, and which history charges itself with making 
 known to all future times. We know, that no inscription, 
 on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can carry 
 information of the events we commemorate whore it has not 
 already gone ; and that no structure, which shall not outlive 
 the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can 
 prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, 
 to show our own deep sense of the value and importance 
 of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by present- 
 ing this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar 
 sentiments, arid to foster a constant regard for the prin- 
 ciples of the revolution. Human beings are composed not 
 of reason only, but of imagination, also, and sentiment, 
 and that is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appro- 
 
252 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 priatcd to the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, 
 and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. Let it 
 not be supposed, that our object is to perpetuate national hos- 
 tility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, 
 purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of na- 
 tional independence, and we wish that the light of peace may 
 rest upon it forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction 
 of that unmeasured benefit, which has been conferred on our 
 own land, and of the happy influences, which have been pro- 
 duced, by the same events, on the general interests of man- 
 kind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot, which must 
 forever be dear to us and our posterity. We wish, that who- 
 soever, in all coming time, shall turn his eye hither, may 
 behold that the place is not undistinguished, where the first 
 great battle of the revolution was fought. We wish, that 
 this structure may proclaim the magnitude and importance 
 of that event, to every class and every age. We wish, that 
 infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal 
 lips, and that weary and withered age imy behold it, and be 
 solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We wish, 
 that labour may look up here, and be proud in the midst oi 
 its toil. We wish, that, in those days of disaster, which, as 
 they come on all nations, must be expected to come on us 
 also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, 
 and be assured that the foundations of our national power 
 still stand strong. We wish, that this column, rising to- 
 wards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples 
 dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all 
 minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We 
 wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of him who 
 leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden his who re- 
 visits it, may be something which shall remind him of the 
 liberty and the glory of his country. Let it rise, till it meet 
 the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of the morning 
 gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit. 
 
 LESSON CXXX1. 
 
 Address to the Survivors of the Bunker Hill Battle, and of 
 the Revolutionary Army. From the same. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING that I have given but a faint abstract of 
 the things which have happened since the day of the battle 
 
NATIONAL READER. 253 
 
 of Bunker Hill, we are but fifty years removed from it; and 
 we now stand here, to enjoy all the blessings of our own 
 condition, and to look abroad on the brightened prospects 
 bf the world, while we hold still among us some of those, 
 who were active agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are 
 how here, from every quarter of New England, to visit, once 
 more, and under circumstances so affecting, I had almost 
 said so overwhelming, this renowned theatre of their cou- 
 rage and patriotism. 
 
 Venerable men ! you have come down to us from a former 
 generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your 
 lives, that you might behold this joyous day. You are now 
 where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your 
 brothers and your neighbours, shoulder to shoulder, in the 
 strife for your country. Behold, how altered ! The same 
 heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at 
 your feet ; but all else how changed ! You hear now no 
 roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke 
 and flame rising from burning Chariestown. The ground 
 strowed with the dead and the clyirjg; the impetuous charge; 
 the steady and successful repulse ; the loud call to repeated 
 assault ; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated re- 
 sistance ; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in 
 an instant to w r hatever of terror there may be in war and 
 death; all these you have witnessed, but you witness them 
 no more. All is pence. The heights of yonder metropolis, 
 its towers .and roofs, which you then saw filled \vith wives, 
 and children, and countrymen, in distress and terror, and 
 looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the com- 
 bat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole 
 happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with 
 a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of 
 position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and 
 seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoy- 
 ance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and 
 defence. All is peace ; and God has granted you this sight 
 of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave 
 forever. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the 
 reward of your, patriotic toils ; and he has allowed us, your 
 sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, in the name 
 of the present generation, in the name of your country, in 
 the name of liberty, to thank you. ^ * * ^ * 
 
 But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us 
 U* confine our thoughts or our sympathies to those fearless 
 32 
 
254 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 spirits who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated 
 spot. We have the happiness to rejoice here in the pre- 
 sence of a most worthy representation of the survivors of the 
 whole revolutionary array. 
 
 Veterans ! you are the remnant of many a well-fought 
 field. You bring with you marks of honour from Trenton 
 and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and 
 Saratoga. VETERANS OF HALF A CENTURY ! when in your 
 youthful days, you put every thing at hazard in your coun- 
 try's cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth 
 is. still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour 
 like this ! At a period to which you could not reasonably 
 have expected to arrive ; at a moment of national prosperity, 
 such as you could never have foreseen ; you are now met, 
 here, to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive 
 the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 
 
 But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts 
 inform me, that even this is not an unmixed joy. I per- 
 ceive that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. 
 The images of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, 
 throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and 
 I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon 
 your declining years, and bless them. ! And, when you shall 
 here h.ive exchanged your embraces ; when you shall once 
 more have pressed the hands which have been so often ex- 
 tended to give succour in adversity, or grasped in the exul- 
 tation of victory ; then look abroad into this lovely land, 
 which your young valour defended, and mark the happiness 
 with which it is filled; yea, look abroad into the whole 
 earth, and see what a name you have contributed to give 
 to your country, and what a praise you have added to free- 
 do a), and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude, which 
 nearn upon your last days from the improved condition of 
 mankind. 
 
 LESSON CXXXII. 
 
 Hymn for the same Occasion. ORIGINAL. 
 
 O, is not this a holy spot ! 
 
 'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth ! 
 God of our fathers ! is it not 
 
 The holiest spot of all the earth ? 
 
NATIONAL READER. 255 
 
 Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; 
 
 The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; 
 And those old men, thy seers, abide 
 
 No more on Zion's mournful brow. 
 
 But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, 
 Since round its head the war-cloud curled, 
 
 And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt 
 In prayer and battle for a world. 
 
 Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground : 
 
 And we, the children of the brave, 
 From the four winds are gathered round, 
 
 To lay our offering on their grave. 
 
 Free as the winds around us blow, 
 
 Free as the waves below us spread, 
 We rear a pile, that long shall throw 
 
 Its shadow on their sacred bed. 
 
 But on their deeds no shade shall fall, 
 
 While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : 
 
 Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, 
 And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIII. 
 
 What's Hallowed Ground? CAMPBELL.* 
 
 WHAT'S hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
 Its Maker meant not should be trod 
 By man, the image of his God, 
 
 Erect and free, 
 Unscourged by Superstition's rod 
 
 To bow the knee? 
 
 That's hallowed ground, where, mourned and missed, 
 The lips repose our love has kissed: 
 But where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 
 
 Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
 No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 
 
 A part of ours. 
 
 * From the New Monthly Magazine for Oct. 1825 
 
256 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 What hallows ground where heroes sleep 
 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep 
 
 Their turf may bloom ; 
 Or genii twine, beneath the deep, 
 
 Their coral tomb. 
 
 But, strow his ashes to the wind, 
 
 Whose sword or voice has served mankind, 
 
 And is he-dead, whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high V 
 To live in hearts we leave behind, 
 
 Is not to die. 
 
 Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
 He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
 And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws : 
 What can alone ennoble fight ? 
 
 A noble cause ! 
 
 Give that, and welcome War to brace 
 
 Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space !- 
 
 The colours, planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 
 
 Shall still be dear : 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
 The cause of truth and human weal, 
 
 O God above ! 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 
 To Peace and Love. 
 
 Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
 Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
 
 Where they are not. 
 The heart alone cun make divine 
 
 Religion's spot. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 257 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! 
 Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 
 
 Earth's compass round ; 
 And your high priesthood shall make earth 
 
 All hallowed ground. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIV. 
 
 Extract fro*i a Speech of Counsellor PHILLIPS, at a 
 
 Dinner in Ireland, on his Health being given, together 
 with that of Mr. Payne, a young American., 1817. 
 
 THE mention of America, sir, has never failed to fill me 
 with the most lively emotions. In my earliest infancy, that 
 tender season when impressions, at once the most permanent 
 and the most powerful, are likely to be excited, the story 
 of her then recent struggle raised a throb in every heart that 
 loved liberty, and wrung a reluctant tribute even from dis- 
 comfited oppression. I saw her spurning alike the luxuries 
 that would ener'vate, and the legions that would intimidate ; 
 dashing from her lips the poisoned cup of European servi- 
 tude ; and, through all the vicissitudes of her protracted 
 conflict, displaying a magnanimity that defied misfortune, 
 and a moderation that gave new grace to victory. It was 
 the first vision of my childhood ; it will descend with me to 
 the grave. But if, as a man, I venerate the mention of 
 America, what must be my feelings towards her as an Irish- 
 man ! Never, O ! never, while memory remains, can Ire- 
 land forget the home of her emigrant, and the asylum of 
 her exile. No matter whether their sorrows sprung from the 
 errors of enthusiasm, or the realities of suffering ; from fancy 
 or infliction : that must be reserved for the scrutiny of those 
 whom the lapse of time shall acquit of partiality. It is for 
 the men of other ages to investigate and record it , but, 
 surely, it is for the men of every age to hail the hospitality 
 that received the shelterless, and love the feeling that be- 
 friended the unfortunate. Search creation round, where 
 can you find a countiy that presents so sublime a view, so 
 interesting an anticipation ? What noble institutions ! What 
 a comprehensive policy ! What a wise equalization of every 
 political advantage ! The oppressed of all countries, the 
 22* 
 
258 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 martyr of every creed, the innocent victim of despotic ar* 
 rogance or superstitious frenzy, may there find refuge ; his 
 industry encouraged, his piety respected, his ambition ani- 
 mated ; with no restraint but those laws which are the same 
 to all, and no distinction but that which his merit may 
 originate. Who can deny, that the existence, of such a 
 country presents a subject for human congratulation ! Who 
 can deny, that its gigantic advancement offers a field for the 
 most rational conjecture ! At the end of the very next cen- 
 tury, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, what a won- 
 drous spectacle may she not exhibit ! Who shall say for 
 what purpose a mysterious Providence may not have design- 
 ed her ! Who shall say, that, when, in its follies or its crimes, 
 the old world may have interred all the pride of its power, 
 and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find 
 its destined renovation in the new! For myself, I have no 
 doubt of it. I have not the least doubt, that, when our temples 
 and our trophies shall have mouldered into dust ; when the 
 glories of our name shall be but the legend of tradition, and 
 the light of our achievements live only in song; philosophy 
 will rise again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekin- 
 dle at the urn of her Washington. Is this the vision of a ro- 
 mantic fancy ? Is it even improbable ? Is it half so improba- 
 ble as the events which, for the last twenty years, have 
 rolled like successive tides over the surface of the European 
 world, each erasing the impression that preceded it ? Thou- 
 sands upon thousands, sir, I know there are, who will con- 
 sider this supposition as wild and whimsical : but they have 
 dwelt, with little reflection, upon the records of the past. 
 They have but ill observed the never-ceasing progress of 
 national rise^ and national ruin. They form their judgement 
 on the deceitful stability of the present hour, never con- 
 sidering the innumerable monarchies and republics, in for- 
 mer days, apparently as permanent, whose very existence 
 has now become the subject of speculation, I had almost said 
 of skepticism. I appeal to History! Tell me, thou reverend 
 chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition re- 
 alize, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all 
 the achievements of successful heroism, or all the esta- 
 blishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the 
 permanency of its possessions ? Alas ! Troy thought so 
 once ; yet the land of Priam lives only in song ! Thebes 
 thought so once ; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and 
 Jier very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intend- 
 
 * $&t *'tXG. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 269 
 
 ed to commemorate ! So thought Palmyra where is she ? 
 So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan ; 
 yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens in- 
 sulted by the servile, mindless, and ener'vate Ottoman ! In 
 his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined 
 immortality ; and all its vanities, from the palace to the 
 .tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of 
 his footsteps ! The days of their glory are as if they had 
 never been ; and the island, that was then a speck, rude and 
 neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity* of 
 their commerce, the glory of their arms, the .fame of their 
 philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration 
 of their bards ! Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, 
 that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not, one 
 day, be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to 
 be what Athens was ! Who shall say, that, when the Euro- 
 pean column shall have mouldered, and the night of barba- 
 rism obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not 
 emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of 
 the ascendant ! ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Sir, it matters very little what immediate spot may 
 have been the birth-placet of such a man as WASHINGTON 
 No people can claim, no country can appropriate him. 
 The boon of Providence to the human race, his fame 
 is eternity, and his residence creation. Though it was 
 the defeat of our arms, and the disgrace of our policy, I 
 almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. 
 If the heavens thundered, and the earth rocked, yet, when 
 the storm had passed, how pure was the climate that it clear- 
 ed ! how bright, in the brow of the firmament, wr.s the 
 planet which it revealed to us ! In the production of Wash- 
 ington, it does really appear as if Nature \vas endeavouring to 
 improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient 
 world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of 
 the new. Individual instances, no doubt, there were, splen- 
 did exemplifications, of some single qualification : CaBsar was 
 merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient ; but 
 it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, 
 and, like the lovely masterpiece of the Grecian artist, to 
 exhibit, in one glow of associated beauty, the pride of every 
 model,! and the perfection of every master. As a general, 
 he marshalled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by 
 discipline the absence of experience ; as a statesman, he 
 
 */V0n k u-bic'-\v-ty. t bSrth-place. t AW moddJe. 
 
200 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehen- 
 sive system of general advantage ; and such was the wisdom 
 of his views, and the philosophy of his counsels, that, to the 
 soldier and the statesman, he almost added the character of 
 the sage ! A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime 
 of hlood ; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of trea- 
 son ; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country 
 called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, 
 necessity stained, victory returned it. If he had paused 
 here, history might have doubted what station to assign him ; 
 whether at the head of her citizens, or her soldiers, her 
 heroes, or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his 
 career, and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, 
 after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, 
 and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration 
 of a land he might be almost said to have created ! 
 
 Happy, proud America! The lightnings of heaven yield- 
 ed to your philosophy ! The temptations of earth could not 
 seduce your patriotism ! 
 
 LESSON CXXXV. 
 
 The Nature of True Eloquence. D. WEBSTER. 
 
 WHEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous 
 occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong 
 passions excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, farther than 
 it is connected with high intellectual and moral endow- 
 ments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities 
 which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not 
 consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. La- 
 bour and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. 
 Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but 
 they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the 
 subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex- 
 pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after itj 
 they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the 
 outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting 
 forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native 
 force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
 ments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- 
 gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, 
 
NATIONAL READER. 261 
 
 their children, and their country, hang on the decision of 
 ihe hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is 
 vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius 
 itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of 
 higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent ; then, self- 
 devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the 
 deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the 
 dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the 
 eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man 
 onward, right onward, to his object this, this is eloquence ; 
 or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all elo- 
 quence, it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVI. 
 
 Extract from a Discourse, in Commemoration of the Lives 
 and Services of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, de- 
 livered in Faneidl Hall, Boston, 2d August, 1826. By 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 IN July, 1776, the controversy had passed the stage of 
 argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos- 
 ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to decide- 
 whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the parent 
 state, was to be severed at once, and severed forever. All 
 the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this 
 decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense 
 anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were 
 men called to a more important political deliberation. If 
 we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, no 
 question could be more full of interest ; if we look at it now, 
 and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in still 
 greater magnitude. 
 
 Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was 
 about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. 
 Let us open their doors, and look in upon their delibera- 
 tions. Let us survey the anxious and care-worn coun- 
 tenances, let us hear the firm-toned voices, of this band of 
 patriots. 
 
 HANCOCK presides over the solemn sitting ; and one of 
 those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen- 
 
262 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent- 
 ing from the declaration. 
 
 * Let us pause ! This step, once taken, cannot be retrac- 
 ed. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope of 
 reconciliation. If success attend the arms of England, we 
 shall then be no longer colonies, with charters, and with privi- 
 leges ; these will all be forfeited by this act ; and we shall 
 be in the condition of other conquered people at the mercy 
 of the conquerors. For ourselves, we may be ready to run 
 the hazard ; but are we ready to carry the country to that 
 length ? Is success so probable as to justify it ? Where is 
 the military, where the naval power, by which we are to 
 resist the whole strength of the arm of England? for she 
 will exert that strength to the utmost : Can we rely on 
 the constancy and perseverance of the people ? or will they 
 not act, as the people of other countries have acted, and, 
 weaned with a long war, submit, in the end, to a worse 
 oppression ? While we stand on our old ground, and insist 
 on redress of grievances, we know we are right, and are 
 not answerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can be 
 imputable to us. But, if we now change our object, carry 
 our pretensions farther, and set up for absolute indepen- 
 dence, we shall lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall 
 no longer be defending what we possess, but struggling for 
 something which we never did possess, and which we have 
 solemnly and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, 
 from the very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our 
 old ground, of resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, 
 the nations will believe the whole to have been mere pre- 
 tence, and they will look on us, not as injured, but as am- 
 bitious subjects. I shudder before this responsibility. It 
 will be on us, if, relinquishing the ground we have stood on 
 so long, and stood on so safely, we now proclaim indepen- 
 dence, and carry on the war for that object, while these cities 
 burn, these pleasant fields whiten and bleach with the bones 
 of their owners, and these streams run blood. It will be 
 upon us, it will be upon us, if, failing to maintain this un- 
 seasonable and ill judged declaration, a sterner despotism, 
 maintained by military power, shall be established over our 
 posterity, when we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a 
 harassed, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness 
 arid atoned for our presumption, on the scaffold,' 
 
NATIONAL READER. 263 
 
 LESSON CXXXVI1. 
 
 The same, concluded. 
 
 IT was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. 
 We know his opinions, and we know his character. He 
 would commence with his accustomed directness and ear- 
 nestness. 
 
 * Sink or swim, live or die. survive or perish, I give my 
 hand and my heart to this vote ! It is true, indeed, that, in 
 the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But there's 
 a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England 
 has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest, for 
 our good she has obstinately persisted, till independence is 
 now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and 
 it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the declaration ? Is 
 any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with 
 England, which shall leave either safety to the country and 
 its liberties, or safety to his own life, and his own honour ? 
 Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair ; is not he, our vene- 
 rable colleague near you ; are you not both already the pro- 
 scribed and predestined objects of punishment and of ven- 
 geance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are 
 you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, 
 but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we mean to 
 carry on, or to give up, the war ? Do we mean to submit to 
 the measures of parliament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do 
 we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be 
 ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden 
 down in the dust ? I know we do not mean to submit. We 
 never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most 
 solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, 
 before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, put- 
 ting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the 
 political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, 
 in every extremity, with our fortunes, and our lives ? I know 
 there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general 
 conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, 
 than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. 
 For myself, having, twelve month? ago, in this place, moved 
 you, that George Washington be appointed commander of 
 the forces, raised, or to be raised, for defence of American 
 liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my 
 
2P>4 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or wa<* 
 ver, in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. 
 We must fight it through. And, if the war must go on, why 
 put off longer the declaration of independence ? That mea* 
 sure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad* 
 The nations will then treat with us, which they never can 
 do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects, in arms 
 against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England, her* 
 self, will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of in- 
 dependence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknow- 
 ledge, that her whole conduct towards u$ has been a course 
 of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wound- 
 ed by submitting to that course of things which now pre- 
 destinates our independence, than by yielding the points in 
 controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she 
 would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would 
 feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, w r hy then, sir, 
 do we not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a 
 national war ? And, since we must fight it through, why not 
 put ourselves in a state to enjoy all Ihe benefits of victory, 
 if we gain the victory ? 
 
 i If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall 
 not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will 
 create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to 
 them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously, 
 through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people 
 have been found. I know the people of these colonies ; and 
 I know, that resistance to British aggressjon is deep and set- 
 tled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colo- 
 ny, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but 
 take the lead. Sir. the declaration will inspire the people 
 with increased courage. Instead of a long" and bloody war 
 for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for 
 chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before 
 them the glorious object of entire independence-, and it will 
 breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this de- 
 claration at the head of the army; every sword will be 
 drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to 
 maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honour. Publish 
 it from the .pulpit , religion will approve it, and the love of 
 religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with 
 it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it 
 there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the ene* 
 my's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and 
 
NATIONAL READER. 265 
 
 their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets 
 of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out 
 in its support. 
 
 * Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs ; but I see, 
 I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I, in- 
 deed, may rue it. We may not live to the time, when this 
 declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colo- 
 nists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the 
 scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Hea- 
 ven that my country shall require the poor offering of my 
 life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sa- 
 crifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let 
 me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and 
 that a free country. 
 
 ' But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, 
 that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and 
 it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- 
 pen'sate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, 
 I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. 
 We shall- make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we 
 are in our graves, our children will honour it. They will 
 celebrate it, with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, 
 and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed 
 tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, 
 not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and 
 of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My 
 judgement approves this measure, and my whole heart is in 
 it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in 
 this life, I am now ready, here to stake upon it; and I leave 
 ofF, as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for 
 the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the bless- 
 ing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment ; independence 
 now ; and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER !' 
 
 And so that day shall be honoured, illustrious prophet and 
 patriot ! so that day shall be honoured ; and, as often as it 
 returns, thy renown shall ccme along with it; and the glory 
 of thy life, like the day of thy death,^ shall not fail from the 
 remembrance of men. 
 
 * Both of the distinguished patriots, m commemoration of whose lives and 
 services this Discourse was delivered, died on the same day, 4th July, 1826, 
 fifty years from the day on which the Declaration of Independence, of which 
 one was the author, and the other the strenuous and eloquent advocate, was 
 adopted by the American Congress. 
 
 23 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVIII. 
 
 The School-Boy. THE AMULET. 
 
 THE SCHOOL-BOY had been rambling all the day, - 
 A careless, thoughtless idler, till the night 
 Came on, and warned him homeward : then he left 
 The meadows, where the morning had been passed, 
 Chasing the butterfly, and took the road 
 To' ward the cottage where his mother dwelt. 
 He had her parting blessing, and she watched 
 Once more, to breathe a welcome to her child, 
 Who sauntered lazily ungrateful boy ! 
 Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth ; 
 And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown, 
 He passed within the \vicket-gate, which led 
 i!ito the village church-yard : then he paused; 
 And. earnestly looked round ; for o'er his head 
 T he gloomy cypress waved, and at his feet 
 Lay the last bed of many a villager. 
 
 But on again he pressed with quickened step 
 " Whistling aloud to keep his courage up." 
 T.ie bat came flapping by ; the ancient church 
 T.irew its deep shadows o'er the path he trod, 
 And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf ; 
 For now he fancied that all shapeless forms 
 Came flitting by him, each with bony hand, 
 A. id motion as if threatening ; while a weight 
 U learthly. pressed the satchel and the slate 
 H 5 strove to keep within his grasp. The wind 
 PLiyed with the feather that adorned his cap, 
 And seemed to whisper something horrible. 
 The clouds had gathered thickly round the rnoon ; 
 But, now and then, her light shone gloriously 
 Upon the sculptured tombs and humble graves, 
 Arid, in a moment, all was dark again. 
 
 O'ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down, 
 And wildly gazed around him, till his eye 
 Fell on a stone, on which these warning worda 
 Were carved : 
 
 " TIME ! thou art flying rapidly, 
 But whither art thou flying ?' 
 
NATIONAL READER. 207 
 
 " Tc, the grave which yours will be 
 
 I wait not for the dying. 
 In early youth you laughed at me, 
 
 And, laughing, passed life's morning ; 
 But, in thine age, I laugh at thee 
 
 Too late to give thee warning." 
 
 "DEATH ! thy shadowy form I see, 
 
 The steps of Time pursuing : 
 Like him thou comest rapidly : 
 
 What deed must thou be doing ?" 
 " Mortal ! my message is for thee : 
 
 Thy chain to earth is rended : 
 I bear thee to eternity : 
 
 Prepare ! thy course is ended !" 
 
 Attentively the fainting boy perused 
 
 The warning lines ; then grew more terrified ; 
 
 For, from the grave, there seemed to rise a voice 
 
 Eepeating them, and telling him of time 
 
 Misspent, of death approaching rapidly, 
 
 And of the dark eternity that followed. 
 
 His fears increased, till on the ground he lay 
 
 Almost bereft of feeling and of sense. 
 
 And there his mother found him: 
 
 From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child, 
 
 Frightened to feel his clammy hand', and hear 
 
 The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came. 
 
 'Twas strange, the influence which that fearful hour 
 Had o'er his future life ; for, from that night, 
 He was a thoughtful, an industrious boy. 
 And still the memory of those warning words 
 Bids him REFLECT^ now that he is a man, 
 And writes these feeble lines that others may. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIX. 
 
 Stanzas addressed to the Greeks. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ON, on, to the just and glorious strife ! 
 
 With your swords your freedom shielding: 
 Nay, resign, if it must be so, even life; 
 
 But die at least, unyielding. 
 
268 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 On to the strife ! for 'twere far more meet 
 To sink with the foes who bay you, 
 
 Than crouch, like dogs, at your tyrants' feet, 
 And smile on the swords that slay you. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 No ! let him feel that their arms are strong,- 
 That their courage will fail them never, 
 
 Who strike to repay long years of wrong, 
 And bury past shame forever. 
 
 Let him know there are hearts, however bowed 
 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 
 
 Let him learn how weak is a tyrant's might 
 Against liberty's sword contending; 
 
 And find how the sons of Greece can fight, 
 Their freedom and land defending. 
 
 Then on ! then on to the glorious strife ! 
 
 With your swords your country shielding, 
 And resign, if it must be so, even life ,* 
 
 But die, at least, unyielding. 
 
 Strike ! for the sires who left you free ! 
 
 Strike ! for their sakes who bore you ! 
 Strike ! for your homes and liberty, 
 
 And the Heaven you worship o'er you ! 
 
 LESSON CXL. 
 
 The Spajiish Patriot's Song. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 HARK ! Hear ye the sounds that the winds, on their pinions. 
 
 Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea, 
 With a voice that resounds through her boundless dominions? 
 
 *Tis COLUMBIA calls on her sons to be free ! 
 
NATIONAL READER. 269 
 
 Behold, on yon summits, where Heaven has throned hear, 
 How she starts from her proud, inaccessible seat ; 
 
 With nature's impregnable ramparts around her, 
 And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet ! 
 
 In the breeze of her mountains her loose locks are shaken, 
 While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior-song, 
 
 From the rock to the valley, re-echo, " Awaken ! 
 Awaken, ye hearts, that have slumbered too long !" 
 
 Yes, despots ! too long did your tyranny hold us, 
 In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known ; 
 
 Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us, 
 Were forged by the fears of its captives alone. 
 
 That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing. 
 
 Despised as. detested, pause well ere ye dare 
 To cope with a people, whose spirits and feeling 
 
 Are roused by remembrance, and steeled by despair. 
 
 Go, tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw [them ; 
 
 The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confined 
 But presume not again to give freemen a law, 
 
 Nor think with the chains they have broken to bind them. 
 
 To heights by the beacons of Liberty lightened, 
 
 They're a scorn who come up her young eagles to tame ; 
 
 And to swords, that her sons for the battle have brightened, 
 The hosts of a king are" as flax to a flame. 
 
 LESSON CXLI. 
 
 The Three Warnings. MRS. THRALE. 
 
 THE tree of deepest root is found 
 Least willing still to quit the ground. 
 'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages, 
 
 That love of life increased with years 
 So much, that, in our latter stages, 
 When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages 
 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 23* 
 
270 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 This great affection to believe, 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail, 
 Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 
 
 When sports went round, and all were gay 
 On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, 
 Death called aside 4 the joc'und groom. 
 With him into another room ; 
 And, looking grave, " You must," says he, 
 " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.' 
 
 " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 
 With you!" the hapless husband cried; 
 " Young as I am ? 'tis monstrous hard ! 
 Besides, in truth, I'm. not prepared . 
 My thoughts on other matters go, 
 This is my wedding-night, you know." 
 
 What more he urged I have not heard : 
 His reasons could not well be stronger : 
 
 So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 
 Yet, calling up a serious look, 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, 
 "Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more 
 Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
 And farther, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon my name, 
 To give you time for preparation, 
 And fit you for your future station, 
 Three several warnings you shall have, 
 Before you're summoned to the grave. 
 Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey, 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve, 
 In hopes you'll have no more to say, 
 But, when I call again this way, 
 
 Well pleased, the world will leave." 
 To these conditions both consented, 
 And parted, perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 How long he lived, how wisely, and how well 
 It pleased him, in his prosperous course, 
 To smoke his pipe, and pat his horse,- 
 
 The willing muse shall tell: 
 
NATIONAL READER. 271 
 
 He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, 
 Nor once perceived his growing old, 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near; 
 His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
 Many his gains, his children few, 
 
 He passed his hours in peace. 
 But, while he viewed his wealth increase, 
 While thus along life's dusty road 
 The beaten track content he trod, 
 Old Time, whose haste no 
 Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 
 And now, one night, in musing mood, 
 As all alone he sate, 
 The unwelcome messenger of fate 
 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 Half killed with anger and surprise, 
 "So soon returned!" old Dobson cries, 
 
 " So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : 
 " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest : 
 
 Since I was here before 
 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, 
 
 And you are now fourscore." 
 
 " So much the worse !" the clown rejoined: 
 " To spare the aged would be kind : 
 Besides, you promised me three warnings, 
 Which I have looked for nights and mornings." 
 
 "I know," cries Death, "that, at the best, 
 I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
 But don't be captious, friend, at least : 
 I little thought you'd still be able 
 To stump about your farm and stable : 
 Your years have run to a great length : 
 I wish you joy, though, of your strength." 
 
 "Hold !" says the farmer, "not so fast: 
 I have been lame these four years past." 
 
 " And no great wonder," Death replies : 
 " However, you still keep your eyes ; 
 Arid sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
 For legs and arms would make amends." 
 " Perhaps," says Dobson, " so it might ; 
 But latterly I've lost my sight." 
 
NATIONAL READER. 
 
 "This is a shocking story, faith ; 
 Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death: 
 " Each strives your sadness to amuse : 
 I warrant you hoar all the news." 
 
 " There's none," cries he ; "and, if there were 
 I'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 
 "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 
 
 "These are unreasonable yearnings: 
 If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 
 
 You Ve had your three sufficient warnings : 
 So come along ; no more we'll part." 
 He said, and touched him with his dart: 
 And now old Dobson, turning pale, 
 Yields to his fate so ends my tale. 
 
 LESSON CXLIL 
 The Mariner's Dream. DIMOND. 
 
 Ii7 slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, 
 
 His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind 
 
 But, watch- worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 
 
 He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 
 While memory each scene gayly covered with flowers, <: 
 And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 
 
 Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 
 
 Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide, 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. , 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, 
 
 And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall 
 
 All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 
 
 His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; 
 And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
 
 With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 
 
NATIONAL READER. 273 
 
 The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, 
 Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er; 
 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest 
 " O God ! thou hast blest me ; I ask for no more." 
 
 Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 
 
 Ah ! 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 springs from his hammock he flies to the deck 
 Amazement confronts him with images dire 
 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck 
 The masts fly in splinters the shrouds are on fire ! 
 
 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell : 
 In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
 
 Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 
 
 And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave. 
 
 O sailor boy ! wo to thy dream of delight ! 
 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
 Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 
 
 Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss ? 
 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
 
 Shall home, love> or kindred, thy wishes repay ; 
 
 Unblessed, and unhonoured, down deep in the main 
 Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 
 
 Ro tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
 Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge ; 
 
 But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
 And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge ! 
 
 On a bed of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 
 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
 Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 
 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye : 
 O sailor bfly ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul * 
 
274 NATIONAL READER. 
 
 LESSON CXLIII. 
 
 Absalom. WILLIS . 
 
 THE waters slept. ' Night's silvery veil hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
 The reeds bent down the stream : the willow leaves^ 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
 Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
 And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suffering, 
 That it was fashioned for a happier world ! 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
 With his faint people, for a little rest 
 Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morn \vas stirring, and he bared his brow 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gathered round him on the fresh green bank 
 Arid spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, 
 And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
 And the poor common words of courtesy^ 
 Are such a very mockery how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
 He prayed for Israel ; and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those 
 Whose love had been his shield ; and his deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom 
 The proud, bright being, who had burst away, 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherished him for him he poured. 
 In agony that would not be controlled, 
 * Pron. curt-a &y. 
 
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