OF THE U N I VERS ITY or ILLINOIS Ml7m I ^ v.G CENTRAL CIRCULATION AND BOOKSTACKS The person borrowing’ this material is re- sponsible for its renewal or return before I the Latest Date stamped below. You may be charged a minimum fee of $75.00 for each non-returned or lost item. Theft, mutilation, or defacement of library materiali can be cauMS for student disciplinary action. All materials owned by of the State of Illinois and are protected by Article 16B of Illinois Criminal law and Procedure. TO RENEW, CAU (217) 333-8400. University of Illinois library at Urbona-Chompaign ir } When renewing by below previous due phone, write new due date L162 OF THE U N I VLR5 ITY or ILLINOIS Ml7m I yf.G w \ ECLECTIC EDUCATIONAL SERIES. McGUFFBY’S NEW SIXTH ECLECTIC READER EXERCISES IN EHETORIOAL READING, WITH INTEODUCTOEY EULES AND EXAMPLES. By WM. H. McGUFFEY, LL.D. STjEnEOTTPX! EDITION. VAN ANTWERP, BRAGG & CO., 137 Walnut Street, CINCINNATI. 28 Bond Street, NEW YORK. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by W. B, SMITH, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Ohio Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by SARGENT, WILSON & HINKLE, In’ the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Ohio, ECLECTIC press: VAN ANTWERP, BRAGG & CO., CINCINNATI. /^/7/r? PREFACE. This book is presented to the public as the sixth in th^ remod- eled series of Eclectic Readers. As it is designed for advanced pupils, most of the means adopted in the other volumes for aiding the learner, such as Questions, Spelling, &c., are here dispensed with, and the student is left to his own judgment. The Principles of Elocution, in the introductory article, are explained and illustrated in a more extended, systematic, and complete form, than in the preceding volumes. The Reading Exercises, as far as to page 204, are especially adapted to illustrate the principles explained in the introductory treatise. For example, the first five lessons are selected for their especial adaptation to practice in Articulation^ although it must be borne in mind that every word in every lesson is an exercise in Articulation. The Inflections are illustrated, and a guide to their proper use furnished, by an appropriate notation in most of the Reading Ex- ercises as far as the 73d, on page 204. Among them, some are, also, adapted to exemplify emphasis^ some., the reading of poetry., and others are appropriate to practice in cultivating the voice^ in its high., low., or medium tones. From the 74th Exercise onward, rhetorical notation is dis- pensed with, the learner being left to his own judgment, except such aid as the teacher may think proper occasionally to give, it .being supposed that, in the several volumes of this series, all, that • 3 could be profitably contained in books, has been furnished. ( 7 ) 8 PREFACE. In the preparation of this work, free use has been made of the writings of standard authors upon Elocution, such as Walker, McCulloch, Sheridan Knowles, Ewing, Pinnock, Scott, Bell, Gra- ham, Mylins, Wood, Rush, and many others. In the selection of articles for Reading Exercises, great care has been taken to present variety of style and subject, to attract by interest of matter, to elevate by purity and delicacy of senti- ment, and especially to furnish the mind with valuable informa- tion, and to influence the heart by sound moral and religious in* struction. Considerable liberty has been taken with the articles selected, in order to adapt them to the especial purpose for which they are here designed. Much change and remodeling have been neces- sary. The lessons are therefore credited as taken the author named. CONTENTS PRINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION. Articulation 15 Inflections . . . . 23 Accent and Emphasis 39 Reading Verse .45 The Voice 51 Gesture .* .... 67 LESSONS IN PROSE EXERCISE. PAGE. 1. The Grotto of Antiparos .... . Goldsmith, . 61 3. Description of a Storm .... . U Israeli, . . 65 6. Industry necessary for the Orator . II. TFare, Jr. . 70 8. Schemes of Life often Illusory . Dr. Johnson. . 73 10. Death of Little Nell . Dickens. . . 77 11. Romantic Story 80 12. The Lone Indian ..... 81 14. The Music of Nature . . . . • Willis. . .. 84 16. The Thunder-Storm . G. D. Prentice, 87 17. The Artist Surprised . . . . « 90 18. The Chinese Prisoner .... 95 19. A Highland Feud . • 96 21. Prospects of the Cherokees . . . 100 22. A Political Pause . Fox. . . . 103 24. Select Paragraphs 105 26. Character of Napoleon Bonaparte . Phillips. . 108 29. Speech in reproof of Mr. Pitt . . Walpole. . 113 30. Reply to Sir Robert Walpole . . Pitt. ... 114 31. Character of Mr. Pitt .... . Grattan . . 116 33. Speech before the Virginia Convention . PaVfifh, Henry. 118 ( 9 ? •10 CONTENTS. EXERCISE. PAGE. 42. Paul’s Defense before King Agrippa . . The Bible. . 134 46. The Broken Heart Irving. . . 140 48. La Fayette and Robert Raikes Grimke. . . 145 49. On Happiness of Temper . Goldsmith. . 148 50. The Fortune-Teller Mackenzie. . 150 53. Ironical Eulogy on Debt 156 55. Description of a Siege Walter Scott. 161 57. Life, a Mighty River Heher. . 166 59. A view of the Coliseum Dewey. . . 169 61. Combat at a Tournament Walter Scott. 172 64. South Carolina Hayne. . . 178 65. Massachusetts and South Carolina . . . Webster, . . 180 67. The Knave Unmasked Shakspeare. . 185 68. A Passage in Human Life 195 71. Elijah the Tishbite The Bible. . 200 72. Elijah at Mount Horeb Krummacher. 202 75. The Mysterious Stranger Taylor. . . 206 79. Choice of Hercules The Tatter. . 215 81. Lament for the Dead Ossian. . . 218 83. Westminster Abbey Addison. . . 220 85. The Voyage Irving. . . 226 88. Scene from the Poor Gentleman .... Colman. . . 233 90. Folly of Intoxication Shakspeare. . 240 92. The Evils of War 242 94. Origin of Property Blackstone. . 246 "95. British Refugees Patrick Henry, 251 97. The Discontented Pendulum Jane Taylor. 256 99. Grateful Old Age Gesner. . . 261 101. Memory of our Fathers Beecher. . . 265 103. The Fourteenth Congress R. II. Wilde. 268 106. The Shipwreck 274 108. The Eagle’s Nest Wilson. . ' . 277 111. North American Indians Sprague. . . 235 113. The Twins Wilson. . . 288 116. An Evening Adventure 296 . 117. New-Year’s Night of an Unhappy Man . . Richter. . . 298 CONTENTS. 11 EXERCISE. PAGE. 120. Discontent: An Allegory Addison. . . 304 122. Family of Marco Bozzaris Stevens. . . 311 125. On the Removal of the British Troops . . Chatham. . . 319 127. The Baptism Wilson. . . 325 129. Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress’ .... Macaulay. . 331 131. The Best Kind of Revenge 334 134. Tact and Talent ^ 338 135. The Voyage of Life: An Allegory .... Dr. Johnson. 340 136. Colloquial Powers of Franklin ..... Wm. Wirt. . 342 138. Influence of Natural Scenery 346 141. The Crusader and the Saracen Walter Scott. 351 144. Prince Henry and Falstatf Shakspeare. . 360 147. Impeachment of Warren Hastings .... Macaulay. . 370 150. The Will 376 151. The Natural and Moral Worlds Grimke. . . 379 154. The Teacher and the Sick Scholar .... Dickens. . . 384 156. The Little Brook and the Star 389 159. On the American War Chatham. . . 401 160. Supposed Speech of John Adams .... Webster. . . 403 162. The Grave Irving. . . 408 164. Anecdote of the Duke of Newcastle 412 166. Speech on Trial of a Murderer Webster. . . 416 168. Observance of the Sabbath Dr. Spring. . 421 170. Character of Columbus Irving. . . 425 171. Surrender of Grenada , . Bulwer. . . 428 173. The Moon and Stars: A Fable Montgomery. . 433 177. Importance of the Union ....... Webster. . . 442 178. Character of Washington Sparks. . . 444 180. Mrs. Caudle’s Lecture Jerrold. . . 449 182. The Dawn Everett, . . 453 184. The Dying Soldier 456 / 12 CONTEJv; f S. LESSONS IN POETRY. EXEKCISE. PAGE, 2. The Thunder-Storm Thomson. . . 64 4. Hymn to the Night-Wind Moir. ... 66 5. The Cataract of Lodore Southey. . . 68 7. The Old House-Clock ' . 72 9. The Needle Woodworth. . 76 13. To the Dead Brainard. . . 83 15. The Village Blacksmith Longfellow. . 86 20. The Hour of Prayer Mrs. Hemans. 100 23. Song of the Stars Bryant. . . 104 25. Select Paragraphs 107 27. Hamlet’s Soliloquy Shakspeare. . 110 28. Ode to an Infant Son Thomas Hood. Ill 32. The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger . . Byrom. . . 117 34. Vanity of Life Herder. . . 121 35. The Mariner’s Dream Dimond. . . 123 36. The Soldier’s Rest Walter Scott. 124 37. Burial of Sir John Moore Chas. Wolfe. . 126 38. Mary, the Maid of the Inn Southey. . . 127 39. Jephthah’s Daughter N. P. Willis. 129 40. Treasures of the Deep Hemans. . . 131 41. Battle in Heaven Milton. . . 132 43. Henry V. to his Troops ........ Shakspeare. . 136 44. Hector’s Attack on the Grecian Vfalls . . . Popds Homer. 137 45. Rienzi’s Address to the Romans Miss Mitford. 139 47. The Prisoner for Debt Whittier . . 143 51. Satan, Sin, and Death ........ Milton. . . 153 52. God is Every-where 155 54. Faithless Nelly Gray Hood. . . . 159 56. Description of a Storm at Sea Carrington. . 165 58. The Family Meeting Sprague. . . 167 60. On Modulation Lloyd. . . . 171 62. The Banner of Pulaski Longfellow. . 175 63. The Downfall of Poland Campbell. . . 177 66. The Last Days of Herculaneum Atherstone. . 181 CONTENTS. 13 EXERCISE. • PAGE, 69. Thanatopsis Bryant. . . 197 70. The Departed Park Benjamin. 199 73. Earth and Heaven 204 74. The Sleepers Mrs. Hemans. 205 77. A Psalm of Life Longfellow. . 212 78. The Dream of Clarence Shakspeare. . 213 80. Ambition N. P. Willis. 217 82. The Church-Yard Karamisin. . 219 84. Elegy in a Country Church-Yard .... Gray. . . . 222 87. Song of Emigration Hemans. . . 232 89. The Well of St. Keyne Southey. . . 238 91. Elegy on Madam Blaize Goldsmith. . 242 93. The Philosopher’s Scales Jane Taylor. 245 96. Antony over Caesar’s Dead Body .... Shakspeare. . 253 98. The Nose and the Eyes Cowper. . . 260 100. The Three Warnings Thrale. . . 263 102. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers .... Hemans. . . 267 104. The American Flag Drake. . . 271 105. The Eagle Percival. . . 272 107. To My Mother 276 110. The Dead Eagle 283 112. Red Jacket, the Indian Chief Halleck. . . 286 115. My Mother’s Picture Cowper. . . 295 118. The Closing Year G. D. Prentice. 300 119. The Passions Collins. . . 302 121. Resolution of Rubh 309 123. Marco Bozzaris Halleck. . . 315 124. Song of the Greek Bard Byron. . . 317 126. Battle of Beal’ An Duine Walter Scott. 322 128. The Reaper and the Flowers Longfellow. . 330 130. The Star of Bethlehem H. K. White. 333 132. The Glove and the Lion Leigh Hunt. . 335 133. The Battle of Blenheim Southey. . . 336 137. A Conversational Pleasantry Franklin. . . 344 139. The Voice of Spring Hemans. . . 348 140. Summer Evening Bryant. . . 350 14 CONTENTS. EXERCISE. PACE. 142. The Raven Poe. . . . 354 143. Darkness Byron. . . 358 145. The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius . . . Shakspeare. . 364 146. The Quack Tobin. . . . 367 148. Murder of Prince Arthur Shakspeare. . 372 149. The Remorse of King John Shakspeare. 373 152. The Pleasant Rain Miller . , . . 381 153. The Snow-Flake Gould. . , . 382 155. The Widow and her Son Edwards. . . 388 158. Song of the Shirt Hood. . . . 398 161. Parting of Marmion and Douglas .... Scott. . . . 406 163. The Pearl-Diver Hemans. . . 410 165. Lochinvar Scott. . . . 414 167. Fall of Cardinal Wolsey . Shakspeare. . 418 169. God’s Goodness to Such as Fear Him . . . The Bible. . 424 172. The Last Sigh of the Moor Jewsbury. . . 431 175. Thunder-Storm on the Alps Byron. . . 439 176. The ]\Ianiac Lewis. . . . 441 179. The Victor’s Crown Hale. . . . 448 181. The Jolly Old Pedagogue . Arnold. , . 451 183. Calling the Roll Shepherd. . . 455 185. The Picket 457 185. The Brave at Home .... c . 458 186. The Lost Pleiad * (Jwrry- . e . 459 PEINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. The subject of Elocution^ so far as it Is deemed appli- cable to a work of this kind, will be considered under the following tueads, viz. 1. Akticulation ; 2. Inflection; 3. Accent AND Emphasis; 4. Eeading Verse; 5. The Voice; 6. Gesture. I. ARTICULATION. FAULTS TO BE REMEDIED. The most common faults of articulation are the follow- ing, viz. : 1. Dropping an unaccented vowel. EXAMPLES. CORRECT. INCORRECT. CORRECT. INCORRECT. Gran^a-ry gran’ry. har^mo-ny harm’ny. im-mor^tal im-mor-t’l. a-banMon a-ban-d’n. mock^er-y mock’ry. reg^u-lar reg’lar. lam-en-ta^tion lam’ n-ta-tion. par-tic^'u-lar par-tic’ lar. in-clem^enL in-clem’nt. sin^gu-lar sin-g’lar. des^ti-ny des-t’ny. cal-cu-la^tion cal-cl’a-sh’ n. u-ni-ver^si-ty u-ni-vers’ty. cir-cu-la^tion cir-cl’a-sh’ n. un-cer^tain un-cer-t’n. na^tion na-sh’n. ooFo-ny col’ny. oc-ca^sion oc-ca-sh’n. cm^er-y em’ry. feFo-ny fel’ny. em^i-nent em’nent. ef^fi-gy ef’gy. ag^o-ny ag’ny. fem^o-ral fern’ ral. eb^on-y eb’ny. man^i-fold man’ fold. rev^er-ent rev’ rent cuFti-vate cult’vate. 15 16 ARTICULATION. 2 , Sounding incorrectly an unaccented vowel. EXAMPLES. CORRECT. INCORRECT. CORRECT. INCORRECT. Lani-en-ta^tion lani-un-ta-tion. ter^ri-ble ter-rub-ble. e-ter^nal e-ter-nul. sen^si-ble sen-sub-ble ob^sti-nate ob-stun-it. fel-o^ny fel-er-ny. descent de-sunt. meFo-dy mel-er-dy sys^tem sys-t?^m, or feFlow-ship fel-le?*-shq . sys-tim caFcu-late cal-ker-late. e-venC uv-ent. cir^cu-lar cir-ky-ler. ef^fort uf-fort reg^u-lar reg-gy-lur. EXERCISES. The vowels most likely to be dropped or incorrectly sounded are italicized. He attended drvine serv2ce regularly. This is my particular request. He graduated at one of th^ Eastern Un^Vers^ties. She ^s unwersally esteemed. George is sensible of his fault. This calculation is incorrect. His fears wore justified by tho ovent. What a torrible calamity. I will support the Constitution of tho Unitod States. The whole nation lamented him. His eye through vast immensity can pierce. Observe these nice dependencies. He is a formidable adversary. Hway ! presumptuous man. I will, go and be reconciled to my brother. He is generous to his friends. A tempest desolated the land. His reputation is ruined. He preferred death to servitude. God is the author of all things visible and invisible. He is a man of eminent merit. AJxpect not my commendation. Caius’ countenance fell. He has contracted a bad habit. Tell me the difference between articulation and utterance He was delighted with the exhibition. ARTICULATION. j? 3. Suppressing the final consonants. EXAMPLES. John an’ James are friens o’ my father. Bonn’ han’ an’ foot. Gi’ me some bread. Tuf’s o’ grass. The want o’ men is occasioned by the want o’ money We seldom fine’ men o’ principle to ac’ thus. Beas’ an’ creepin’ things were foun’ there. Thrus’ thy sickle into the harves’ Thou has’ thousan’ frien’s on thy side. Evenin’ an’ mornin’, an’ at noon o' night. EXERCISES. He learne(^ to write. Did you finridc, and lays hiand without shuffling and hitching the limbs. The student will find, by trial, that no attitude is so favorable to this end, as that in which the weight of the body is thrown upon one leg, leaving the other free to be advanced or thrown back, as fatigue or the proper action of delivery may require. The student, who has any regard to grace or elegance, will of course avoid all the gross faults which are so common among public speakers, such as resting one foot upon a stool or bench, or throwing the body lazily forward upon the sup- port of the rostrum. 3d. Next to attitude, come the movements of the person and limbs. In these, two objects are to be observed, and, if possible, combined, viz., proprktij and grace. There is ex- pression in the extended arm, the clinched hand, the open palm, and the smiting of the breast. But let no gesture be 7nade that is not in harmony with the thought or sentiment that is uttered; for it is this harmony which constitutes pro- priety. As far as possible, let there be a correspondence be- tween the style of action and the train of thought. Where the thought flows on calmly and sweetly, let there be the /^ame graceful and easy flow of gesture and action. Where the style is sharp and abrupt, there is propriety in the quick, *bort, and abrupt gesticulation. Especially avoid that uu- craceful sawing of the air with the arms, into which an ill* vegulated fervor betrays many young speakers. What is called a graceful manner.^ can only bo attained by diose who have some natural advantages of person. So far «s it is in the reach of study or practice, it seems to depend chiefly upon the general cultivation of manners, implying freedom from all embarrassments, and entire self-possession. The whole secret of acquiring a graceful style of gesture, we apprehend, lies in the habitual practice, not only when speaking, but at all times, of free and graceful movements of the limbs. GESTURE. 59 There is no limb nor feature, which the accomplished speaker will not employ with elfect, in the course of a vari- ous and animated delivery. But the arms are the chief re- liance of the orator in gesture; and it will not. be amiss to give a hint or two in reference to their proper use. And first ; — It is not an uncommon fault to use one arm exclusively, and to give that a uniform movement. Such movement may, sometimes, have grown habitual from one’s profession or employment. But in learners, also, there is often a predisposition to this fault. Secondly ; — It is not unusual to see a speaker use only the lower half of his arm. This always gives a stiff and constrained manner to delivery. Let the whole arm move, and let the movement be free and flowing. ♦ Thirdly ; — As a general rule, let the hand be open, with the fingers slightly curved. It then seems liberal, commu- nicative, and candid ; and, in some degree, gives that expres- sion to the style of delivery. Of course, there are passages which require the clinched hand, the pointed finger, &c. ; but these are used to give a particular expression. Fourthly -In the movements of the arm, study variety and the grace of curved lines. When a gesture is made with one arm only, the eye should be cast in the direction of that arm ; not at it, but over it. All speakers employ, more or less, the motions of the head. In reference to that member, we make but one observation. Avoid the continuous bobbing and shaking of the head, which is so conspicuous in the action of many ambitious public speakers. The beauty and force of all gesture consist in its timely, judicious, and natural employment, when it can serve to illustrate the meaning, or give emphasis to the force of an important passage. The usual fault of young speakers is too much action. To emphasize all parts alike, is equiva- lent to no emphasis; and by employing forcible gestures on unimportant passages, we diminish our power to render other parts impressive. 60 DIRECTIONS. TO TEACHERS. In Articulation, as the exercises are already exten- sive, a few lessons only are added, especially adapted to the purpose of practice. The Inflections marked are in accordance with the best authorities, both American and English, among whom may be mentioned Sheridan Knowles as a leading and standard O author on this subject. At the same time, it must be remem- bered, that, in many cases, inflections depend upon the degree of emphasis^ and, on this point, opinions and tastes may vary in different individuals, and sometimes in the same individual at different times. It is also to be noticed, that the rising in- flection is often used in a slight degree without being discerned^ except by an acute and educated ear; pupils learn to distin- guish it with great difliculty, and teachers frequently do not perceive it, unless under emphasis. In Emphasis and Poetry, the lessons for practice include all the previous notation. With regard to the lessons on Modulation, a single remark seems necessary. The tone and manner in which emotion is expressed, are instinctive. A proper expression can be given, only by imbibing the spirit of the subject. In the notation, high and low tones are specifically indicated. Loudness is sufficiently denoted in most cases, by emphasis. The subjoined characters are used in the following pages : The rising inflection is denoted by (^) The FALLING INFLECTION “ “ (^) The rising circumflex “ “ The falling circumflex “ “ (A) The monotone, by a line placed over the vowel . . . (— ) Emphatic words are denoted by italics or capitals. The emphatic pause, by a line before or after the word . I — ) The cesura is denoted by ( || ) The demi-cesura “ “ | ) A high tone “ . “ ( h ) A higher tone “ “ { hh ) A low tone *' “ .... o ......( O A lower tone “ ( ll ) NEW SIXTH READER EXEECISES IN ARTICULATION. The first five of the following Exercises are intended especially for practice in Articulation, and are earnestly commended to the Teacher’s attention. EXERCISE I.— THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. From Goldsmith. Oliver Goldsmith was born in Ireland, in 1728. After his gradu- ation at the Dublin University, he went to London, to seek support by his pen ; and during the greater part of his life, worked as a mere compiler for the book-sellers. His poems of “ The Traveler''' and “ The Deserted Village^'" established his fame. He died in 1774. 1. Archipelago; [pro. Ark-e-peP-a-go.) a narrow sea bordering on Greece, and containing many small islands. 2. Levantine ; the eastern part of the Mediterranean sea is called the Levant^ and a Levantine mariner is a seaman of that region. 1. Of all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of Antiparos is the most remarkable, as well for its extent as for the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cavern was first explored by one Magni, an Italian traveler, about one hundred years ago, at Antiparos, an incon- siderable island of the Archipelago. 2. “Having been informed,” says he, “by the natives of Paros, that, in the little island of Antiparos, which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in that place, it was resolved that we (the French consul and himself) should pay it a visit. 3. “ In pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst of beautiful plains and slop mg woodlands, we at length came to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid cavern, which, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror, and 61 62 NEW SIXTH READER. almost repressed curiosity. Recovering from the first surprise, however, we entered boldly, and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself to view. 4. “We quickly perceived that what the ignorant natives had been terrified at as a giant, was nothing more than a sparry concretion, formed by the water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, which their fears had formed into a monster. Incited by this extraordinary appearance, we were induced to proceed still further, in quest of new adventures, in this subterranean abode. 5. “ As we proceeded, new wonders offered themselves ; the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove ; some white, some green ; and all receding in due perspective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to be mere productions of Nature, who, hitherto in solitude, had, in her playful moments, dressed the scene as if for her own amusement. 6. “We had as yet seen but a few of the wonders of the place; and we were introduced only into the portico of this amazing temple. In one corner of this half-illuminated recess, there appeared an opening about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a place totally dark, and which one of the natives assured us contained nothing more than a res- ervoir of water. 7. “ Upon this information, we made an experiment, by throwing down some stones, which rumbled along the sides of the descent for some time : the sound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Levantine mariner, who, by the promise of a good reward, ventured, with a flambeau in his hand, into this narrow aperture. 8. “ After continuing within it for about a quarter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his hand some beautiful pieces of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. Upon being informed by him that the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descending, by a steep and dangerous way. ECLECTIC SERIES. 63 9. “ Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led into a spacious amphitheater, (if I may so call it,) still deeper than any other part, we returned, and being provided with a ladder, flambeau, and other things to expedite our descent, our whole company, man by man, ventured into the same opening; and, descending one after another, we at last saw ourselves all together in the most magniflcent part of ‘the cavern. 10. Our candles being now all lighted up, and the whole place completely illuminated, never could the eye be presented with a more glittering or a more magniflcent scene; the whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass, yet solid as marble. 11. “The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and noble ceiling ; the sides were regularly formed with spars ; and the whole presented the idea of a magniflcent theater, illuminated with an immense profusion of lights. The floor consisted of solid marble ; and, in several places, magniflcent columns, thrones, altars, and other objects, appeared, as if nature had designed to mock the curiosities of art. 12. “ Our voices, upon speaking or singing, were redoubled, to an astonishing loudness; and upon the flring of a gun, the noise and reverberations were almost deafening. In the midst of this grand amphitheater, rose a concretion about flfteen feet high, that, in some measure, resembled an altar; from which, taking the hint, we caused mass to be celebrated there. The beautiful columns that shot up around the altar appeared like candlesticks; and many other natural objects represented the customary ornaments of this rite. 13. “ Below even this spacious grotto, there seemed another cavern; down which I ventured with my former mariner, and descended about fifty paces, by means of a rope. I at last arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom appeared different from that of the amphitheater, being com- posed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and in which I thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. 14. “ In this, however, as above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed; one of which, particularly, resembled a table. Upon our egress from. this amazing cavern, we perceived a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, 64 NEW SIXTH READER. but so obliterated by time that we could not read it distinctly. It seems to import that one Antipater, in the time of Alex- ander, had come hither; but whether he penetrated into the depths of the cavern, he does not see fit to inform us.” This account of so beautiful and striking a scene may serve to give us some idea of the subterraneous wonders of nature. ii._the thunder-storm. From Thomson. James Thomson was born in Scotland, in 1700. His fame rests chiefly on the poem of The Seasons^’' which will ever be popular through its vivid descriptions of natural scenery. He died at Kew, in 1748. 1. As from the face of heaven the shattered clouds Tumultuous rove, the interminable sky Sublimer swells, and o’er the world expands A purer azure. 2. Through the lightened air A higher luster and a clearer calm, Diflfusive. tremble ; while, as if in sign Of danger past, a glittering robe of joy, Set oft' abundant by the yellow ray. Invests the fields ; and nature smiles revived. 3. ’T is beauty all, and grateful song around, Joined to the low of kine, and numerous bleat Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale; And shall the hymn be marred by thankless man, Most favored ; who, with voice articulate. Should lead the chorus of this lower world ? 4. Shall man, so soon forgetful of the Hand That hushed the thunder, and serenes the sky, Extinguished feel that spark the tempest waked. That sense of powers, exceeding far his own. Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears ? ECLECTIC SERIES. 65 III.— DESCRIPTION OF A STORM. From DTsraelt. DTsraelt is an English writer, who first distinguished himself as an author, but has, for several years, devoted himself to politics. He has been a member of the English ministry and of Parliament. 1. * * ^ They looked round on every side, and hope gave way before the scene of desolation. Immense branches were shivered from the largest trees ; small ones were entirely stripped of their leaves; the long grass was bowed to the earth ; the waters were whirled in eddies out of the little rivulets ; birds, leaving their nests to seek shelter in the crevices of the rocks, unable to stem the driving air, flapped their wings and fell upon the earth; the frightened animals of the plain, almost suffocated by the impetuosity of the wind, sought safety, and found destruction ; some of the largest trees were torn up by the roots; the sluices of the mountains were filled, and innumerable torrents rushed down the before empty gullies. The heavens now open, and the lightning and thunder contend with the horrors of the wind. 2. In a moment, all was again hushed. Dead silence suc- ceeded the bellow of the thunder, the roar of the wind, the rush of the waters, the moaning of the beasts, the screaming of the birds. Nothing was heard save the plash of the agitated lake, as it beat up against the black rocks which girt it in. 3. Again, greater darkness enveloped the trembling earth. Anon, the heavens were, rent with lightning, which nothing could have quenched but the descending deluge. Cataracts poured down from the lowering firmament. For an instant, the horses dashed madly forward ; beast and rider blinded and stifled by the gushing rain, and gasping for breath. Shelter was nowhere. The quivering beasts reared, and snorted, and sank upon their knees, dismounting their riders. 4. He had scarcely spoken, when there burst forth a terrific noise, they knew not what; a rush, they could not understand ; a vibration which shook them on their horses. Every terror sank before the roar of the cataract. It seemed that the 66 NEW SIXTH READER. mighty mountain, unable to support its weight of waters, shook to the foundation. A lake had burst upon its summit, and the cataract became a falling ocean. The source of the great deep appeared to be discharging itself over the range of mountains ; the great gray peak tottered on its foundation I — It shook ! — it fell ! and buried in its ruins, the castle, the vih bge, and the bridge ! IV.— HYMN TO THE NIGHT-WIND. 1. Unbridled Spirit, throned upon the lap Of ebon Midnight, whither dost thou stray ? Whence didst thou come, and where is thy abode? From slumber 1 aAvaken at the sound Of thy most melancholy voice ; sublime, Thou ridest on the rolling clouds, which take The form of sphinx, or hippogriff, or car. Like those of Roman conquerors of yore In Nemean pastimes used, by fiery steeds Drawn headlong on ; or choosest, all unseen, To ride the vault, and drive the murky storms Before thee, or bow down, with giant wing, The wondering forests as thou sweepest by ! 2. Daughter of Darkness ! when remote the noise Of tumult, and of discord, and mankind ; When but the watch-dog’s voice is heard, or wolves That bay the silent night, or from the tower. Ruined and rent, the note of boding c vl. Or lapwing’s shrill and solitary cry; AV^hen sleep weighs down the eyelids of the world, And life is as it were not; down the sky. Forth from thy cave, wide-roaming, thou dost come To hold nocturnal orgies. 3. Behold ! Stemming with eager prow the Atlantic tide. Holds on the intrepid mariner; abroad The wings of night brood shadowy; heave the waves Around him, mutinous, their curling heads. Portentous of a storm ; all hands are plied, A zealous task, and sounds the busy deck With notes of preparation ; many an eye Is upward cast toward the clouded heaven; ECLECTIC (SERIES. 67 And many a thought, with troubled tenderness Dwells on the calm tranquillity of home ; And many a heart its supplicating prayer Dreathes forth; meanwhile, the boldest sailor’s cheek Blanches; stout courage fails; young childhood’s shriek. Awfully piercing, bursts* and womans fears Are speechless. 4. With a low, insidious moan, Rush past the gales that harbinger thy way. And hail thy advent ; gloom the murky clouds Darker around; and heave the maddening waves Higher their crested summits. With a glare. Unveiling but the clouds and foaming sea. Flashes the lightning; then, with doubling peal, Reverberating to the gates of heaven, Rolls the deep thunder, with tremendous crash, Sublime as if the firmament were rent Amid the severing clouds that pour their storms, Commingling sea and sky. 5. Disturbed, arise The monsters of the deep, and wheel around Their mountainous bulk unwieldy, while aloft. Poised on the feathery summit of the wave. Hangs the frail bark, its bowlings of despair, Lost on the mocking storm. Then frantic, thou Dost rise, tremendous Power, thy wings unfurled, Unfurled, but not to succor nor to save : Then is thine hour of triumph ; with a yell Thou rushest on; and with a maniac tone Sing’st in the rifted shroud ; the straining mast Yields, and the cordage cracks. 6. Thou churn’ st the deep To madness, tearing up the yellow sands From their profound' recesses, and dost strew The clouds around thee, and within thy hand Tak’st up the billowy tide, and dashest down The vessel to destruction ! She is not ! — But when the morning lifts her dewy eye, And to a quiet calm, the elements. Subsiding from their fury, have dispersed. There art thou, like a satiate conqueror. Recumbent on the murmuring deep, thy smiles All unrepentant of the savage wreck. 68 NEW SIXTH READER. V.— THE CATARACT OF LODORE. From Southey. Robert Southey, a distinguished English poet, was born in Bristol, in 1774. He wrote upon a great variety of subjects, and was, in 1813, ap- pointed Poet Laureate, a post which he retained till his decease, in March, 1843. [This lesson is inserted on account of its very peculiar adaptation for practice on the difficult sound ing.'] How does the water Come down at Lodore ? From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For awhile, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds. Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade. And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry. Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling. And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in. Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent. It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along. Striking and raninir ECLECTIC SERIEIL GO As if a war Avaging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping. Showering and springing, Flying and flinging. Writhing and ringing. Eddying and AAdiisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound* Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding. Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting. Receding and speeding. And shocking and rocking. And darting and parting. And threading and spreading. And whizzing and hissing. And dripping and skipping. And hitting and splitting. And shining and tAvining, And rattling and battling. And shaking and quaking. And pouring and roaring. And waving and raving. And tossing and crossing. And. guggling and struggling. And heaving and cleaving. And moaning and groaning. And glittering and frittering. And gathering and feathering, And Avhitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering. And hurrying and skurrying. And thundering and floundering: Dividing and gliding and sliding. And falling and brawling and sprawlin^r, 6 70 NEW SIXTH READER. And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling: And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; xAnd so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending. All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar: And this way, the water comes down at Lodore. ON INFLECTION. The following exorcises to the 62d are, most of them, marked with the appropriate inflections, beginning with a few of the more simple principles, and gradually adding others. VI.— INDUSTRY NECESSARY FOR THE ORATOR. From H. Ware, Jr, 1. The history of the world is full of testimony to prove how much depends upon industry'; not an eminent author has lived but is an example' of it. Yet, in contradiction to all this', the almost universal feeling appears to be, that in- dustry can effect nothing', that eminence is the result of accident', and that every one must be content to remain just what he may happen to be'. Thus multitudes', who come forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be satisfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable medi- ocrity', without so much as inquiring how they might rise higher, much less making any attempt' to rise. 2. For any other art they would serve an apprenticeship, and would be ashamed to practice it in public', before they hav^ learned' it. If any one would sing', he attends a master, and is drilled in the very elementary principles'; and, only after the most laborious process, dares to exercise his voice in public'. This he does', though he has scarce any thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lies, in sensible forms, before his eye'. But the extempore speaker', who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an operation of the mind as well as to produce sound’, enters upon ECLECTIC SERIES. 71 the work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders *;hat he fails'. 3. If he were learning to play on the flute for public exhi- bition, what hours and days would he spend in giving facility to his fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and most impressive execution'. If he were devoting himself to the organ', what months and years would he labor, that he might know its compass, and be master of its keys', and be able to draw out, at will, all its various combinations of harmonious sounds', and its full richness and delicacy of expression . And yet, he will fancy, that the grandest, the most various, the most expressive of all instruments', which the infinite Creator has fashioned by the union of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech,' may be played upon without study or practice'. He comes to it a mere uninstructed tyro', and thinks to manage all its stops', and to command the whole compass of its varied and comprehensive power'. He finds himself a bungler in the attempt, is mortified at his failure', and settles in his mind forever, that he attempts in vain'. 4. Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, is always the reward of industry and pains'. But the in- stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who have degenerated wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their gifts', and made no effort to improve'. That there have never been other men of equal endowments with Cicero and Demosthenes', none would venture to suppose'. If those great men had been content, like others, to continue as they began, and had never made their persevering efforts of im- provement', their countries would have been little benefited by their genius, and the world would never have known their fame'. They would have been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sunk to oblivion around' them, 5. Of how many more will the same remark prove true' ! What encouragement is thus given to the industrious'/ With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negligence which suffers the most interesting and important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to the ground^ through mere sluggishness in the delivery' ! How unworthy of one who performs the high function of a religious instructor, upon 72 NEW SIXTH READER. whom depend, in a great measure, the religious knowledge', and devotional sentiment', and final character' of many fellow beings, to imagine that he can worthily discharge this great concern by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not how', and in a manner he has taken no pains to render cor- rect', or attractive*' ; and which, simply through that want of command over himself, which study would give, is immethod- ical', verbose', inaccurate', feeble', trifling'! It has been said of a great preacher. That truths divine come mended from his tongue'. Alas ! they come ruined and worthless from such a man as this'. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to con- vert the soul, and purify man for heaven, and sink, in interest and efficacy, below the level of those principles', which govern the ordinary affairs of this lower world'. Remark. — In the last paragraph, the words “knowledge,” “senti- ment,” “character,” and “ immethodical,” “verbose,” “feeble,’' &c., are embraced under the rule for series. See Rules X and XL VII.— THE OLD HOUSE-CLOCK. 1. O! the old, old clock of the household stock"", Was the brightest thing, and neatest'; Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold^, And its chimes rang still the sweetest'; ’T was a monitor, too, though its words Avere feAv^, Yet they lived, though nations altered'; And its voice, still strong, Avarned old and young/ When the voice of friendship faltered' : “Tick! tick!” it said, “quick, to bed': For ten I’A^e giA^en Avarning'!” Up! up! and go, or else you know^, You’ll never rise soon in the morning'!” 2. A friendly voice was that old, old clock^, As it stood in the corner smiling. And blessed the time Avith a merry chime, The wintry hours beguiling'; But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock^, As it called at day-break boldly'; When the dawn looked gray o’er the misty way' ECLECTIC SERIES 73 And the early air looked coldly' : “Tick! tick!” it said, “quick out of bed; For five I’ve given warning'; You’ll never have health, you’ll never have wealth^ Unless you’re up soon in the morning^!” 3. Still hourly the sound goes round and round^, With a tone that ceases never^; While fears are shed for bright days fled^, And the old friends lost forever ! Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone, That beat like ours, though stronger'; Its hands still move, though hands we love' Are clasped on earth no longer' ' “Tick! tick!” it said, “to the church-yard bed', The grave hath given warning'; Up! up! and rise^, and look at the skies, And prepare for a heavenly morning'!” VIIL— SCHEMES OF LIFE OFTEN ILLUSORY. From Dr. JoH^^soN. Dr. Samuel Johnson was born in Litchfield, England, in 1709. He went to London, in 1736, determined to devote himself to literature, and he maintained himself, principally, by writing for the magazines and other periodicals. After the publication of the Rambler and the English Dictionary^ he found himself indisputably at the head of his literary contemporaries. He died in 1784. 1. Omar, the gon of Hassan', had passed seventy-five years in honor and prosperity'. The favor of three successive caliphs had filled his house with gold and silver; and when- ever he appeared', the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage\ 2. Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance'. The brightness of the fiame is wasting its fuel' ; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odors'. The vigor of Omar began to fail'; the curls of beauty fell from his head'; strength departed from his hands, and agility from his feet'. He gave back to the caliph the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy ; and sought no other pleasure for the remainder of life than the converse of the wise and the gratitude of the good'. 74 NEW SIXTH READER. 3. The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caleb, the son of the viceroy of Egypt', entered every day early, and retired late'. He was beautiful and eloquent' : Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility. 4. “Tell me,” said Caleb, “thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia', tell me, how I may resemble Omar the prudent'. The arts by which thou hast gained power and preserved it, are to thee no longer necessary or useful ; impart to me' the secret of thy conduct, and teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy fortune'.” 5. “Young man',” said Omar, “it is of little use to form plans of life'. When I took my first survey, of the world, iu my twentieth year', having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude, I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar, which spread its branches over my head : ‘ Seventy years are allowed to man ; I have yet fifty remaining. 6. “ ‘ Ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowl- edge', and ten I will pass in foreign countries ; I shall be learned, and therefore shall be honored'; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friend- ship'. Twenty years thus passed, will store my mind with images, which I shall be busy, through the rest of my life, in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleas- ures for every moment, and shall never more be weary of myself. 7 . “ ‘ I will not, however, deviate too far from the beaten track of life' ; but will try what can be found in female deli- cacy'. I will marry a wife as beautiful as the houries', and wise as Zobeide'; and with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. 8. “ ‘I will then retire to a rural dwelling, pass my days in obscurity and contemplation ; and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolu- tion; that I will never depend on the smile of princes; that I ECLECTIC SERIES. 75 will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts; I will never pant for public honors, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state.’ Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory. 9. “ The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge', and I know not how I was diverted from my design'. I had no visible impediments without', nor any ungovernable passions within'. I regarded knowledge as the highest honor, and the most engaging pleasure' ; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished', and left nothing behind' them. 10. “I now postponed my purpose of traveling; for why should I go abroad', while so much remained to be learned at home'? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges : I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions, and I was commanded to stand at the footstool of the caliph. I was heard with attention ; I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my heart. 11. “I still wished to see distant countries; listened with rapture to the relations of travelers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty'; but my presence was always necessary, and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes, I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude ; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage. 12. “ In my fiftieth year', I began to suspect that the time of my traveling was past; and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic' pleasures. But, at fifty, no man easily finds a woman beau- tiful as the houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing left but retirement' ; and for retirement I never found a time', till disease forced me from public employment'. 13. “ Such was my scheme', and such has been its conse- quence'. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge', I trified away the years of improvement'; with a restless desire of 76 NEW SIXTH READER. seeing different countries', I have always resided in the same city' ; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity , I have lived unmarried' ; and with an unalterable resolution of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat'.” IX.— THE NEEDLE. 1. The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling In waltz or cotillon, at whist or quadrille; And seek admiration by vauntingly telling Of drawing, and painting, arid musical skill: But give me the fair one, in country or city^, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty^, While plying the needle with exquisite art : The bright little needle^, the swift-flying needle'^, The needle directed by beauty and art. 2. If Love have a potent, a magical tokeiL, A talisman, ever resistless and true^, A charm that is never evaded or broken^, A witchery certain the heart to subdue^, ’T is this^ ; and his armory never has furnished So keen and unerring, or polished a dart; Let beauty direct it, so polished and burnished', And 0 ! it is certain of touching the heart^ : The bright little needle', the swift-flying needle'. The needle directed by beauty and art'. 3. Be wise, then, ye maidens^, nor seek admiration^, By dressing for conquest, and flirting with alD; You never, whate’er be your fortune or station^, Appear half so lovely at rout or at balF, As gayly convened at the work-covered table. Each cheerfully active playing her part', Beguiling the task with a song or a fable^, And plying the. needle with exquisite art: The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. ECLECTIC SERIES. 77 X.— DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. From Dickens. Charles Dickens was born at Portsmouth, England in 1812. He was, perhaps, the most popular writer of his day. His works are nu- merous and are admired for their accurate delineation of English life. He died in 1870. The following is from “The Old Curiosity Shop.’' 1. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm', so free from trace of pain', so fair to look' upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life'; not one who had lived', and suffered death'. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. When I die', put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always'.” These were her words. 2. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead^. Her little bird, a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly in its cage', and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever'! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues'? All gone'. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. 3. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes'! the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face'; it had passed, like a dreamt through haunts of misery and care'; at the door of the poor school-master on the summer evening', before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night', at the still bedside of the dying boy', there had been the same mild and lovely look. So shall we know the angels, in their majesty, after death. 4. The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile'; the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings'. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now, and, as be said it, he looked in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. 7 ’ 78 NEW SIXTH READER. 5. She was dead, and past all help, or need of help. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast', the garden she had tended', the eyes she had gladdened', the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour', the paths she had trodden, as it were, but yesterday, could know her no more'. 6. “It is not,” said the school-master, as he bent down to- kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, “it is not in this world that Heaven’s justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish, ex- pressed in solemn tones above this bed, could call her back to life', which of us would utter it?” 7. She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after day-break. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but, as the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man ; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped them, and used them kindly ; for she often said “ Grod bless you!” with great fervor. 8. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful music, which, she said, was in the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her eyes, at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face, such, they said, as they had never seen, and could never forget, and clung, with both her arms, about his neck. She had never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them, faded like the light upon the summer’s evening. 9. The child who had been her little friend, came there, almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers, which he begged them to lay upon her breast. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her : saying, that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young ECLECTIC SERIES. 79 brother all day long, when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish ; and, indeed, he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all. 10. Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once, ex- cept to her, or stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them alone together. 11. Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child per- suaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And, when the day came, on which they must remove her, in her earthly shape, from earthly eyes for- ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. 12. And now the bell, the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and' listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice, rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, — on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life, gathered round her. Old men were, there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing, grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old, the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead, in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave. 13. Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fieeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when- Heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade. 80 NEW SIXTH READER. XL— ROMANTIC STORY. Stalactites; [pro. sta-lac^tites,) lime in the shape of icicles, formed by drippings, and hanging from the roof. Fiji; [pro. Fee^jee,) a cluster of islands in the South Pacific. 1. There is a cavern in the island of Hoonga, one of the Tonga islands, in the South Pacific Ocean, which can only be entered by diving into the sea', and which has no other light than that which is refiected from the bottom of the water. A young chief discovered it accidentally, while diving after a turtle', and the use which he made of his discovery, will probably be sung in more than one European language', so beautifully is it adapted for a tale in verse. 2. There was a tyrannical governor at Hoonga, against whom one of the chiefs formed a plan of insurrection. It was betrayed', and the chief, with all his family and kin, was ordered to be destroyed'. He had a beautiful daughter, betrothed to a chief of high rank, and she also was included' in the sentence. The youth who had found the cavern, and had kept the secret to himself, loved' this damsel. He told her the danger in time, and persuaded her to trust to him. They got into a canoe ; the place of her retreat was described to her on the way to it, — these women swim like mermaids', — she dived after him', and rose in the cavern'. In the widest part it is about fifty feet'; its medium height being about the same, and it is hung with stalactites. 3. Here, he brought her the choicest food', the finest clothing', mats for her bed', and sandal-oil to perfume her- self with. Here, he visited her as often as was consistent with prudence, and here, as may be imagined, this Tonga Leander wooed and won the maid, whom, to make the inter- est complete, he had long loved in secret, when he had no hope'. Meantime he prepared, with all his dependents, male and female, to emigrate in secret to the Fiji islands. 4. The intention was so well concealed, that they em- barked in safety', and his people asked him, at the point of their departure, if he would not take with him a Tonga wife'; and, accordingly, to their great astonishment, having steered close to the rock, he desired them to wait while he ECLECTIC SERIES. 81 went into tlie sea to fetcli' her, jumped overboard, and just as they were beginning to be seriously alarmed at his long disappearance', he rose with his mistress from the water. This story is not deficient in that which all such stories should have', to be perfectly delightful' ; a fortunate con- clusion. The party remained at the Fijis till the oppressor died', and then returned to Hoonga, where they enjoyed a long and happy life. XIL— THE LONE INDIAN. Mohawks; a tribe of Indians who formerly lived in the state of New York. 1. For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned ; but, just thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed old and wayworn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Powontonamo'; he who had once been the eagle of the Mohawks. He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. 2. Alas ! the white man’s ax' had been there. The tree that he had planted was dead' ; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only things left in the wide world for him to love', and they were gone. 3. He looked abroad. The hunting-land of his tribe was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now shot down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. The English- man’s road wound like a serpent around the banks of the Mohawk'; and iron hoofs had so beaten down the war-path, that a hawk’s eye could not discover an Indian track. The last wigwam was destroyed' ; and the sun looked boldly down 82 NEW SIXTH READER. upon spots he had only visited by stealth', during thousands and thousands of moons. 4. The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning of autumn' ; the long line of heavy clouds melting away before the evening sun' ; and the distant mountain, seen through the blue mist of departing twilight', alone remained as he had seen them in his boyhood. All things spoke a sad language to the heart of the desolate Indian. “Yes',” said he, “ the young oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunny-eye. They are cut down', torn' and trampled' on. The leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering like my people. I wish I could once more see the trees standing thick, as they did when my mother held me to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of the Mohawks.” 5. A mingled expression of grief and anger passed over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its passage across the stream. “ The white man carries food to his wife and children, and he finds them in his home',” said he; “where are the squaw and papoose of the red' man ? They are here'!” As he spoke, he fixed his eye thoughtfully on the grave. After a gloomy silence, he again looked round upon the fair scene, with a wandering and troubled gaze. “ The pale' face may like it,” murmured he; “but an Indian' can not die here in peace'.” So saying', he broke his bow- string , snapped his arrows', threw them on the burial-place of his fathers', and departed forever'. Remark. — The words “ down/’ “torn,” and “trampled,” in the last paragraph but one, and “string,” “arrows,” “fathers,” and “for- ever,” in the last paragraph, are examples of inflection which may, perhaps, more appropriately come under the head of “series;” but, by examining them, it will be found, that the rule which gives them the falling inflection wherever the sense is complete, and that which requires the last but one to be the rising inflection, are applicable in these cases. Indeed, the rule for series is substantially the com- bination of these two principles, with that of emphasis, as laid down in Rule II ECLECTIC SERIES. 83 XIII.— TO THE DEAD. From Brainard. John G. C. Brainard was born in Connecticut, in 1796, and was edu- cated for the bar. In the circumstances of his life and death, he re- minds one of Henry Kirke White; but as a poet, he was very much White's superior. He died of consumption, in New London, Conn., in 1828. 1. How many now are dead to me^ That live to others jetM How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look, which we. Till dead, can ne’er forget. 2. Beyond the blue seas, far away, Most wretchedly alone. One died in prison\ far away. Where stone on stone shut out the day, And never hope or comfort’s ray In his lone dungeon shone. 3. Dead to the world\ alive to me^. Though months and years have passed' In a lone hour, his sigh to me Comes like the hum of some wild bee^, And then his form and face 1 see, As when I saw Kim last. 4. And one, with a bright lip, and cheek. And eye, is dead' to me. How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek' • His lip was cold^ — it would not speak: His heart was dead — for it did not break, And his eye^, for it did not see\ 5. Then for the living^ be the tomb^, And for the deadf^ the smile', Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloom; Dim is such glare ; but bright the bloom Around the funeral pile. 84 NEW SIXTH READER. XIV.— THE MUSIC OF NATURE. From Willis. Nathaniel P. Willis, an American poet, was born in Portland, in 1807, but soon removed to Boston. He is the author of many populai prose and poetical works, and was, for many years, connected witl. various periodicals at New York. He died in 1867. 1. There is a melancholy music in autumn. The leaves float sadly about with a look of peculiar desolation', waving capriciously in the wind, and falling with a just audible sound, that is a very sigh for its sadness. And then, when the breeze is fresher, though the early autumn months are mostly still, they are swept on with a cheerful rustle over the naked harvest fields, and about in the eddies of the blast'; and though I have, sometimes, in the glow of exer- cise, felt my life securer in the triumph of the brave contest, yet, in the chill of the evening, or when any sickness of the mind or body was on me, the moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down my heart like a sorrow', and the cheerful fire, and the voices of my many sisters, might scarce remove' it. 2. Then for the music of winter^. I love to listen to the falling of snow. It is an unobtrusive and sweet' music. You may temper your heart to the serenest mood, by its low murmur. It is that kind of music, that only obtrudes upon your ear when your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it, if your mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where music is intuitive like a thought', and comes only when it is remembered. 3. And the /ros^' too has a melodious “ ministry. You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the moonbeams were splintering like arrows on the ground' ; and you will listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on of one of the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a crystal. God has hidden its principle as yet from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen, in mute wonder, to the noise of its invisible workmanship. ECLECTIC SERIES. 85 It is too fine a knowledge for us. We shall comprehend it, when we know how the morning stars sang together. 4. You would hardly look for music in the dreariness of early winter. But, before the keener frosts set in, and while the warm winds are yet stealing back occasionally, like re- grets of the departed summer, there will come a soft rain oi a heavy mist', and when the north wind returns^, there will be drops suspended like ear-ring jewels, between the fila- ments of the cedar tassels, and in the feathery edges of the dark green hemlocks', and, if the clearing up is not followed by the heavy wind', they will be all frozen in their places like well set gems. The next morning, the warm sun comes out', and by the middle of the varm dazzling fore- noon', they are all loosened from the close touch which sus- tained them, and they will drop at the lightest motion. 5. If you go upon the south side of the wood at that hour, you will hear music. The dry foliage of the summer’s shedding is scattered over the ground', and the round, hard drops ring out clearly and distinctly, as they are shaken down with the stirring of the breeze. It is something like the running of deep and rapid water', only more fitful' and merrier'; but to one who goes out in nature with his heart open', it is a pleasant music', and, in contrast with the stern character of the season, delightful. 6. Winter has many other sounds that give pleasure to the seeker for hidden sweetness'; but they are too rare and accidental to be described distinctly. The brooks have a sullen and muffled murmur under their frozen surface' ; the ice in the distant river heaves up with the swell of the current', and falls again to the bank with a prolonged echo' ; and the woodman’s ax rings cheerfully out from the bosom of the unrobed forest. These are, at best, however, but melancholy' sounds, and, like all that meets the eye in that cheerless season, they but drive in the heart upon itself. I believe it is ordered in God’s wisdom. We forget'' ourselves in the enticement of the sweet summer. Its music and its loveliness win away the senses that link up the affections', and we need a hand to turn us back tenderly, and hide from us the outward idols', in whose worship we are forgetting the high and more spiritual altars. 86 NEW SIXTH READER. XV.— THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. From Longfellow. Henry W. Longfellow was born in Portland, in 1807, and entered Bowdoin College at the age of fourteen. He held a professorship of modern languages in the same institution, and in 1836 received the ap- pointment to a professorship of the same kind in Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass. His reputation as a writer is well known. He may be ranked among the first poets of the age. 1. Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands^ ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands^; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. 2. His hair is crisp, and black, and loiig\ His face is like the tan^ ; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate’er he can. And looks the Avhole world in the face, For he owes not any man. 3. Week in^, week ouU, from morn^ till night\ You can hear his bellows blow'; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow', ‘ Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. 4. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door^ ; They love to sec the flaming forge^, And hear the bellows roar', iVnd catch the burning sparks that fly lake chafi* from a threshing-floor. 5. He goes, on Sunday to the church. And sits among his boys' ; He hears the parson pray and preach', He hears his daughter’s voice. Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. 6. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise'^ 1 ECLECTIC SERIES. 87 He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies' ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. 7. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes' ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close' ; Something attempted, something done Has earned a night’s repose. 8i Thanks', thanks to thee, mj worthy friend^, For the lesson thou hast taught' ! Thus at the darning forge of life^ Our fortunes must be wrought' ; Thus on its sounding anviF shaped Each burning deed and thought' ! XVI.— THE THUNDER-STORM. From George D. Prentice. 1. I NEVER was a man of feeble courage. There are few scenes of either human or elemental strife', upon which I have not looked with a brow of daring'. I have stood in the front of the battle when the swords were gleaming and circling around me like fiery serpents in the air'. I have seen these things with a swelling soul, that knew not, that recked not danger. 2. But there is something in the thunder’s voice, that makes me tremble like a child. I have tried to overcome this unmanly weakness. I have called pride to my aid'; / have sought for moral courage in the lessons of philosophy, but it avails me nothing. At the first low moaning of the distant cloud', my heart shrinks and dies within me. 3. My involuntary dread of thunder had its origin in an incident that occurred when I was a boy of ten years. I had a little cousin, a girl of the same age with myself, who had been the constant companion of my youth. Strange, that, after the lapse of many years, that occurrence should be so familiar to me'! I can see the bright yoflng creature', her 88 NEW SIXTH READER. eyes flashing like a beautiful gem', her free locks streaming as in joy upon the rising gale', and her cheeks glowing like a ruby', through a wreath of transparent snow . 4. Her voice had the melody and joyousness of a bird’s', and when she bounded over the wooded hill or fresh green valley, shouting a glad answer to every voice of nature, and clapping her little hands in the ecstasy of young existence', she looked as if breaking away, like a free nightingale, from the earth, and going off where all things are beautiful like her'. 5. It was a morning in the middle of August. The little girl had been passing some days at my father’s house, and she was now to return home. Her path lay across the flelds, and gladly I became the companion of her walk. I never knew a summer morning more beautiful and still. Only one little cloud was visible, and that seemed as pure, and white, and peaceful', as if it had been the incense-smoke of some burning censer of the skies. 6. The leaves hung silent in the woods , the waters in the bay had forgotten their undulations', the flowers were bending their heads, as if dreaming of the rainbow and dew', and the whole atmosphere was of such a soft and luxurious sweetness', that it seemed a cloud of roses scattered down by the hands of Peri, from the afar-off garden of Paradise'. The green earth and the blue sea lay around, in their bound- lessness, and the peaceful sky bent over and kissed them. 7. The little creature at my side was in a delirium of happiness, and her clear, sweet voice came ringing upon the air as often as she heard the tones of a favorite bird, or found some strange and lovely flower in her frolic wander- ings. The unbroken and almost supernatural stillness of the day continued until noon. Then, for the flrst time, the indications of an approaching tempest became manifest. 8. On the summit of a mountain, at the distance of about a mile, Ihe folds of a dark cloud became suddenly visible, and, at the same instant, a hollow roar came down upon the winds, as if it had been llic sound of waves in a rocky cavern. The cloud rolled out like a banner unfolded upon the air, but still the atmosphere was as calm, and the leaves as motionless as before ; and there was not even a ECLECTIC SERIES. 80 quiver among the sleeping waters, to tell of the coming hur- ricane. 9. To escape the tempest was impossible. As the only resort, we fled to an oak that stood at the foot of a tall and ragged precipice. Here we stood, and gazed almost breath- lessly upon the clouds, marshaling themselves like bloody giants in the sky. The thunder was not frequent, but every burst was so fearful', that the young creature who stood by me, shut her eyes convulsively, and clung with desperate strength to my arm, and shrieked as if her heart would break. 10. A few minutes, and the storm was upon us. During the height of its fury, the little girl lifted her finger toward the precipice that towered over us. I looked, and saw there a purple light. And the next moment, the clouds opened, the rocks tottered to their foundations, a roar like the groan of the universe filled the air, and I felt myself blinded, and thrown, I know not whither. How long I remained insensible, I can not tell' ; but when consciousness returned, the violence of the tempest was abating, the roar of the winds was dying in the tree-tops, and the deep tones of thunder-clouds came in fainter murmurs from the eastern hills. 11. I arose, and looked tremblingly and almost deliriously around. She was there, the dear idol of my infant love, stretched out upon the green earth. After a moment of irresolution, I went up and looked upon her. The handker- chief upon her neck was slightly rent, and a single dark spot upon her bosom told where the pathway of death had been. At first, I clasped her to my breast with a cry of agony, and then laid her down, and gazed upon her face almost with feelings of calmness. 12. Her bright, disheveled hair clustered sweetly around her brow; the look of terror had faded from her lips, and infant smiles were pictured there ; the rose tinge upon her cheeks was lovely as in life; and, as I pressed them to my own, the fountains of tears were opened, and I wept as if my heart were waters. I have but a dim recollection of what followed. I only know, that 1 remained weeping and motionless till the coming twilight, and T was taken tenderly 90 NEW SIXTH READER. by the hand, and led away where I saw the countenances of parents and sister. 13. Many years have gone by on the wings of light and shadow, but the scenes I have portrayed still come over me, at tim^s, with terrible distinctness. The oak yet stands at the base of the precipice, but its limbs are black and dead, and the hollow trunk looking upward to the sky, as if “ calling to the clouds for drink,” is an emblem of rapid and noiseless decay. 14. A year ago, I visited the spot, and the thought of by- gone years came mournfully back to me. I thought of the little innocent being who fell by my side, like some beautiful tree of spring, rent up by the whirlwind in the midst of blossoming. But I remembered^ and 0, there was joy in the memory, that she had gone where no lightnings slumber in the folds of the rainbow cloud, and where the sun-lit waters are broken only by the storm-breath of Omnipotence. XVIL— THE ARTIST SURPRISED. 1. It may not be known to all the admirers of the genius of Albrecht Dtirer, that that famous engraver was endowed with a “better half,” so peevish in temper, that she was the torment not only of his own life, but also of his pupils and domestics. Some of the former were cunning enough to purchase peace for themselves by conciliating the common tyrant, but woe to those unwilling or unaole to offer aught in propitiation. Even the wiser ones were spared only by having their offenses visited upon a scape-goat. 2. This unfortunate individual was Samuel Duhobret, a disciple whom Diirer had admitted into his school out of charity. He was employed in painting signs and the coarser tapestry then used in Grerniany. He was about forty years of age, little, ugly, and humpbacked; he was the butt of every ill joke among his fellow disciples, and was picked out as an object of especial dislike by Madailie Durer. But he bore all with patience, and ate, without complaiht, the scanty crusts given him every day for dinner, while his companions often fared sumptuously. ECLECTIC SERIES. 91 3. Poor Samuel had not a spice of envy or malice in his heart. He would, at any time, have toiled half the night to assist or serve those who were wont oftenest to laugh at him, or abuse him loudest for his stupidity. True, he had not the qualities of sociarl humor or wit, but he was an example of indefatigable industry. He came to his studies every morn- ing at day-break, and remained at work until sunset. Then he retired into his lonely chamber, and wrought for his own amusement. 4. Duhobret labored three years in this way, giving him- self no time for exercise or recreation. He said nothing to a single human being of the paintings be had produced in the solitude of his cell, by the light of his lamp. But his bodily energies wasted and declined under incessant toil. There were none sufficiently interested in the poor artist, to mark the feverish hue of his wrinkled cheek, or the increasing attenuation of his misshapen frame. 5. None observed that the uninviting pittance set aside for his midday repast, remained for several days untouched. Samuel made his appearance regularly as ever, and bore, with the same meekness, the gibes of his fellow-pupils, or the taunts of Madame Biirer, and worked with the same un- tiring assiduity, though his hands would sometimes tremble, and his eyes become suffused, a weakness probably owing to the excessive use he had made of them. 6. One morning, Duhobret was missing at the scene of his daily labors. His absence created much remark, and many' were the jokes passed upon the occasion. One sur- mised this, and another that, as the cause of the phenom- enon; and it was finally agreed that the poor fellow must have worked himself into an absolute skeleton, and taken his final stand in the glass frame of some apothecary, or been blown away by a puff of wind, while his door happened to stand open. No one thought of going to his lodgings to look after him or his remains. 7. Meanwhile, the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed of sickness. Disease, which had been slowly sapping the foundations of his strength, burned in every vein ; his eyes rolled and flashed in delirium; his lips, usually so silent, muttered wild and incoherent words. In his days of 92 NEW SIXTH READER. healtli, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, rich or poor, will sometimes have. He had thought that the fruit of many years’ labor, disposed of to advantage, might pro- cure him enough to live, in an economical way, for the rest of his life. He never anticipated fame or fortune ; the height of his ambition or hope was, to possess a tenement large enough to shelter him from the inclemencies of the weather, with means enough to purchase one comfortable meal per day. 8. Now, alas! however, even that one hope had deserted him. He thought himself dying, and thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon him, without the words of comfort that might soothe his passage to another world. He fancied his bed surrounded by fiendish- faces, grinning at his sufferings, and taunting his inability to summon power to disperse them. At length the apparitions faded away, and the patient sunk into an exhausted slumber. 9. He awoke unrefreshed ; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected. His mouth was parched; he turned over, and feebly stretched out his hand toward the earthen pitcher, from which, since the first day of his illness, he had quenched his thirst. Alas ! it was empty ! Samuel lay for a few moments thinking what he should do. He knew he must die of want, if he remained there alone ; but to whom could he apply for aid in procuring sustenance? 10. An idea seemed, at last, to strike him. He arose slowly, and with difiiculty, from the bed, went to the other side of the room, and took up the picture he had painted last. He resolved to carry it to the shop of a salesman, and hoped to obtain for it sufiicient to furnish him with the necessaries of life for a week longer. Despair lent him strength to walk, and to carry his burden. On his way, he passed a house, about which there was a crowd. He drew nigh; asked what was going on, and received for an answer, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art, col- lected by an amateur in the course of thirty years. It has often happened that collections made Avith infinite pains by the proprietor, were sold without mercy or discrimination after his death. 11. Something, whispenid to the weary Duhobret, that here ECLECTIC SERIES. 93 would be the market for Ills picture. It was a long way yet to the house of the picture-dealer, and he made up his mind at once. He worked his way through the crowd, dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries, found the auctioneer. That personage was a busy, important-like man, with a handful of papers; he was inclined to notice some- what roughly the interruption of the lean, sallow hunch- back, imploring as were his gesture and language. 12. ‘‘What do you call your picture?” at length, said he carefully looking at it. “It is a view of the Abbey of New- bourg, with its village, and the surrounding landscape,” replied the eager and trembling artist. 18. The auctioneer again scanned it contemptuously, and asked what it was worth. “Oh, that is what you please; whatever it will bring,” answered Huhobret. “Hem! it is too odd to please, I should think; I can promise you no more than three thalers.” 14. Poor Samuel sighed deeply. He had spent on that piece the nights of many months. But he was starving now; and the, pitiful sum offered would give bread for a few days. He nodded his head to the auctioneer, and retiring took his seat in a corner. 15. The sale began. After some paintings and engravings had been disposed of, SamueTs was exhibited. “Who bids at three thalers? Who bids?” was the cry. Huhobret list- ened eagerly^ but none answered. “Will it find a pur- chaser?” said he, despondingly, to himself. Still there was a dead silence. He dared not look up ; for it seemed to him that all the people were laughing at the folly of the artist, who could be insane enough to offer so worthless a piece at a public sale. 16. “What will become of me?” was his mental inquiry. “That work is certainly my best;” and he ventured to steal another glance. “ Hoes it not seem that the wind actually stirs those boughs and moves those leaves ! How trans- parent is the water! What life breathes in the animals that quench their thirst at that spring ! How that steeple shines ! How beautiful are those clustering trees !” This was the last expiring throb of an artist’s vanity. The ominous silence con- tinued, and Samuel, sick at heart, buried his face in his hands. 8 94 SIXTH READER. 17. “Twenty-one thalers!” murmured a faint voice, just as the auctioneer was about to knock down the picture. The stupefied painter gave a start oif joy. He raised his head and looked to see from whose lips those blessed words had come. It was the picture-dealer, to whom he had first thought of applying. 18. “Fifty thalers,” cried a sonorous voice. This time a tall man in black was the speaker. There was a silence of hushed expectation. “One hundred thalers,” at length thundered the picture-dealer. 19. “Three hundred!” “Five hundred!” “One thou- sand!” Another profound silence, and the crowd pressed around the two opponents, who stood opposite each other with eager and angry looks. 20. “Two thousand thalers!” cried the picture-dealer, and glanced around him triumphantly, when he saw his adversary hesitate. “ Ten thousand ! ” vociferated the tall man, his face crimson with rage, and his hands clinched con- vulsively. The dealer grew paler; his frame shook with agitation ; he made two or three efforts, and at last cried out “ Twenty thousand ! ” 21. His tall opponent was not to be vanquished. He bid forty thousand. The dealer stopped; the other laughed a low laugh of insolent triumph, and a murmur of admiration was heard in the crowd. It was too much for the dealer; he felt his peace was at stake. “Fifty thousand!” exclaimed he in desperation. It was the tall man’s turn to hesitate. Again the whole crowd were breathless. At length, tossing his arms in defiance, he shouted “One hundred thousand!’^ The crest-fallen picture-dealer withdrew; the tall man vic- toriously bore away the prize. 22. How was it, meanwhile, with Duhobret, while this ex- citing scene was going on? He was hardly master of his senses. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and murmured to himself, “After such a dream, my misery will seem more cruel!” When the contest ceased, he rose up bewildered, and went about asking first one, then another, the price of fhe picture just sold. It seemed that his apprehension could not at once be enlarged to so vast a conception. 23. The possessor was proceeding homeward, when a de« ECLECTIC SERIES. 95 crepit, lame, and humpbacked invalid, tottering along by the aid of a stick, presented himself before him. He threw him a piece of money, and waved his hand as dispensing with his thanks. May it please your honor,” said the supposed beg- gar, “ I am the painter of that picture ! ” and again he rubbed his eyes. 24. The tall man was Count Dunkelsback, one of the richest noblemen in Grermany. He stopped, took out his pocket-book, tore out a leaf, and wrote on it a few lines. Take it, friend,” said he; “it is a check for your money. Adieu.” 25. Duhobret finally persuaded himself that it was not a dream. He became the master of a castle, sold it, and resolved to live luxuriously for the rest of his life, and to cultivate painting as a pastime. But, alas, for the vanity of human expectation ! He had borne privation and toil ; pros- perity was too much for him, as was proved soon after, when an indigestion carried him off. His picture remained long in the cabinet of Count Dunkelsback, and afterward passed into the possession of the King of Bavaria. XVIII.— THE CHINESE PRISONER. 1. A CERTAIN emperor of China, on his accession to the throne of his ancestors, commanded a general release of all those who were confined in prison for debt. Among that number was an old man, who had fallen an early victim to adversity', and whose days of imprisonment, reckoned by the notches he had cut on the door of his gloomy cell, expressed the annual circuit of more than fifty suns. 2. With trembling hands and faltering steps, he departed from his mansion of sorrow' ; his eyes were dazzled with the splendor of light', and the face of nature presented to his view a perfect paradise. The jail in which he had been im- prisoned, stood at some distance from Pekin', and to that city he directed his course, impatient to enjoy the caresses of his wife, his children, and his friends. 3. Having with difiiculty found his way to the street in 96 NEW SIXTH READER. which his decent mansion had formerly stood, his heart be- came more and more elated at every step he advanced. With joy he proceeded, looking eagerly around; but he observed few of the objects with which he had been formerly con- versant. A magnificent edifice was erected on the site of the house which he had inhabited' ; the dwellings of his neighbors had assumed a new form'; and he beheld not a single face of which he had the least remembrance. 4. An aged beggar, who, with trembling limbs, stood at the gate of an ancient portico, from which he had been thrust by the insolent domestic who guarded it, struck his attention. He stopped, therefore, to give him a small pittance out of the amount of the bounty with which he had been supplied by the emperor', and received, in return, the sad tidings, that his wife had fallen a lingering sacrifice to penury and sorrow' ; that his children were gone to seek their fortunes in distant or unknown climes' ; and that the grave contained his nearest and most valued friends. 5. Overwhelmed with anguish, he hastened to the palace of his sovereign, into whose presence his hoary locks and mournful visage soon obtained admission' ; and, casting him- self at the feet of the emperor, “Great Prince',” he cried, “ send me back to that prison from which mistaken mercy has delivered' me ! I have survived my family and friends', and even in the midst of this populous city, I find myself in a dreary solitude. The cell of my dungeon protected me from the gazers at my wretchedness'; and while secluded from society, I was the less sensible of the loss of its enjoyments. I am now^ tortured with the view of pleasure in which I can not participate'; and die with thirst, though streams of de- light surround' me.” XIX.— A HIGHLAND FEUD. Highlands; the northern part of Scotland, so called because of the mountainous character of that region. i. A DEADLY feud subsisted, almost from time immemo- rial, between the families of Maepherson of Bendearg, and Grant of Cairn', and was handed down unimpaired even to ECLECTIC SERIES. 97 the close of the last century'. In the earlier times, the warlike chiefs of these names found frequent opportunities of testifying their mutual animosity'; and few inheritors of the fatal quarrel left the world, without having moistened it with the blood of some of their hereditary enemies. But, in our own day, the progress of civilization, which had reached even these wild countries, the heart of the North Highlands, although it could not extinguish entirely the transmitted spirit of revenge, at least kept it within safe bounds'; and the feud of Macpherson and Grrant threatened, in the course of another generation, to die entirely away. 2. It was not, however, without some ebullitions of ancient fierceness, that the flame, which had burned for so many centuries, seemed about to expire. Once, at a meeting of country gentlemen, on a question of privilege arising, Bendearg took occasion to throw out some taunts, aimed at his hereditary foe, which the fiery Grrant immedi- ately received as a signal of defiance, and a challenge' was the consequence. The sherifi* of the county, however, having got intimation of the affair, put both parties under arrest'; till at length, by the persuasion of their friends , — not friends hy bloody — and the representations of the magistrate, they shook hands, and each pledged"^ himself to forget the ancient feud of his family. 3. This occurrence, at the time, was the object of much interest in the country-side'; the rather, that if seemed to give the lie to the prophecies, of which every Highland fam- ily has an ample stock in its traditionary chronicles, and which expressly predicted, that the enmity of Cairn and Bendearg should not be quenched but in blood. On the seemingly cross-grained circumstance of their reconciliation, some of the young men were seen to shake their heads, as they reflected on the faith and tales of their ancestors'; but the gray-headed seers shook theirs still more wisely^y and answered with the motto of a noble house', — “ I bide mv time.” 4. There is a narrow pass between the mountains, in the neighborhood of Bendearg, well known to the traveler who adventures into these wilds, in quest of the savage sublimi- ties of nature'. At a little distance, it has the appearance 98 NEW SIXTH READER. of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a tremendous chasm, but, on nearer approach, is seen to be a wall of nature’s own masonry, formed of vast and rugged bodies of solid rock, piled on each other as if in the giant sport of the architect. Its sides are, in some places, covered with trees of a considerable size'; and the passenger, who has a head steady enough to look down the precipice, may see the aeries of birds of prey beneath his feet. The path across is so narrow, that it can not admit of two persons passing along-side'; and, indeed, none but natives, accustomed to the scene from infancy, would attempt the dangerous route at all', though it saves a circuit of three miles. Yet it some- times happens, that two travelers meet in the middle, owing to the curve formed by the pass preventing a view from either side', and, when this is the case, one is obliged to lie down, while the other crawls over his body. 5. One day, shortly after the incident we have men- tioned, a Highlander was walking fearlessly along the pass; sometimes bending over to watch the flight of wild birds that built below', and sometimes pushing a fragment from the top, to see it dashed against the uneven sides, and bounding from rock to rock, until the echo of its rebound died in faint and hollow murmurs at the bottom. When he had gained the highest part of the arch, he observed another coming leisurely up on the opposite' side, and being himself of the patrician order, called out to him to halt and lie down. The person, however, disregarded the command', and the High- landers met, face to face, on the summit. 6. They were Grant and Macpherson' ; the two hereditary enemies, who would have gloried and rejoiced in mortal strife with each other, on a hill-side. They turned deadly pale at this fatal rencounter. “I was first at the top,” said Macpherson, “ and called out first. Lie down', that I may pass over in peace'.” “When the Grant prostrates himself before Macpherson,” answered the other, “it must be with the sword driven through his body.” “Turn back', then,” said Macpherson, “and repass as you came.” “Go back yourself', if you like it,” replied Grant; “I will not be th.^ first of my name to turn before the Macpherson.” 7. This was their short conference', and the result ex ECLECTIC SERIES. 99 actly as each had anticipated. They then threw their bon- nets over the precipice', and advanced, with a slow and cautious pace, closer to each other. They were both un- armed'; and, stretching their limbs like men preparing for a desperate struggle, they planted their feet firmly on the ground, compressed their lips, knit their dark brows, and, fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood there, prepared for the onset'. 8. They both grappled at the same moment' ; but being of equal strength, were unable for some time to shift each other’s position, and remained standing fixed on a rock with sup- pressed breath, and muscles strained to the “ top of their bent,” like statues carved out of the solid stone. At length, Macpherson, suddenly removing his right foot, so as to give him a greater purchase, stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with him by main strength, till they both leaned over the precipice, looking downward into the ter- rible abyss. The contest was as yet doubtful', for Grant had placed his foot firmly on an elevation at the brink, and had equal command of his enemy' ; but, at this mo- ment, Macpherson sank slowly and firmly on his knee', and while Grant suddenly started back, stooping to take the supposed advantage, he whirled him over his head into the gulf below. Macpherson himself fell backward, his body hanging partly over the rock'; a fragment gave way be- neath him, and he sank further, till, catching with a des- perate effort at the solid stone above, he regained his footing. 9. There was a pause of death-like stillness, and the bold heart of Macpherson felt sick and faint. At length, as if compelled unwillingly by some mysterious feeling, he looked clown over the precipice. Grant had caught, with a death-gripe, by the rugged point of a rock' ; his enemy was almost within his reach ! his face was turned upward, and there were in it horror and despair'; but he uttered no word or cry. The next moment, he loosed his hold' ; and the next, his brains were dashed out before the eyes of his heredi- tary foe. The mangled body disappeared among the trees', and its last heavy and hollow sound arose from the bottom. Macpherson returned home an altered man. He purchased a commission in the army, and fell in the wars of the Peninsula. 100 NEW SIXTH READER. XX.— THE HOUR OF PRAYER From Mrs. Hemans. Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, Eng., in 1793, and educated in Wales, that region of mountainous scenery. At the age of 15, her first poems were published. At 19, she was married to Captain Hemans, but the union was unhappy, and they separated. She died ill Dublin, at the house of her brother, in 1835. Her poems are full of pathos, tenderness, and beauty. J. Child^, amid the flowers at play, While the red light fades away^; Mother^, with thine earnest eye, Ever following silently^; Father^, by the breeze at eve Called thy harvest work to leave^; Fray'll Ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart, and bend the knee'^. 2. Traveler^, in the stranger’s land. Far from thine own household band^; Mourner^, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone^; Captive^, in whose narroAV cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwelF; Sailor^, on the darkening sea^; Lift the heart, and bend the kneo 3. Warrior^, that from battle won, Breathest now at set of suiF; Woman^, o’er the lowly slain Weeping on his burial plain^; Ye that triumph^, ye that siglF, Kindred by one holy tie^. Heaven’s first star alike ye see\ Lift the hearC, and bend the kneeL XXT.— PROSPECTS OF THE CHEROKEES. Tn this lesson, the inflections belonging to interrogative sentences^ may be noticed. 1. Whither are the Cherokees to go'? What are the benefits' of the change? What system' has been matured for their security? What laws' for their government'? ECLECTIC SERIES. 101 These questions are answered only by gilded promises in general terms'; they are to become enlightened and civilized husbandmen. They now live by the cultivation of the soil and the mechanical arts. It is proposed to send them from their cotton-fields, their farms and their gardens, to a dis- tant and unsubdued wilderness'; to make them tillers of the earth' ; to remove them from their looms, their workshops, their printing-press, their schools and churches, near the white settlements, to frowning forests', surrounded with naked savages', that they may become enlightened and civilized' ! 2. We have pledged to them our protection'; and, in- stead of shielding them where they now are, within our reach, under our own arm, we send these natives of a south- ern clime to northern regions, among fierce and warlike barbarians. And what security do we propose to them? A new guaranty ! Who can look an Indian in the face, and say' to him, “We and our fathers, for more than forty years, have made to you the most solemn promises ; we now violate and trample upon them all'; but offer you in their stead — another' guaranty ! ” 3. Will they be in no danger of an attack from the primi- tive inhabitants of the regions to which they emigrate' ? How can it be otherwise'? The official documents show us the fact, that some of the few who have already gone, were in- volved in conflict with the native tribes, and compelled to a second' removal. 4. How are they to subsist'? Has not th..t country now as great an Indian population as it can sustain'? What has become of the original' occupants? Have we not already caused accession to their numbers, and been compressing them more and more'? Is not the consequence inevitable, that some must be stinted in the means of subsistence' ? Here too wc have the light of experience. By an official communication from Governor Clark, the superintendent of Indian affairs, wc learn that the most powerful tribes,. west of the Mississippi, arc, every year, so distressed by famine, that many die for want of food. The scenes of their suffering are hardly exceeded by the sieges of Jerusalem and Samaria. There might be seen the miserable mother, in all the tortures 9 102 NEW SIXTH READER. wMcli hunger could inflict, giving her last morsel for the sustenance of her child, and then fainting, sinking, and actually dying' of starvation ! And the orphan ! no one can spare it"' food': it is put alive' into the grave of the parent, which thus closes over the quick and the dead. And this is not a solitary' instance only, “ The living child is often' buried with the dead mother.” 5. I know, to what I expose' myself. To feel any solicitude for the fate of the Indians, may be ridiculed as false philanthropy and morbid sensibility. Others may boldly say, “Their blood be upon us',” and sneer at scru- ples, as weakness unbecoming the stern character of a politician. If, in order to become a politician, it be nec- essary to divest the mind of the principles of good faith and moral obligation, and harden the heart against every touch of humanity, I confess that I am not — and by the blessing of heaven, will never be — a politician. 6. We can not wholly silence the monitor within us. It may not be heard amid the clashing of the arena'; in the tempest and convulsions of political contentions'; but its still small voice will speak to us, when we meditate alone at even-tide'; in the silent watches of the night'; when we lie down', and when we rise up' from a solitary pillow ; and in that dread hour, when, — “ not what we have done for our- selves'^ but what we have done for others '" will be our joy and strength'; when, to have secured, even to a poor and despised Lidiari"^ a spot of earth upon which to rest his aching head' ; to have given him but a cup of cold water^ in charity', will be a greater treasure, than to have been the conquerors of kingdoms, and lived in luxury upon the spoils. Remark. — It will be observed that the words “Indian” and “water” in the last paragraph, receive the falling inflection as a mark of emphasis. There is also, in the same paragraph, an example of the inflections belonging to a series of members, and also to antithesiSj which subjects will be more particularly noticed hereafter. ECLECTIC SERIES. 103 XXIL— A POLITICAL PAUSE. From the Speeches of Fox. Fox was a celebrated English statesman. This is an extract from a speech delivered during a truce in the war between England and France. In this lesson, the influence of a negative in determining the rising inflection, is particularly noticeable. 1. “But we must pause',’’ says the honorable gentleman. What' ! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out', her best blood spilt', her treasures wasted', that you may make an experiment'? Put yourselves', — 0! that you ivoiild put yourselves on the field of battle', and learn to judge of the sort of horrors you excite’. In former' wars, a man might, at least, have some' feeling, some' interest, that served to balance in his mind the impressions which a scene of carnage and death must inflict'. 2. But if a man were present now at the field of slaughter, and were to inquire for what they were fighting', — “Fight- ing'!”* would be the answer'; “they are not fighting' ; they are pausing^ “Why is that man expiring'? Why is that other writhing with agony' ? What means this implacable fury'?” The answer must be, “You are quite wrong, sir, you deceive" yourself, — they are not fighting \ — do not dis- turb' them, — they are merely pausing' 1 This man is not expiring with agony', — that man is not dead', — he is only pausing' ! Bless you, sir, they are not angry' with one another ; they have now no cause of quarrel ; but their country thinks that there should he a pause". All that you see is nothing like fighting', — there is no harm', nor cruelty', nor bloodshed' in it; it is nothing more than a political 'pause'"! It is merely to try an experiment — to see whether Bonaparte will not behave himself better' than heretofore ; and, in the mean time, we have agreed to a pause!"., in pure friendship ! ” 3. And is this the way that you are to show yourselves the advocates of order'? You take up a system calculated to uncivilize the world', to destroy order', to trample on - Rule VIII. 104 NEW SIXTH READER. religion', to stifle in the heart, not merely the generosity of noble sentiment', but the afiections of social nature; and in the prosecution of this system, you spread terror and devas- tation all around' you. Remark.— T he words “pause” and “pausing” may^ perhaps, with equal propriety, receive the falling circumflex. XXITI.— SONG OF THE STARS. From Bryant, William Cullfn Bryant was born in Cumrnington, Mass., in 1794, and at an early age gave evidence of great precocity. His rank as a poet is among the very first in our country. In 1825, he went to New York, where he has since resided. In the following lesson, the inflections characteristic of the imperative mood and of exclamations are exemplified. 1. When the radiant morn 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^; 2. Their silver voices, in chorus rung, And this was the song the bright ones sung^: “AAvay', away\ through the wide, wide sky. The fair blue fields that before us lie ; Each sun with the worlds that round him 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. 3. “ 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' ! 4. “Look', look', through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star. How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass' I ECLECTIC SERIES. 105 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 lea\i‘- 5. ‘‘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, on the teeming ground. With her shadowy cone the night goes round'! 6. “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'. 7. “Glide on', in your beauty, ye youthful spheres^, To weave the dance that measures the years. Glide on', in 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.” XXIV.— SELECT PARAGRAPHS IN PROSE. In these paragraphs, notice the inflections proper to antithesis and series. THE FINAL JUDGMENT. Before that assembly, every man’s good' deeds will be declared, and his most secret sins' disclosed. As no eleva- tion of rank will then give a title to respect, no obscurity of condition' shall exclude the just from public honor, or screen the guilty from public shame'. Opulence will find itself no longer powerful'; poverty will be no longer weak'. Birth will no longer be distinguished' ; meanness will no longer pass unnoticed'. The rich' and the poor will indeed strangely mingle together; all the inequalities of the present life shall disappear', and the conqueror' and his captive'; the monarch' and his subject'; the lord' and his vassal'; the statesman' and the peasant' ; the philosopher' and the unlettered hind', shall find their distinctions to have been mere illusions' 106 NEW SIXTH READER. DRYDEN AND POPE. Dryden knew more of man in his general nature', and Pope in his local manners'. The notions of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation', those of Pope by minute attention'. There is more dignity' in the knowledge of Dryden', more certainty' in that of Pope'. The style of Dryden is capricious' and varied', that of Pope cautious' and uniform'. Dryden obeys' the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains' his mind to his own rules of com- position. Dryden’s page is a natural field, rising into inequalities', and diversified by the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation'; Pope’s is the velvet lawn', shaven by the scythe, and leveled by the roller'. If the flights of Dryden are higher'. Pope continues longer' on the wing. If, of Dryden’s fire, the blaze is brighter', of Pope’s the heat is more regular' and constant'. Dryden often sur- passes' expectation, and Pope never falls below' it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment', and Pope with perpetual delight'. LAS CASAS DISSUADING FROM BATTLE. Is then the dreadful measure of your cruelty not yet complete'? Battle'! against whom'? Against a king, in whose mild bosom your atrocious injuries, even yet, have not excited hate; but who, insulted' or victorious', still sues for peace'. Against a people', who never wronged the living being their Creator formed'; a people', who received you as cherished guests', with eager hospitality and confiding kindness. Generously and freely did they share with you their comforts', their treasures', and their homes'; you repaid them by fraud', oppression', and dishonor'. Pizarro', hear me! Hear' me, chieftains'! And thou'. All-powerful' ! whose thunder can shiver into sand the ada- mantine rock, whose lightnings can pierce the core of the riven and quaking earth', 0 let thy power give effect to thy servant’s words, as thy spirit gives courage to his will ! Do not', I implore you, chieftains', — do not, I implore^ you, renew the foul barbarities your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched, unoffending race. But hush', my sighs'! fall not', ye drops of useless sorrow'! heart-breaking anguish', choke not my utterance. ECLECTIC SERIES. 107 XXV.— SELECT PARAGRAPHS IN POETRY. THE PULPIT. The pulpit, therefore, (and I name it, filled With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing^,) — The pulpit^ (when the satirist has, at last. Strutting and vap ring in an empty school. Spent all his force and made no proselyte^ — T say the pulpit^ (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar powers^) Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, The most important and effectual guard. Support, and ornament of virtue’s cause. There stands the messenger of truthV there stands The legate of the skies': his theme^, divine^; His office^, sacred'; his credentials, clear. By him, the violated law speaks out Its thunders'; and, by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. LIBERTY. Meanwhile, we’ll sacrifice to liberty. Remember, O my friends^, the laws', the rights', The generous plan jof power delivered down, From age to age^, by your renowned forefathers', (So dearly bought, the price of so much blood';) O let it never perish in your hands. But piously transmit it to your children. Do thou, great Liberty^, inspire our souls. And make our lives in thy possession happy^. Or our deaths glorious in thy just defense. TO-MORROW. To-morrow, didst thou say^? Methought I heard Horatio say, to-morrow' : Go to', I will not hear' of it; to-morrow^! ’T is a sharper, who stakes his penury^ Against thy plenty'; who takes thy ready cash, And pa3^s thee naught, but wishes, hopes, and promises', The currency of idiots' ; — injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor. To-morrow^! It is a period nowhere to be found In all the hoary registers of Time', Unless perchance in the fool’s calendar. 108 NEW SIXTH READER. Wisdom disclaims^ the word, nor holds society With those who own^ it. No^, my Horatio^, ’Tis Fancy’s'^ child, and Folly is its father; Wrought of such stuff as dreams' are, and as baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening. HUMANITY. I would not enter on my list of friends, (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense. Yet wanting sensibility',) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm'. An inadvertent step may crash the snaiF, That crawls at evening in the public path'; But he that has humanity', forewarned. Will tread aside, and let the reptile live'. The sum is this' : If man’s convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his' rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are a/^', the meanest things that are', As free to live, and to enjoy that life. As God was free to form them at the first. Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made them all. XXVI.- CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. From Phillips. This is an extract from a speech delivered by Phillips, an Irish lawyer of distinction, upon the character of Napoleon Bonaparte. It is a good exercise on the inflections appropriate to antithesis and series. Braganza ; reigning house of Portugal. Hapsburg ; reigning house of Austria. De Stael ; a celebrated French authoress, the daughter of Necker. Kotzebue ; a distinguished German dramatic poet. David; a French painter of distinction. 1. He is fallenM We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered among us like some ancient ruin, whose power terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy', and peculiar', he sat upon the throne a Bceptered hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originality. A mind , bold', independent', and decisive'; a will', despotic in its dictates': an energy' that distanced expedition'; and a conscience', pliable to every touch of interest', marked the ECLECTIC SERIES. 109 outlines of this extraodinary character^ the most extraor- dinary, perhaps, that in the annals of this world, ever rose', or reigned', or fell\ 2. Flung into life, in the midst of a revolution that quick- ened every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior', he commenced his course, a stranger by birth', and a scholar by charity. With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents', he rushed into the list where rank, and wealth, and genius' had arrayed' themselves, and competition fled from him, as from the glance of destiny. 3. He knew no motive' but interest'; acknowledged no criterion' but success'; he worshiped no God' but ambition', and with an eastern devotion', he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry'. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed' that he did not profess', there was no opinion' that he did not promul- gate': in the hope of a dynasty', he upheld the crescent; for the sake of a divorce', he bowed before the cross'; the orphan of St. Louis', he became the adopted child of the Republic'; and with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune', he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic', he imprisoned the Pope'; a pretended patriot', he impoverished the country'; and in the name of Brutus', he grasped without remorse', and wore without shame', the diadem of the Caesars. 4. The whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs', and the miracle of their execution. Skepti- cism bowed to the prodigies of his performance'; romance assumed the air of history' ; nor was there aught too incred- ible for belief', or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica' waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became commonplace in his contemplation': kings were his people' ; nations were his outposts' ; and he disposed of courts', and crowns', and camps', and churches', and cabi- nets', as if they were the titular dignitaries of the chess- board'! Amid all these changes', he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field', or in the drawing-room'; with the mob', or the levee ; wearing the Jacobin bonnet', or the iron crown'; banishing a Braganza', or espousing a Hapsburg'; dictating peace on a raft to the 110 NEW SIXTH HEADER. '•zar of Russia', or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic'; lie was still the same military despot\ 5. In this wonderful combination, his affectations of lit- erature must not be omitted. The jailer of the press', he affected the patronage of letters' ; the proscribe!’ of books', he encouraged philosophy'; the persecutor of authors', and the murderer of printers', he yet pretended to the protection of learning'; the assassin of Palm', the silencer of De Stael', and the denouncer of Kotzebue', he was the friend of David', the benefactor of De Lille', and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of England'. 6. Such a medley of contradictions', and, at the same time, such an individual consistency', were never united in the same character'. A royalist', a republican', and an em- peror'; a Mohammedan', a Catholic', and a patron of the synagogue'; a subaltern and a sovereign'; a traitor and a tyrant; a Christian and an infidel; he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original'; the same mysterious, incomprehensible self'; the man without a model', and without a shadow'. XXVII.— HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY. From Shakspeare. William Shakspeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in England, in 1564. He was the son of a wool-comber, and received some education at a grammar school, though little is known with certainty of the in- cidents of his life. He removed to London when about twenty-two years of age, and rose to distinction through the success of his im- mortal dramas. He died in 1616. To be', or noP to be: that is the question': Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer' The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune', Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing' end' them ? To die' : to sleep' ; N5 more ; and by a sleep' to say we end The heart-ache' and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die', to sleep'; To sleep': perchance to dream — ay', there’s the rub; ECLECTIC SERIES. Ill For iti that sleep of' death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coiK Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life'; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time', The oppressor’s wrong', the proud man’s contumely', The pangs of despised love', the law’s delay'. The insolence of office', and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes^, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin'' ? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life', But that the dread of something after' death, The undiscovered country' from whose bourn No traveler returns', puzzles the will And makes us rather bear the ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all'; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry', And lose the name of action. XXVIII.— ODE TO AN INFANT SON. From Thomas Hood. Thomas Hood was born in 1 798. He is chiefly distinguished as a humor- ist and comic poet. He was for a time the editor of the New Monthly Mag- azine. ^^The Pica of the Midsummer' Fairies” Song of the Shirt,” and Whims and are among his most popular productions. He died in 1845. He ranks first among English poets of his style The following lesson presents an example, in which the matter in- cluded in the parentheses, is disconnected with the main subject, ai.d is, therefore, subject to the general principles of inflection. 1. Thou happy, happy elf'! (But stop', first let me kiss away that tear',) Thou tiny image of myself' ! (My love, he’s poking peas into his ear'!) Thou merry, laughing sprite'. With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin'; (My dear', the child is sAvallowing a pin'!) 112 NEW SIXTH READER. 2. Thou little tricksy Puck^! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, — (The doorM the doorM he’ll tumble down the stair^!) Thou darling of thy sire"' ! (Why, Jane, he’ll set his pinafore^ afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy^ ! ^ In love’s dear chain so bright a link. Thou idol of thy parents'; — (Hang^ the boy! There goes my ink^ !) 3. Thou cherub — ^but of earth'; Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth', (That dog will bite^ him, if he pulls his tail'!) Thou human humming-bee', extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny', (Another tumble'! — that’s his precious noseM) Thy father’s pride and hope'! (He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope^!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature’s mint, (Where did he learn that squinP ?) 4. Thou young domestic dove'! (He’ll have that jug'' off, with another shove'!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He’ll climb upon the table'", that’s' his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life', (He’s got a knife'!) 5. Thou enviable being'! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on', play on'. My elfin John'! Toss' the light ball, -bestride' the stick, (I knew' so many cakes would make him sick'!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk', With many a lamb-like frisk! (He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown'!) 6. Thou pretty opening rose'! (do to your mother', child', and wipe your nose'!) ECLECTIC SERIES. 113 Balmy and breathing music like the south^, (He really brings my heart into my moiith^ ! ) Bold as the hawk\ yet gentle as the dove^; (I ’ll tell you whaC, my love^, I can not write, unless he’s sent above'' !) XXIX.— SPEECH OF WALPOLE IN REPROOF OF MR. PITT. William Pitt, afterward Earl op Chatham, and Sir Robert Wal- pole, were distinguished English statesmen of the last century. Pitt entered Parliament when he was twenty-seven. At that time, Walpole was a leading politician, and as Pitt opposed his measures with a force and eloquence seldom equaled, he drew upon himself the opposition of Walpole, as expressed in this extract, and which Pitt answered in the succeeding extract with a vigor and eloquence never surpassed. In this and some succeeding lessons, the emphatic words are marked, in addition to the inflections. 1. I WAS unwilling to interrupt the course of this debate, while it was carried on with calmness and decency, by men who do not suffer the ardor of opposition to cloud their reason, or transport them to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does^ not admit. 2. I have hitherto deferred answering the gentleman, who declaimed against the bill with such fluency and rhetoric, and such vehemence of gesture ; who charged the advocates for the expedients now proposed, with having no regard to any interests but their and with making laws only to consume paper', and threatened them with the defection of their adherents, and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery of their folly and ignorance. Nor, do I now answer him for any other purpose, than to remind him how little the clamor of rage'" and petulancy of invective^ contribute to the end for which this assembly is called together'; how little the discovery of truth is promoted''^ and the security of the nation estahlished^ by pompous diction and theatrical emo- tion. 3. Formidable sounds and furious declamation.^ confident assertions'^ and lofty periods'., may affect the young and inexpe- rienced; and perhaps the gentleman may have contracted his 114 NEW SIXTH READER. habits of oratory, by conversing more with those of his oicn age^ than with such as have more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, and more successful methods of communicating their sentiments. If the heat of temper would permit him to attend to those, whose age and long acquaintance with busi- ness give them an indisputable right to deference and superi- ority, he would learn in time to reason^ ^ rather than declaim! ; and to prefer of argument and an accurate knowledge of /ac^s', to sounding epithets and splendid superlatives'^ which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impression upon the mind. He would learn, that to accuse^ and prove' are very different'" ; and that reproaches^ unsupported by evidence'^ affect only the character of him that utter^ them. 4. Excursions of fancy and flights of oratory', are indeed pardonable in young' men, but in no other; and it would surely contribute more, even to the purpovse for which some gentlemen appear to speak, (that of depreciating the conduct of the administration',) to prove the inconveniences and injus- tice of this bill', than barely to assert'" them, with whatever magnificence of language' , or appearance of zeal', honesty', or compassion!". XXX.— PITT’S REPLY TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. See note at the head of the preceding Exercise. (Observe in this, examples of antithesis and relative emphasis.) 1. The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honorable gentlemen has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny ^ but content myself with hoping, that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their youth' , and not of that number, who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth!" can be imputed to a man as a reproach', I will not assume the province of determining'; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement!, and vied appears to prevail' , when the passions' have subsided!. The wretch!, who, after having seen the consequences of a thou' ECLECTIC SERIES. 115 Band errors^ continues still to blunder'^ and whose age has only added obstinacy^ to stupidity'^ is surely the object either of abhorrence' or contempt' ^ and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult. Much more is /le' to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced'" — in age' ^ has receded* — from virtue'"^ and become more wicked ' — with less, tempta- tioii" ; who prostitutes himself for money'" which he can not enjoy' ^ and spends the remains of his life, in the ruin of his country'. 2. But youth is not my only"" crime ; I am accused of act- ing a theatricaV part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarity of gesture., or a dissimulation of my real sen- timents'"., and an adoption of the opinions and language of anothe}'^ man. In the first sense, the charge is too trifiing to be confuted" ; and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may be despised". 1' am at liberty, like every other'" man to use my own" language; and though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay my- self under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction or his mien'", however matured by age', or modeled by experience". 3. But, if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behavior, imply, that I utter any sentiments but my own', I shall treat him as a calumniator' and a villaiii" ; nor shall any protectioii" shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple trample' upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves, nor shall any thing but age' restrain my resent- ment'; age , — which always brings one" privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious, without punishment. 4. But, with regard to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if I had" acted a borrowed part', I should have avoided" their censure : the heat that offended' them, was the ardor of conviction'", and that zeal" for the service of mj country' neither hope' nor fear shall influence me to suppress'. I will not sit unconcerned' while my liberty is invaded', nor look in silence' upon public robbery". I will exert my endeavors, at lohatever hazard, to repel the aggres- sor, and drag the thief to justice", whoever may protect hin? in his villainies, and whoever partake of plunder. m NEAV SIXTH READER, XXXI.— CHARACTER OF MR. PITT. From Grattan. 1. The secretary stood alone. Modern degeneracy had not reached' him. Original and unaccommodating', the fea- tures of his character had the hardihood of antiquity. His august mind' overawed majesty itself. No state chicanery', no narrow system of vicious politics', no idle contest for ministerial victories', sank him to the vulgar level of the great'; but overbearing', persuasive', and impracticable', his object was England', his ambition was fame'. 2. Without dividing^ he destroyed'" party ; without cor- .riipting^ he made a venal age unanimous. France sunk be- neatli' him. With one'' hand he smote the house of Bour- bon, and wielded in the other' the democracy of England. The sight of his mind was infinite' ; and his schemes were to affect, not England'"^ not the present'" age only, but Europe' and posterity. Wonderful were the means by which those schemes were accomplished'; always seasonable.^ always ade- quate^ the suggestion of an understanding animated by ardor, and enlightened by prophecy. 3. The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and in- dolent were tinhnowii" to him. No domestic difficulties^ no domestic weakness'^ reached him ; but aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our system, to counsel and decide. A char- acter so exalted', so strenuous', so various', so authoritative', astonished'" a corrupt age, and the treasury trembled at the name of Pitt, through all classes of venality. Corruption imagined, indeed, that she had found defects'" in this statesman, ■and talked much of the inconsistency of his glory', and much of the ruin of his victories' ; but the history of his country, and the calamities of the enemy, answered and refuted'' her. 4. Nor were political his only'" talents. His eloquence was an era'" in the senate; peculiar, and spontaneous; famil- iarly expressing gigantic sentiments and instructive wisdom j not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid confla- gration of Tully; it resembled sometimes the thunder'.^ and sometimes the music'' of the spheres. He did not conduct the understanding through the painful subtility of argumen-' ECLECTIC SERIES. 117 tation, nor was he ever on the rack of exertion' ; but rather lightened' upon the subject, and reached the point by the flashings of the mind, which, like those of the eye^ were felt\ but could not be followed. 5. Upon the whole, there was in this man something that could create', subvert', or reform' ; an understanding, a spirit', and an eloquence', to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder, and to rule the wild- ness of free minds with unbounded authority ; something that could establish^ or overwhelrd empires, and strike a blow' in the world that should resound through the universe^. XXXII.— THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. Public Ledger; a noted newspaper in London. King’s Head ; a tavern in London. Newgate; a London prison. 1. In Broadstreet building, on a winter night. Snug by his parlor-fire, a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose, With Mother he’d beneath his nose The Public Ledger^, in whoso columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops', Ships', shops^, and slops' ; Gum', galls^, and groceries'; ginger', gin'. Tar', tallow', turmeric', turpentine^, and tin'; When lo^! a decent personage in black. Entered and most politely said^ : 2. “ Your /co^TTian, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King’s Head, And left your door ajar^.^ which I Observed in passing by ; And thought it neighborly to give you notice^!* 3. “Yen thousand thanks"' ; how very few do get. In time of danger, Such kind attentions from a stranger'^ ! Assuredly, that fellow’s throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate': He knows., too, (the unconscionable elf). That there ’s no soul at home except myself 10 118 NEW SIXTH READER. 4. ‘ Indeed'^' replied the stranger, looking grave. ‘•Then he’s a double^ knave; He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors^. And see, how easily^ might one Of these domestic foes. Even beneath your very nose^ Perform his knavish tricks^ ; Enter your room, as 7^ have done. Blow out your candles'^ — thus'^ — and thus ^ — , Pocket your silver candlesticks'^^ And — walk off^ — thus'^T 5. So said"', so done^; he made no more remark, Nor waited for replies. But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. XXXIII.— SPEECH BEFORE THE VIRGINIA CONVENTION. From Patrick Henry. Patrick Henry was' a distinguished American statesman during the Revolutionary war. He was a native of Virginia, held its highest offices, and was a member of the convention which met to deliberate upon uniting with the other states in resistance to Great Britain. Observe that the emphatic pause is freely used. 1. 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 thi ^ — the part of whe me}i\ engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty'^ Are we disposed to be of the number of those'^ who, having ej/es, — see not, and having ears, — hear not the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation'? For — part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost\ I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the leors^', and to provide" for it. 2. I have but one lamp, by which mi/ feet are guided; and that — is — the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of iXi^futurd., but by the |)as/'; judging by the past! I wish to know what there has been in the con- duct of the British ministry for the last ten years', to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to ECLECTIC SERIES 119 solace themselves and the house^? Is it that insidious sinil^ with which our petition has been lately received'? Trust it not: it will prove a snare" to your feet. Suffer not your- selves to be betrayed with a kiss". Ask yourselves, how this gracious reception of our petition, comports with those warlike preparations 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 un- willing to be reconciled, that force' — must be called in to win back our love'? Let us not deceive" ourselves. These are the implements of war^ and suhjugaAion'" ; the last arguments to which kings resort. 3. I ask, gentlemen', what means this mariiad array.^ if its purpose be not to force us into submission? Can gentle- men assign any other — possible — motive for it? Has Grreat Britain any enemy' — in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies'? No', she has none'". They are meant for us'^: they caii" be meant for no other^. They are sent over to bind^ and rivet'‘ upon us those chains, which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? 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 in which it was capable'" ; but it has been all in vain'. 4. 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, deceive ourselves longer'. We have done every' thing that could be done., to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have remonstrated' ; we have supplicated'"; we have prostrated' ourselves at the foot of the throne, and implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our petitions' have been slighted" ; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications', disregarded" ; and we have been spurned} with contempt from the foot of the throne. 5. 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 120 NEW SIXTH READER. preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending'; if we mean not basely to abandon^ the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never'' to abandon, until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained'; we must fight! 1 repeat it\ we must eight'! An appeal to arms' and the God of Ilosts^ is all that is left us. 6. They tell us, that we are wealt ; unable to co^d with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be strongedf Will it be the next weeh\ or the next year'? Will it be, when we are totally disarmed^ and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house'? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inactioidf 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'? We are 7iot weah^ if we make a proper use of those means', which the Grod of nature hath placed in our power. 7. 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, we shall not fight our battles — alonet There is a just Cod'" who presides over the destinies of nations'; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle is not to the strong' alone; it is to the vigilant — the active — the brave''. Besides, we have no election. If we were base enough to desird 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 inevitahld; and — let it come'"! I repeat it, let it come'! 8. It is in vain to extenuate the matter'. Gentlemen may cry peace', peace' ; but there is no'' peace. The war is actually begun'. The next gale that sweeps from the north, will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms'! Our brethren' are already in the field ! Why stand we" — here idle? What is it that gentlemen wisJtf 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 ECLECTIC SERIES. 121 God ! I know not what course others' may take ; but as for me' ^ give me liberty'^ or GIVE ME DEATH. Remark. — In the above extract, may be found an illustration of most of the principles of emphasis. The most important emphatic words and pauses only, are marked. On this point, there is always room for ditference of opinion. Scarcely any two persons would pronounce a sentence ^\\\\ 'precisely the same emphasis. Observe, in the above lesson, the all-controlling power of emphasis in determining to the falling inflection. The words “see,’’ “hear,” and “my,” in the first paragraph, the word “that” in the second, and “spurned” and “contempt” in the fourth paragraph, arc examples of this. Let the reader remember that a high degree of emphasis is sometimes expressed by a whisper. XXXIV.— VANITY OF LIFE. From Herder’s Hebrew Poetry. 1. Man, born of woman, Is of few days. And full of trouble. He cometh forth as a flower, and is cut He fleeth also as a shadow, And continueth not. % Upon such dost thou open thine eye. And bring me unto judgment with thee? Among the impure is there one pure‘s Not one\ 3. Are his days so determined^? Hast thou numbered his months^, And set fast his bounds for him. Which he can never pass^? Turn^ then from him that he may resi^^ ' And enjoy as an hireling^, his day\ 4. The tree^ hath hope'^^ if it be cut down. It l)ecometh green'^ again. And new shoots are put forth. If even the root is old'^ in the earth. And its stock die'^ in the ground, From vapor of water it will bud. And bring forth boughs as a young plant. 122 NEW SIXTH READER. 5. But man dieth, and his power is gone; He is taken away, and where is 6. Till the waters waste from the sea, Till the river faileth and is dry land, Man lieth low, and riseth not again. Till the heavens are old, he shall not awake, Nor he aroused from his sleep. 7. 0 that thou wouldst conceal me In the realm of departed souls^! Hide me in secret, till thy wrath he past'; Appoint me then a new term, And remember me again. But alas! if a man die^. Shall he live^ again? 8. So long, then, as my toil endureth, Will I wait till a change' come to me. Thou wilt calF me, and I shall answer'; Thou wilt pity the work of thy hands. Though now thou numherest my steps''. Thou shalt then not watch for my sin. My transgression will he sealed in a hag', Thou wilt hind up and remove my iniquity. 9. Yet alas! the mountain faileth and is swallowed up, The rock is removed out of its place'. The waters hollow out the stones'. The floods overflow the dust of the earth', And thus, thou destroyest the hope of man. 10. Thou contendest with him, till he faileth'. Thou changest his countenance, and sendeth him away Though his sons become great^ and happy^, Yet he knoweth it not; If they come to shame^ and dishonor\ He^ perceiveth it not\ ECLECTIC SERIES. 123 XXXV.— THE MARINER’S DREAM. From Dimond. In this and some following Lessons, the principles applicable to the reaJ.ng of poetry are illustrated. 1. In slumbers | of midnight || the sailor-boy lay; His hammock | swung loose || at the sport of the wind; Hut watch-worn | and w^eary, || his cares | flew away, And visions ] of happiness || danced o’er his mind. 2. lie dreamed of his home, || of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited || on life’s merry morn; While Memory each scene || gayly covered with flowers, And restored every rose, || but secreted the thorn. 3. Then Fancy her magical pinions || spread wide. And bade the young dreamer || in ecstasy rise; Now, far, far behind him || the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers |1 blesses his eyes. 4. The jessamine clambers || in flowers o’er the thatch, And the sw-allow sings sweet || from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport || he raises the latch. And the voices of loved ones || reply to his call. 5. A father bends o’er him || with looks of delight; His cheek is impearled || with a mother’s warm tear; And the lips of the boy || in a love-kiss unite With the Ups of the maid || whom his bosom holds dear. 6. The heart of the sleeper || beats high in his breast; Joy qui^ens his pulse, || all his hardships seem o’er; And a murmur of happiness || steals through his rest — ‘^0 God^! jthou hast blest me, || I ask for no more.” 7. Ah! whence is that flame || which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound || that now ’larums his ear? T is the lightning’s red glare || painting hell on the sky! ’Tis the crashing of thunders, 1| the groan of the sphere! 8. He springs^ from his hammock, || h^Jlies^ 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. 124 NEW SIXTH READER. 9. Like mountains the billows || tumultuously swell; In vain the lost wretch^ || calls on Mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits || are ringing his knelF, And the death-angel flaps || his broad wings o’er the wave I 10. O sailor-boy^, || woe 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, 1| and love’s honeyed kiss? 11. O sailor-boy^ I sailor-boy^! || never again Shall home, love, or kindred, || thy wishes repay; Unblessed and un honored, || down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, || thy frame shall decay. 12. No tomb shall e’er plead || to remembrance for thee'', Or redeem form or fame || from the merciless surge, But the white foam of waves || shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds, in the midnight |1 of winter, thy dirge. 13. On a bed of green sea-flowers, || th}^ limbs shall be laid Around thy white bones, || the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks || threads of amber be made^. And every part suit || to thy mansion below. 14. Uays^, months^, years^, and ages^ || shall circle away, And still the vast waters || above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern || forever and aye ; 0 sailor-boy^! sailor-boy^! || peace to thy soul! XXXVI.— THE SOLDIER’S REST^ From Walter Scott. Sir Walter Scott was born at Edinburgh, in 1771. After his admis- sion to the Scottish bar, he determined to devote**himself to literary pursuits, and his path to fame was opened by the Minstrelsy of the Scot- tish Border. After the publication of some original poems, he chose a new department of literature, and, concealing his name, commenced the series called the Waverly Novels. He also produced several historical works. He died at Abbotsford, in 1832. Pibroch ; a wild, irregular species of music peculiar to the Highlands. Reveille, (pro. re-vdVya)\ signal for mustering. 1. Soldier^, resP! || thy warfare o’er^, Sleep the sleep |1 that knows not breaking; ECLECTIC SERIES. 125 Dream of battle fields || no more, Days of danger^, || nights of waking'. In our isle’s enchanted hall, Hands unseen || thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music || fall, Every sense || in slumber dewing. Soldier^, rest'! || thy warfare o’er^, Dream of battle fields || no more. Sleep the sleep || that knows not breaking' Morn of toiF, || nor night of waking'. 2. No rude sound shall reach thine ear', Armor’s clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan', or squadron' tramping. Yet the lark ' shrill fife may come'. At the day-break from the fallow'. And the bittern'^ sound his drum'. Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder^ sounds shall none^ be near, Guards nor warders challenge here', Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing^, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 3. Huntsman', rest' ! thy chase is done' ; While our slumb’rous spells assail' ye. Dream not, with the rising sun', Bugles here shall sound reveille'. Sleep'! the deer is in his den'; Sleep' ! thy hounds are by thee lying' ’ Sleep'! nor dream in yonder glen', H^ thy gallant steed lay dying'. Huntsman', rest' ; thy chase is done' Think not of the rising sun', For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugle sounds reveille. u 126 NEW STXTH READEK. XXXVIL— BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. By Charles Wolfe. Rev. Charles Wolfe was a clergyman of the Church of England, who died in early life, leaving but few specimens of his poetic talent. Byron said of this ballad, that he would rather be the author of it than of any one ever written. 1. Not a drum | was heard, || not a funeral note, As his corse 1| to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier | discharged || his farewell | shot O’er the grave || where our hero was buried. 2. We buried him | darkly, [| at dead | of night, The sods^ || with our bayonets | turning, By the struggling moonbeam s || misty light, And the lantern || dimly burning. 3. No useless coffin!^ || inclosed | his breast, Not in sheet | nor in shroud || we wound him; But he lay like a warrior || taking his rest. With his martial cloak around him. 4. Few and shorF || were the prayers'^ we said, And we spoke || not a word of sorrow; And we steadfastly gazed || on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought || of the morrow. 5. We thought, || as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down || his lonely pillow, That the/oe^ | and the stranger'^ || would tread o’er his head, And we' | far away || on the billow. 6. Lightly | they’ll talk || of the spirit | that’s* 4 |one^, And o’er his cold ashes || upbraid' him; But little he'll reck, || if they’ll let him sleep on In the grave^ || where a Briton has laid him. I . But half I of our heavy task || was done. When the clock || struck the hour for retiring; And we heard || the distant and random gun Which the foe || was sullenly firing. 8. Slowl}^ and sadly || we laid him down. From the field of his fame, 1| fresh and gory; We carved not a line^ || and we raised not a stone; But we left him || alone with his glory. ECLECTIC SEHIES. J27 XXXVIIL— MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. From Southey. 1. Where is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express ? She weeps noc^, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress. 2. No aid^, no compassion^, the maniac will seek; Cold and hunger'" awake not her care ; Through the rags, do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom, half bare'" ; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 3. Yet cheerful and happy'", nor distant the day, Poor Mary, the maniac, has been^ : The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way, No damsel so lovely\ no damsel so gay'". As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 4. Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, As she welcomed them in with a smile ; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary w^ould walk by the Abbey at night, When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 5. She loved\ and young Richard had settled the day'; And she hoped to be happy for life : But Richard was idle and worthless ; and they Who knew him, would pity poor Mary^, and say, That she was too good for his wife. 6. ’T was in autumn', and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door ; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight. They listened to hear the wind roar. 7. “’Tis pleasant,” cried one, “seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without.” “A fine night for the Abbey'! ” his comrade replied: “Methinks a man’s courage would now be well tried, Who would Avander the ruins about. 128 NEW SIXTH READER. 8. “ I like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some ugly old Abbot’s grim spirit'^ appear; For this wind might awaken the dead!” 9. ‘‘I ’ll wager a dinner,” the other one cried, “ That Mary would venture there now’^y “Then wager'^^ and lose^\ ” with a sneer he replied; “I’ll warrant she cl. fancy a ghost by her side, - And faint if she saw a white cow ! ” 10. “Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?” His companion exclaimed with a smile' ; “ I shall win', for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the alder that grows in the aisle.” 11. With fearless good-humor did Mary comply'. And her way to the Abbey she bent; The night it was gloomy', the wind it was high'; And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky. She shivered with cold as she went. 12. O’er the path so well known, still proceeded the maid. Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gate-way, she entered, she felt not afraid; Yet the ruins Avere lonely and wild, and their shade Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 13. All around her Avas silent, save Avhen the rude blast HoAvled dismally round the old pile ; Over Aveed-covered fragments still fearless she passed. And arriA^ed at the innermost ruin at lastjl^ Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle. 14 Well pleased did she reach' it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gathered the bough ; When the sound of a voted seemed to rise on her ear; She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear. And her heart panted fearfully noAv! 15. The wind blew'; the hoarse ivy shook over her head'; She listened'; naught else could she hear; The Avind ceased'; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins — distinctly ^ — the tread W footsteps^ approaching her near. ECLECTIC SERIES. 129 16. Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, She crept, to conceal herself there ; That instant, the moon o’er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians^ appear, And between them, a corpse^ they did bear. 17. Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold, Again the rough wind hurried by ; It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold, Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled^ ; She fell; and expected to die! 18. “Stop! the hat!” he exclaims. “Nay\ come on, and fast hide The dead body' ! ” his comrade replies. She beheld them in safety pass on by her side' ; She seizes the hat^, fear her courage supplied. And fast through the Abbey she flies. 19. She ran with, wild speed'; she rushed in at the door'; She looked horribly eager around^ : Her limbs could support their faint burden no more ; But exhausted and breathless, she sank on the floor. Unable to utter a sound. 20. Ere yet her pale lips could her story impart. For a moment, the met her view: Her eyes from that object convulsively start. For, O Heaven' ! what cold horror thrilled througli her heart, When the name of her Richard} she knew ! 21. Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by^, His gibbet is now to be seen; Not far from the inn, it engages the eye' ; The traveler beholds it, and thinks with a sigh', Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. XXXIX.— JKPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER. From N. P. Willis. For the scene which this describes, see the eleventh chapter of the Book of Judges, from the 29th verse through. 1. She stood before her father’s gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. 130 NEW SIXTH READER. 2. 1 have thought, A brother s and a sister s love was much. I knov)^ a brother s^ is, for I have loved A trusting sister'; and I knoAv how broke The heart may be with its own tenderness. But the affection of a delicate child^ For Vi fond f ather' ^ gushing as it does With the sweet springs of life, and living on Through all earth’s changes. Must be holier ! • 3 The wind bore on The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the air at intervals' ; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts. Returning from the battle, poured from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. 4 Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh’s streets. His helm was proudly set', And his stern lip curled slightly^, as if praise Were for the hero’s scorn. His step was yfrm, Vyxxt free as India’s leopard; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear"', Was lighter than a tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah’s kingliest', and the look Of his dark, lofty eye might quell a lion. ' He led on' ; but thoughts Seemed gathering round which troubled' him. The veins Upon his forehead were distinctly seen, And his proud lip was painfully compressed. He trod less firmly' ; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near, And men Avere thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intently forward. 6. A moment more^. And he had reached his home; when lo ! there sprang One with a bounding footstep^, and a brow Like light, to meet' him. 0 how beautiful'! Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem. And her luxuriant hair^^ ’twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, ECLECTIC SERIES. 131 As if the sight had withered^ him. She threw Her arms about his neck; he heeded not. She called him ^^Father\” but he answered not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth' There was no anger' in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness' seized him*^ She unclasped his helm. And laid her white hand gently on his brow. The touch aroused^ him. He raised up his hands. And spoke the name of God, in agony. 7. She knew that he was stricken, then; and rushed Again into his arms, and with a flood Of tears she could not stay, she sobbed a prayer That he would tell her of his wretchedness. He told'^ her, and a momentary flush Shot o’er her countenance: and then', the soul Of Jephthah’s daughter wakened\ and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said, “’Tis welR; And I will die!” 8. And when the sun had set. Then she was dead — but not by violence. XL.~TREASURES OF THE DEEP. From Mrs. Hemans. 1. What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main' ? Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells. Bright things, which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. Keep^^ keep^ thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee\ 2. Yet more^ thy depths have more ! — What wealth untold. Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies? Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. Won from ten thousand royal argosies. Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main'’ Earth claims not th^se again. 3. Yet more, thy depths have morel Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old: Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry: Dash o’er them\ ocean, in thy scornful play! Man yields thmn to dec^iV. 132 NEW SIXTH READER. 4. Yet mor^ I thy billows and thy depths have more^l High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! They hear not noio the booming waters roar, The battle thunders will not break their^ rest. Keep thy red gold and gems^ thou stormy grave' I Give back the true and brave. 5. Give back the lost' and lovely^ I those., for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom, And the vain yearning wokp mid festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles^, thy towers d erthrowrt But dll is not thine own ! XLI.— BATTLE IN HEAVEN. From Milton. John Milton, the acknowledged prince of British poets, was born in London, in 1608. In early life, he was a diligent student, and before he attained the age of seventeen, knew six languages almost as familiarly as his own. His immortal poem, the Paradise Lost, was written after he was stricken with blindness. In the latter part of his life he lived in retirement, and died in 1674. This lesson is adapted to the cultivation of a low tone. 1. To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern replied: JReign thou in hell, thy"^ kingdom ; let me serve In heaven God ever blest, and his divine Behests obey\ worthiest to be obeyed; Yet chains'^ in hell, not realms\ expect': meanwhile. From me, returned, as erst thou saidst, from flight. This greeting on thy impious crest receive. 2. So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high. Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight, Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield, Such ruin intercept. Ten paces huge He back recoiled'; the tenth', on bended knee His massy spear upstayed' : as if on earth Winds under ground, or waters forcing way. Sidelong had pushed a mountain^ from his seat, Half sunk with all his jiines. 3. Now storming fury rose And clamor such as heard in heaven till now Was never'; arms on armor clashing, brayed Horrible discord, and the madding wheels ECLECTIC SERIES. J33 Of brazen chariots raged: dire was the noise Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss Of fiery darts in flaming volleys hew, And flying vaulted either host with fire. So under fiery cope together rushed Both battles main, with ruinous assault And inextinguishable rage. All heaven Resounded^; and had earth been then, all earth Had to her center shook. What wonder^ ? where Millions of fierce encountering angels fought On either side, the least of whom could wield These elements, and arm him with the force Of all their regions. 4 . Long time in even scale The battle hung; till Satan, who that day Prodigious power had shown, and met in arms No equal, ranging through the dire attack Of fighting seraphim confused, at length Saw where the sword of Michael smote, and felled Squadrons at once; with huge two-handed sway. Brandished aloft, the horrid edge came down Wide-wasting; such destruction to withstand. He hasted, and opposed the rocky orb Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield Of vast circumference. At his approach. The great archangel from his Avarlike toil Surceased\ and glad, as hoping here to end Intestine war in heaven, the arch-foe subdued. 5. Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields Blazed opposite, while expectation stood In horror: from each hand with speed retired. Where erst was thickest fight, the angelic throng. And left large fields, unsafe within the wind Of such commotion; such as, to set forth Great things by small, if, nature’s concord broke, Among the constellations war were sprung. Two planets^^ rushing from aspect * malign Of fiercest opposition, in mid-sky Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound * Observe the improper pronunciation of the word “ aspect,” re- quired by the poetic accent. In this case, an equal degree of force may be given to each syllable. 134 NEW SIXTH llEADEll. XLII.— PAUL S DEFENSE BEFORE KING AGRIPPA. From the Bible. [This should be read in a medium tone, between high and low.] 1. Then said Agrippa unto Paul: Thou art permitted to speak for thyself. Then Paul stretched forth his hand and answered for himself. 2. I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself, this day, before thee, touching all the things whereof I am accused of the Jews'; especially, be- cause I know thee to be expert in all customs and ques- tions which are among the Jews: wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. My manner of life from my youth', which was at the first among mine own nation at Jerusalem', know all the Jews; who knew me from the beginning ^ if they would testify, that after the straitest sect of our re- ligion, I lived a Pharisee. 3. And now, I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made of Grod unto our fathers'; unto which promise our twelve tribes, instantly serving God day and night, hope to come. For which hope’s sake, king Agrippa', I am accused of the Jews. Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead}? I verily thought with myself, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Which things I also did} in J erusalem : and many of the saints did I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests, and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. 4. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme; and, being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. Whereupon, as I went to Damascus, with authority and com- mission from the chief priests, at midday, 0 King', I saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me and them which journeyed with' me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking unto me, and saying in the Hebrew tongue', Saul', Saul', why pcrsecutest thou me'? it is hard ECLECTIC SERIES 135 for thee to kick against the goads. And I said', Who art' thou, Lord'? 5. And he said', I am Jesus', whom thou persecutest. But rise and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in the which I will appear' unto thee ; delivering thee from the people and from the Grentiles, unto whom now I send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from dark- ness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified, by faith that is in me. 6. Whereupon, 0 king Agrippa', I was not dhohedient unto the heavenly vision; but showed first unto them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and throughout all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes the Jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having, therefore, obtained help of God', I continue unto this day, witnessing both to small' and great', saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come ; that Christ should suffer', and that he should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should show light unto the people and to the Gentiles. 7. And as he thus spake fgr himself, Festus said with a loud voice, Paul, thou art beside" thyself, much learning hath made thee mad. But he said, I am not mad', most noble Festus', but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the king hnowetJi" of these things, before whom I speak freely; for I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him; for this thing was not done in a corner'. King Agrippa', believest thou the prophets'? I knoid" that thou believest. 8. Then Agrippa said unto Paul' ; Almost thou per- suadest me to be a Christian. And Paul said, I would to God, that not only thou^ but also all that hear me this day^ were both almost' and altogether^ such as 1 am, except these bonds. And when he had thus spoken, the king rose up, and the governor and Bernice, and they that sat with them. 136 NEV/' SIXTH READER. And when they were gone aside, they talked between them- selves, saying : This man doeth nothing worthy of death or of bonds. Then said Agrippa unto Festus : This man might have been set at liberty^ if he had not appealed unto Caesar. XLIII— HENRY V. TO HIS TROOPS. From Shakspeare. [This lesson requires a high hey.] 1 Once more unto the breach, dear friends^, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peacc^ there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then^ imitate the action of the tiger^; Stiffen the sinews', summon up the blood', Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; Then^ lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 2. Now set the teeth}^ and stretch the nostril loide^ Hold hard the breathh^ and hend^ up every spirit To its full height! Oid, oid^ you noblest English^, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof I Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, Have, in these parts, from morn till even, fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument; Be copy now to men of grosser blood. And teach them how to war. 3. And ?yo?q good yeomen^, Whose limbs were made in England, show' us here The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear That you are worth your breeding'; which I doubt not, For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble luster in your eyes, I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the vStart. The game’s afoot'; Follow your spirit': and, upon this charge. Cry — “troc? for Harry ^ England^ and 8t. George ! ECLECTIC SERIES. 137 XLIV.— HECTOR S ATTACK ON THE GRECIAN WALLS. From Pope’s Translation of Homer. Alexander Pope was born in London, in 1688, and received an excellent private education. His whole life was devoted to literary pursuits, and he soon became the first poet of his day. He died at Twickenham, in 1744. 1. Then godlike Hector and his troops contend To force the ramparts and the gates to rend; Nor Troy could conquer, nor the Greeks would yield, Till great Sarpedon towered amid the field. In arms he shines, conspicuous from afar. And hears aloft his ample shield in air. And, while two pointed javelins arm his hands, Majestic moves along, and leads his Lycian hands. 2. (^) So, pressed with hunger, from the mountain’s brow, Descends a lion' on the flocks below; So, stalks the lordly savage o’er the plain, In sullen majesty and stern disdain. In vain, loud mastiffs bay him from afar. And shepherds gall him with an iron war; Regardless, furious, he pursues his way. He foams', he roars', he rends the panting prey. 3. Unmoved, the embodied Greeks their fury dare. And fixed, support the weight of all the war' ; Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian powers^, Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian towers'. 4. (1) As, on the confines of adjoining grounds. Two stubborn swains' with blows dispute their bounds j They tug^, they sweat'; but neither gain nor yield One foot, one inch of the contested field: Thus, obstinate to death, they fighU, they fall' ; Nor these can keep^^ nor those can win^ the wall. Their manly breasts are pierced with many a wound, Loud strokes are heard, and rattling arms resound; The copious slaughter covers all the shore. And the high ramparts drop with human gore. 5. {!) As when two scales are charged with doubtful loads, From side to side the trembling balance nods, (While some laborious matron, just and poor. With nice exactness weighs her woolly store), 138 NEW SIXTH READER. Till, poised aloft, the resting beam suspends Each equal AveighT; nor this^^ nor thaf' descends. So stood the war, till Hector’s matchless might With fates prevailing, turned the scale of fight. 6. {h) Fierce as a whirlwind up the walls he flies. And fires his hosts with loud repeated cries : “Advance, ye Trojans^! lend your valiant hands'; Haste to the fleet', and toss the blazing brands'!” They hear', they run'; and gathering at his call, Raise scaling engines, and ascend the wall; Around the works a wood of glittering spears Shoots up, and all the rising host appears. 7. A ponderous stone' bold Hector heaved to throw, Pointed above/, and rough and gross below'; Not two strong men the enormous weight could raise, Such men as live in these degenerate days. A^et this^ as easy as a swain could bear The snowy fleece, he tossed and shook in air; Thus armed, before the folded gates he came, or massy substance, and stupendous frame, With iron bars and brazen hinges strong. On lofty beams of solid timber hung; Then, thundering through the planks with forceful sway, Drives the sharp rock'; the solid beams give way'; The folds are shattered'; from the crackling door Leap the resounding bars, the flying hinges roar. 8. Now rushing in, the furious chief appears. Gloomy as night, and shakes tAvo shining spears : A dreadful gleam from his bright armor came, And from his eyeballs flashed the living flame. He moA^es a god', resistless in his course. And seems a match for more than mortal force. Then pouring after, through the gaping space, A tide of Trojans flows, and fills the place; The Greeks behold', they tremble, and they fly' ; The shore is heaped with death, and tumult rends the sky ECLECTIC SERIES. 139 XLV.— RIENZrS ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. From Miss Mitford. [This Lesson is markorl for inflection, emphasia, and modulation, and is an admirable exercise for them all.] 1. 1 COME not here to talk^. A^ou know too well The story of our thralldom. We are — slaves^ ! The bright sun rises to his course and lights A race of — slaves"" ! He sets, and his last beams Fall on a — slaye"^ ; not s^ich as swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror led To crimson glory and undying fame ; (1) But — base"' — ignoble"' — slaves; slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants'^, feudal despots'^, lords, Hichf in some dozen paltry villages"' ; Strong^ in some hundred spcarmeti^ ; only greaf In that strange spell ; — a na^ie'. 2. Each hour; dark fraud. Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out againsD them, {h) But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands^, — Was struck"" — struck^ like a dog^^ by one who wore The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth. He tossed not high his ready cap in air. Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts. At sight of that great ruffian ! {hh) Be we men^, And suffer suc¥ dishonor? men^, and wash not The stain away in blood' f (1) Such shames are common. I have known deeper"' wrongs ; that speak'' to ye, (//) I had a brother"^ once.^ — a gracious boy. Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. Of sweet and quiet joy, — there was the look Of heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. 3. How I loved"" That gracious boy'' ! Younger by fifteen years', Brother at once, and son ! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheek'; a smile Parting his innocent lips'. In one short hour, That pretty, harmless boy was slain"' ! f saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then {h) I cried For vengeance"" \ {hJi) Rouse', ye Romans! rouse', yo si.aves? NEW SIXTH READER. Have ye brave sons^f Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die^. Have ye fair daughters^ ? Look To see them live, torn from your arms^^ distained^^ Dishonored^ ; and if ye dare call for justice^ Be answered by the lasK^, (1) A'et this — is Rome^ That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty, ruled the world I and we are Romans Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman, Was greater than a king I And once again, — Hear^ me, ye walls^ that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus ! Once again^ 1 swear ^ The eternal city shall he free. XLVL— THE BROKEN HEART— A SKETCH. From Irving. Washington Irving, born in 1783, ranks among the first of American authors. In early life, he followed literary pursuits only as an amuse- ment, but meeting with reverses, he devoted himself to literature as a profession. Late in life, he purchased an old Dutch Mansion, on the Hudson, which he fitted up, and in which he resided until his death, in 1859. 1. Every one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmet, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon for- gotten. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. He was so young', so in- telligent', so generous', so brave', so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the* charge of treason against his country, the elo- quent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, all these entered deeply into every generous bosom', and even his ene- mies' lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. 2. But there was one" heart, whose anguish it would be im- possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes', he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl', the 140 4. (A) 5. (AA) J: C L E C T I C SERIES. 141 daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman’s first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name', she loved him the more ardently for his very suf- ferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes', what must have been the agony of her', whose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth' — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 3. But then the horrors of such' a grave ! so frightful', so dishonored' ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pang of separation', none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene', nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. 4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father’s displeasure by her unfortunate attach- ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have expe- rienced no want of consolation' ; for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cher- ishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and dis- tinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love. 5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul, which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude' ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She car- ried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the bland- ishments of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.” 12 142 NEW SIXTH READER. G. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretch- edness more striking and painful than to meet it in such' a scene; to find it wandering, like a specter, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay', to see it dressed out in the trap- pings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her in-, sensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capricious- ness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching', it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. 7. The story of one so true and tender, could not but ex- cite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her', and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions', for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted m his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation', for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s. 8. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of her early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a bappy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline', and, at length, sank into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. ECLECTIC SERIES. 14S XLVII.— THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. From Whittier. 1 . Look^ on him! through his dungeon grate; Feebty and cold, the morning light Comes stealing round him, dim and late, As if it loathed the sight. Reclining on his strawy bed, His hand upholds his drooping head; His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard; Unshorn his gray, neglected beard; And o'er his bony fingers flow His long, disheveled locks of snow. 2. No grateful fire before him glows. And yet the winter’s breath is chill: And o’er his half-clad person goes The frequent ague-thrill! SilenP, save ever and anoiU, A sound, half murmur and half groan^, Forces apart the painful grip Of the old sufferer’s bearded lip; O, sad and crushing is the fate Of old age chained and desolate. 3. Just God! why lies that old man there? A murderer shares his prison bed. Whose eyeballs through his horrid hair^, Gleam on him, fierce and red ; And the rude oath and heartless jeer Fall ever on his loathing ear^ ; And, or in wakefulness^ or sleep^. Nerve, flesh, and fiber thrill and creep, Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb, Crimson with murder, touches him! 4. What has the gray-haired prisoner done ? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so^: his crime’s a fouler^ one; God made the old man poor! For this^ he shares a felon’s'' cell. The fittest earthly type of helP ! For this^ the boon for which he poured His young blood on the invader’s sword, And counted light the fearful cost. His hlood-gaincd liberty — is lost! 144 NEW SIXTH HEADER. 5. And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, poured thy blood as rain On Concord’s field, and Bunker’s crest. And Saratoga’s^ plain? Look forth, thou man of many scars^, Through thy dim dungeon’s iron bars; It must be joy, in sooth\ to see Yon monument'^ upreared to thee^; Piled granite^ and a prison celD! The land jepays thy service well ! 6. Go^, ring the bells'', and fire the guns^, And fling the starry banner ouP; Shout'’ ‘ Freedom ! ’ till your lisping ones Give back their cradle-shout; Let boastful eloquence declaim Of honor, liberty, and fame; Still let the poet’s strain be heard. With ^ glory' for each second word. And every thing with breath agree To praise ‘ our glorious liberty ! ’ 7. But when the patriot cannon jars That prison’s cold and gloomy wall, And through its grates the stripes and stan Rise on the wind, and fall; Think ye that prisoner’s aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer? Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb. What is your carnival to him f 8. Down with the law that binds him thus! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse Of God and human kind! Open the prisoner’s living tomb\ And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code, To the free sun and air of God; No longer dare as crime to brand The chastening of the Almighty’s hand! Bunker Hill Monument. ECLECTIC SERIES. 145 f XLVIIL— LA FAYETTE AND ROBERT RAIKES. From Grtmke. Thomas S. Grimkk was a distinguished lawyer of Charleston, South Carolina. He was a man of great learning, pure and high-toned re- ligious sentiment, and remarkable eloquenee. La Fayette was a French nobleman, who gave his services and spent his fortune in aid of America in the Revolutionary War, which termi- nated in 1783. In 1824 he revisited this country, and was received with an enthusiasm seldom equaled. [Extract from an address delivered at a Sunday-School Celebration.] 1. It is but a few years, since we beheld the most singular and memorable pageant in the annals of time. It was a pageant more sublime and affecting than the progress of Elizabeth through England after the defeat of the Armada ; than the re- turn of Francis I. from a Spanish prison to his own beautiful France; than the daring and rapid march of the conqueror at Austerlitz from Frejus to Paris. It was a pageant, indeed, rivaled only in the elements of the grand and the pathetic, by the journey of our own Washington, through the different States. Need I say that I allude to the visit of La Fayette to America'? 2. But La Fayette returned to the land of the dead^^ rather than of the living'. How many who had fought with him in the war of ’76, had died in arms, and lay buried in the grave of the soldier or the sailor ! How many who had survived the perils of battle, on the land and the ocean, had expired on the death-bed of peace, in the arms of mother', sister', daughter', wife'! Those who survived to celebrate with him the jubilee of 1825, were stricken in years, and hoary-headed; many of them infirm in health ; many the victims of poverty', or misfortune', or affliction'. And, how venerable that pat- riotic company'; how sublime their gathering through all the land'; how joyful their welcome, how affecting their fare- well' to that beloved stranger ! 3. But the pageant has fled', and the very materlaW that gave it such depth of interest, are rapidly perishing' : and a humble^ perhaps a nameless grave, shall hold the last soldier of the Bevolution. And shall they ever meet again? Shall the patriots and soldiers of ’76^ the Immortal Band, as 146 NEW SIXTH READER. history styles them, meet again in the amaranthine bowers of spotless purity, of perfect bliss, of eternal glory? Shall theirs be the Christian’s heaven, the kingdom of the Re- deemer? The heathen points to his fabulous Elysium as the paradise of the soldier and the sage. But the Christian^ bows down with tears and sighs, for he knows that not many of the patriots, and statesmen, and warriors of Christian lands, are the disciples of Jesus. 4. But we turn from La Fayette, the favorite of the old and the new world, to the peaceful benevolence, the unambi- tious achievements of Robert Raihes. Let us imagine him to have been still alive', and to have visited our land, to celebrate this day with us. No national ships would have been offered to bear Inm', a nation’s guest', in the pride of the star-spangled banner', from the bright shores of the rising^ to the brighter shores of the setting' sun. No cannon would have hailed him' in the stern language of the battle- field, the fortunate champion of Freedom, in Europe and America'. No martial music would have welcomed him' in notes of rapture, as they rolled along the Atlantic, and echoed through the valley of the Mississippi'. No military procession would have heralded his' way through crowded streets, thick-set with the banner and the plume, the glitter- ing saber, and the polished bayonet'. No cities would have called forth beauty and fashion, wealth and rank, to honor him' in the ball-room and theater. No states would have escorted him' from boundary to boundary, nor have sent their chief magistrate to do him' homage. No national lib- erality would have allotted to him' a nobleman’s domain, and princely treasure'. No national gratitude w^ould have hailed him' in the capitol itself, the nation’s guest, because the nation’s benefactor'; and have consecrated a battle-ship', in memory of his wounds and his gallantry. 5. Not such would have been the reception of Robert Raikes, in the land of the Pilgrims' and of Penn', of the Catholic', the Cavalier', and the Huguenot'. And who does not rejoice, that it would be impossible thus to welcome this primitive Christian, the founder of Sunday-schools? His heralds would be the preachers of the Gospel', and the eminent in piety, benevolence, and zeal. His procession ECLECTIC SERIES. 147 would number in its ranks the messengers of the Cross and the disciples of the Savior', Sunday-school teachers and white-robed scholars. The tempJes of the Most High' would be the scenes of his' triumph. Homage and gratitude to liim\ would be anthems of praise' and thanksgiving to God'. 6. Parents would honor him as more than a brother'; children would reverence him as more than a father. The faltering words of age, the firm and sober voice of manhood, the silvery notes of youth, would bless him as a Christian patron. The wise and the good would acknowledge him every-where, as a national benefactor', as a patriot even to a land of strangers. He would have come a messenger of peace to a land'' of peace. No images of camps, and sieges, and battles ; no agonies of the dying and the wounded ; no shouts of victory, or processions of triumph, would mingle with the recollections of the multitude who welcomed him. They would mourn over no common dangers, trials, and calam- ities; for the road of duty has been to them the path of pleasantness, the way of peace. Their memory of the past would be rich in gratitude to God, and love to man ; their enjoyment of the present would be a prelude to heavenly bliss; their prospects of the future, bright and glorious as faith and hope. 7. Such was the reception of La, Fayette^ the warrior ; such would be that of Robert Raihes'^ the Howard of the Chris- tian church. And which is the nobler benefactor, patriot, and philanthropist? Mankind may admire and extol La Fayette' more than the founder of the Sunday-schools'' ; but religion, philanthropy, and enlightened common sense, must ever esteem Robert Raikes' the superior of La Fayette''. His are the virtues, the services, the sacrifices of a more endur- ing and exalted order of being. His counsels and triumphs belong less to time' than to eternity''. The fame of La Fayette is of this' world ; the glory of Robert Raikes is of the Redeemer’s everlo, sting kingdom''. La Fayette lived chiefly for his own age.^ and chiefly for his and our country. But Robert Raikes has lived for all ages, and all countries. Perhaps the historian and biographer may never interweave his name in the tapestry of national or indi- 148 NEW SIXTH READER vidual renown. But the records of every single cjiurch, honor him as a patron'; the records of the universal Church, on earth as in heaven, bless him as a benefactor. 9. The time may come when the name of La Fayette will be forgotten'; or when the star of his fame, no longer glit- tering in the zenith, shall be seen, pale and glimmering, on the verge of the horizon. But the name of Robert Raikes shall never'^ be forgotten ; and the lambent flame of Ms glory is that eternal fire which rushed down from heaven to devour the sacrifice of Elijah. Let mortals then admire and imitate La Fayette, more than Bobert Baikes. But the just made perfect, and the ministering spirits around the throne of Grod, have welcomed him as a fellow-servant of the same Lord; as a fellow-laborer in the same glorious cause of man’s redemp- tion; as a co-heir of the same precious promises and eternal rewards. XLIX.— ON HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. From Goldsmith. 1. Writers of every age have endeavored to show that pleasure is in and not in the offered for our amusement'. If the soul' be happily disposed, every thing becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in review, like the figures of a procession'; some may be awkward, others' ill-dressed' ; but none but a fooP is, on that account, enraged with the master of ceremonies. 2. I remember to have once seen a slave, in a fortifica- tion in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained'; obliged to toil from the appearance of day till night-fall', and con- demned to this for life'; yet with all these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sang, would have danced, but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical philosopher was here' ! A happy constitution supplied philosophy ; and, though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land around him. Every thing furnished him with an ECLECTIC SERIES. 149 opportunity of mirth; and though some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was sucli' an idiot, as philoso- phers should wish to imitate. 3. They who, like that slave, can place themselves on that side of the world in which every thing appears in a pleasant light, will find something in every oc'turrence, to excite their good humor. The most calamitous events, either to themselves' or others', can bring no new affliction'; the world is to them a theater, on which only comedies' are acted. All the bustle of heroism or the aspirations of am- bition, seem only to heighten the absurdity of the scene, and make the humor more poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress or the complaints of others, as the undertaker^ ^ though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. 4. Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Retz possessed this happiness in the highest degree. When fortune wore her angriest look, and he fell into the power of Cardinal Mazarin, his most deadly enemy, (being confined a close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes,) he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He only laughed at himself and his persecutor', and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though denied all amusements and even the conveniences of life, and entirely cut off from all intercourse with his friends, he still retained his good humor', laughed at the little spite of his enemies', and carried the jest so far as to write the life of his jailer. 5. All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is, to be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal’s ex- ample will teach us to be good-humored in circumstance?! of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good humor be construed by others into insensibility' or idiotisni'; it is happiness to ourselves'; and none but a fool could measure his satisfaction by what the world'" thinks of it. 6. The happiest fellow I ever knew, was of the number of those good-natured creatures, that are said to do no harm to any body but themselves. Whenever he fell into any misery, he called it “seeing life.” If his head was broken by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he com- 13 150 NEW SIXTH READER. forted hittiself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing: came amiss' to him. His inattention to money matters had con- cerned his father to such a degree, that all intercession of friends was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death- bed. The whole family (and Dick - among the number) gathered around him. 7. leave my second son, Andrew,” said the expiring miser, “my whole estate^; and desire him to be frugal.” Andrew, in a sorrowful tone', (as is usual on such occasions',) prayed heaven to prolong his life and health, to enjoy it him- self. “ I recommend Simon, my third son', to the care of his elder brother', and leave him, besides, four thousand pounds.” “Ah, father'! ” cried Simon', (in great affliction, to be sure',) “may heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself'! ” At last, turning to poor Dick : “ As for you, you have always been a sad dog' ; you ’ll never come to good', you ’ll never be rich'; I leave you a shilling to buy a halter ^ “ Ah, father'! ” cries Dick, without any emotion', ‘‘‘‘May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself! ” L.— THE FORTUNE-TELLER. From Mackenzie. 1. Harley sat down on a large stone, by the wayside, to take a pebble from his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a heggar^ approaching him. He had on a loose sort of coat, mended with different colored rags, among which the blue and russet were predominant. He had a short, knotty stick in his hand ; and on the top of it was stuck a ram’s horn ; he wore no shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which would have covered his feet and ankles ; in his face, however, was the plump appearance of good humor ; he walked a good round pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. 2. “Our delicacies,” said Harley to himself, are fan- tastic ; they are not in nature ! That heggo.r' walks over the sharjyest of these stones barefooted^ whilst /' have lost the most delightful dream in the world, from the smallest of them ECLECTIC SERIES. 151 happening to get into my shoe"'^ The beggar had by this time come up, and pulling off a piece of a hat, asked charity' of Harley. The dog began to beg too. It was impossible to resist both; and, in truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary', for Harley had destined six- pence for him before. 3. The beggar on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number'; and, with a sort of smile on his counte- nance, said to Harley “that if he wanted to have his fortune told'” — Harley turned his eye briskly upon the beggar'; it was an unpromising look for the subject of a prediction', and silenced the prophet immediately. “ I would much rather learn,” said Harley, “what it is in your power" to tell me. Your trade must be an entertaining one; sit down on this stone, and let me know something of your profession ; I have ofL en thought of turning fortune-teller for a week or two, myself.” 4. “Master',” replied the beggar', “I like your frankness much'; for I had the humor of plain dealing in me from a child ; but there is no doing with it in this world ; we must do as we can ; and lying is, as you call it, my profession. But I was in some sort forced' to the trade, for I once dealt in telling the truth. I was a laborer, sir, and gained as much as to make me live. I never laid by', indeed ; for I was reckoned a piece of a wag', and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley.” “So,” said Harley, “you seem to know me.” “ Ay', there are few folks in the country that I dont know something'" of. How should I tell fortunes' else?” “True'; but go on with your story'; you were a laborer', you say, and a wag'; your industry, I suppose, you left with your oldi" trade; but your humor you preserved to be of use to you in your new.'' 5. “ What signifies sadness', sir? A man grows lean’ on ’t. But I was brought to my idleness by degrees; sickness first disabled me, and it went against my stomach to work ever after. But in truth I was for a long time so weak, that I spit blood whenever I attempted to work. I had no relation living, and I never kept a friend above a week when I was able to johe. Thus I Wcis forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade I have found' it, Mr. Harley'. I told all my misfor- tunes truly, but they were seldom believed; and the few who 152 NEW SIXTH READER. gave me a half-penny as they passed, did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In short, I found that people don’t care to give alms without some secui'ity^ for their money ; such as a wooden leg"^ or a withered arm"^ for example. So I changed^ my plan, and ^instead of telling my oion misfortunes^ began to prophesy hap- piness to others'". 6. “This I found by much the better Vay. Folks will always listen when the tale is their own', and of many who say they do not believe in fortune-telling, I have known few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of their acquaintance'; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned from among servants and neighbors'; and indeed, people themselves'" are the best intelligencers in the world for our purpose. They dare not puzzle us for their owii" sakes, for every one is anxious to hear what they wish to believe ; and they who repeat it, to laugh at it when they have done, are generally more serious than their hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerably good memory, and some share of cunning, I succeed reasonably well as a fortune- teller. With this, and showing the tricks of that dog, I make shift to pick up a livelihood. 7. “ My trade is none of the most honest, yet people are not much cheated after all, who give a few half-pence for a pros- pect of happiness, which I have heard some persons say, is all a man can arrive at, in this' world. But I must bid you good-day', sir; for I have three miles to walk before noon, to inform some boarding-school young ladies, whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm, or captains in the army' ; a question which I promised to answer them by that time.” 8; Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket'; but Virtue bade him to consider on whom he was going to be- stow' it. Virtue held back his arm'; but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue’s, not so severe as Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, smiled' upon him ; his fingers lost their com- pression ; nor did Virtue' appear to catch the money as it fell. It had no sooner reached the ground, than the watch- ful cur (a trick he had been taught) snapped it up ; . and^ contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, de- livered it immediately into the hands of his master. ECLECTIC SERIES. 153 LI. -SATAN, SIN, AND DEATH. From Milton. [The following lesson requires variety of tone.] 1. Meanwhile, the adversary of God and man^ Satan^, with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight' : sometimes He scours the vighf coast, sometimes the leff^ Now shaves with level wing the deep"', then soars Up to the fiery concave towering high. 2. At last, appear Hell bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof, And thrice threefold the gates' ; three folds were bras©', Three iron, three of adamantine rock Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire, Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat. On either side, a formidable shape' ; The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair, But ended foul in many a scaly fold. Voluminous and vast', a serpent armed With mortal sting' ; about her middle round, A cry of hell hounds never ceasing barked, With wide Cerberian mouths full loud, and rung A hideous peal. 3. The other shape. If shape it might be called, that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; Or substayice might be called, that shadow seemed. For each seemed either; black it stood as night'. Fierce as ten furies', terrible as hell', And shook a dreadful dart' ; what seemed his head The likeness of a kingly crown' had on. 4 . Satan was now at hand, and from his seat The monster moving onward came as fast With horrid strides; hell trembled as he strode. The undaunted fiend what this might be, admired — Admired^ ^ not feared; God and his Son except, Created thing naught valued he, nor shunned' ; And with disdainful look thus first began: 5. {h) “ Whence and what art' thou, execrable shape, That dar’st, though grim and terrible, advance 154 NEW SIXTH READER. Thy miscreated front athwart my way To yonder gates ? Through them I mean to pass\ That be assured'', wdthout leave asked of thee' : Ketire', or taste' thy folly; and learn by proof, Hell-born^, not to contend with spirits of heaven! ” 6. To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied : (h) “ Art thou that traitor angeF, art thou he, Who first broke peace in heaven^, and faith, till then Unbroken^, and in proud rebellious arms Drew after him the third part of heaven’s sons, Conjured against the Highest^, for which both thou And they, outcast from God^, are here condemned To waste eternal days in woe and pain^? And reckonest thou thyself with spirits of heaven', Hell-doomed' ! and breathest defiance here and scorn, Where /' reign king, and, to enrage thee more, king and lord' ? Back' to thy punishment'. False fugitive! and to thy speed add wings; Lest with a whip of scorpions, I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart. Strange horrors seize thee, and pangs unfelt' before.” 7. So spake the grisly terror', and in shape So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold More dreadful and deform. On the other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified', and like a comet burned. That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head Leveled his deadly aim'; their fatal hands No second'^ stroke intend ; and such a frown Each cast at the other', as when two black clouds With heaven’s artillery fraught, come rattling on Over the Caspian' ; then stand front to front, Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow To join their dark encounter in mid air. 8. So frowned the mighty combatants, that hell Grew darker at the frown' : so matched', they stood' ; For never but once more was either like To meet so great a foe. And now great deeds Had been achieved, whereof all hell had rung. Had not the snaky sorceress, that sat Fast by hell gate, and kept the fatal key, Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between. ECLECTIC SERIES 155 LII.— GOD IS EVERY-WIIERE. 1. Oh ! show me where is He, The high and holy One\ To whom thou bend’st the knee, And prayest^, “ Thy will be done I 1 hear thy song of praise, And lo! no form^ is near: Thine eyes I see thee raise, But where doth God appear? Oh ! teach me who zV God, and where his glories shine, That I may kneel and pray, and call thy Father mine. 2. “Gaze on that arch above^: The glittering vault admire. Who taught those orbs to move? Who lit their ceaseless fire ? Who guides the moon to run In silence through the skies? Who bids that dawning sun In strength and beauty rise ? There view immensity^ ! behold' ! my God is there : The sun', the moon', the stars', his majesty declare'. 3. “See where the mountains'^ rise; Where thundering torrents'^ foam ; Where, veiled in towering skies, The eagl^ makes his home: Where savage nature dwells, My God is present too' ; Through all her wildest dells His footsteps I pursue: /ie' reared those giant cliffs, supplies that dashing stream. Provides the daily food which stills the wild bird’s scream. 4. “Look on that world of waves., Where finny nations glide ; Within whose deep, dark caves The ocean monsters hide : His power is sovereign there, To raise', to quell' the storm; The depths his bounty share. Where sport the scaly swarm : Tempests and calms obey the same almighty voice, Which rules the earth and skies', and bids far worlds rejoica 166 NEW SIXTH READER. 5. “No human thoughts can soar Beyond his boundless might; He swells the thunder’s roar, He spreads the wings of night. Oh ! praise his works divine' ! Bow down thy soul in prayer'; Nor ask for other sign, That God is every- where ; The viewless spirit^, He' — immortaF, holy^, blest' ; Oh! worship him in faith^, and find eternal rest'!” LIII.— IRONICAL EULOGY ON DEBT. 1. Debt is of the very highest antiquity. The first debt in the history of man is the debt of nature, and the first instinct is to put off the payment of it to the last moment. Many persons, it will be observed, following the natural pro- cedure, would die before they would pay their debts. 2. Society is composed of two classes', debtors' and cred- itors'. The creditor class has been erroneously supposed the more enviable. Never was there a greater misconception'; and the hold it yet maintains upon opinion, is a remarkable example of the obstinacy of error, notwithstanding the plain- est lessons of experience. The debtor has the sympathies of mankind. He is seldom spoken of but with expressions of tenderness and compassion — “the poor debtor'!” — and “ the unfortunate debtor' ! ” On the other hand, “ harsh ” and “hard-hearted” are the epithets allotted to the creditor. Who ever heard the “poor creditor,” the “unfortunate cred- itor'” spoken of? No', the creditor never becomes the object of pity, unless he passes into the debtor class. A creditor may be ruined by the poor debtor, but it is not until he becomes unable to pay his own debts, that he begins to be compassionated. 3. A debtor is a man of mark. Many eyes are fixed upion him'; many have interest in his well-being': his movements are of concern : he can not disappear unheeded' ; his name is in many mouths'; his name is upon many books'; he is a man of note' — of promissory' note; he fills the speculation ECLECTIC SERIES. 157 of many minds'; men conjecture' about him, wonder about him — wonder and conjecture whether he will pay. He is a man of consequence', for many are running' after him. His door is thronged with duns. He is inquired after every hour of the day. Judges' hear of him and know him. Every meal he swallows', every coat he puts upon his back', every dollar he borrows', appears before the country in some formal doc- ument'. Compare Ms' notoriety with the obscure lot of the creditor' — of the man who has nothing but claims on the world ; a landlord, or fund-holder, or some sucli' disagreeable, hard character. 4. The man who pays his way is unknown in his neighbor- hood. You ask the milk-man at his door, and he can not tell his name. You ask the butcher where Mr. Payall lives', and he tells you he knows no such name', for it is not in his books. You shall ask the baker, and he will tell you there is no such person in the neighborhood. People that have his money' fast in their pockets, have no thought of his per- son or appellation. His house only is known. No. 31 is good pay. No. 31 is ready money. Not a scrap of paper is ever made out for No. 31. It is an anonymous'' house; its owner pays his way to obscurity. No one knows any thing about him, or heeds his movements. If a carriage be seen at his door, the neigborhood is not full of concern lest he be go- ing to run away. If a package be moved from his house, a score of boys are not employed to watch whether it be carried to the pawnbroker. Mr. Payall fills no place in the public mind'; no one has any hopes or fears about him. 5. The creditor always figures in the fancy as a sour, single man, with grizzled hair, a scowling countenance, and a peremptory air', who lives in a dark apartment, with musty deeds about him, and an iron safe, as impenetrable as his heart', grabbing together what he does not enjoy, and what there is no one about' him to enjoy. The debtor, on the other hand, is always pictured with a wife and six fair-haired daughters, bound together in affection and mis- ery', full of sensibility, and suffering without a fault. The creditor, it is never doubted, thrives without a merit. He has no wife and chilaren to pity. No one ever thinks it de- sirable that he'' should have the means of living'. He is a 158 NEW SIXTH READER. brute for insisting that he must receive, in order to pay. It is not in the imagination of man to conceive" that his creditor has demands upon him which must be satisfied^ and that he must do to others, as others must do to him. A creditor is a personification of exaction. He is supposed to be always taking in', and never giving out. 6. People idly fancy, that the possession of riches is desir- able. What blindness' ! Spend and regale'. Save a shilling and you lay it by for a thief. The prudent men are the men that live beyond their means. Happen what may, they are safe. They have taken time by the forelock. They have an- ticipated fortune. “The wealthy fool, with gold in store,” has only denied himself so much enjoyment, which another will seize at his expense. Look at these people in a panic. See who are the fools then. You know them by their long faces. You may say, as one of them goes by in an agony of apprehension, “ There is a stupid fellow who fancied himself rich, because he had fifty thousand dollars in bank.” The history of the last ten years has taught the moral, “ spend and regale.” Whatever is laid up beyond the present hour^ is put in jeopardy. There is no certainty but in instant enjoyment'. Look at school-boys sharing a plum cake. The knowing ones eat, as for a race ; but a stupidi" fellow saves his portion; just nibbles a bit, and “keeps the rest for another time.” Most provident blockhead! The others, when they have gobbled up their' shares, set upon /am', plunder him, and thresh him for crying out. 7. Before the terms “depreciation,” “suspension,” and “going into liquidation,” were heard, there might have been some reason in the practice of “laying up';” but now' \t denotes the darkest blindness. The prudent men of the present time, are the men in debt. The tendency being to sacrifice creditors to debtors, and the debtor party acquiring daily new strength every one is in haste to get into the fa- vored class. In any case, the debtor' is safe. He has put his enjoyments behind" him; they are safe'; no turns of fort- une can disturb' them. The substance he has eaten up, is irrecoverable. The future can not trouble his past. He has nothing to apprehend. He has anticipated more than fortune would ever have granted' him. He has tricked'" fort- ECLECTIC SERIES. 159 une ; and liis creditors' — bah' ! who feels for creditors' ? What are^ creditors? Landlords; a pitiless and unpitiable tribe'; all griping extortioners'! What would become of the world of debtors', if it did not steal a march upon this rapacious class'? LIV.— FAITHLESS NET LY CRAY. From Hood. 1. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms ; But a cannon-ball took oflf* his legs^ So he laid down his ajyms I 2. Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, “Let others^ shoot. For here T leave my second leg. And the Forty-second Foot!” 3. The army surgeons made him limbs', Said he, “They’re only pegs': But there’s as wooden members quite, As represent my legs! ” 4. Now Ben, he loved a pretty maid'. Her name^ was Nelly Gray'; So he went to pay her his devoirs^ When he ’d devoured his pay. 5. But Avhen he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs^, Began to take them off! 6. “O Nelly Gray"! O Nelly Gray"! Is this your love so warm" ? The love that loves a scarlet coat, Should be more uniform I ” 7. Said she", “ I loved a dure a sight so terrible. 6. Speedily recovering her self-control, Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, “ Holy prophets of the law ! Front de Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife. Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive ! ” She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, “ He is down 1 ECLECTIC SERIES. 163 he is down!” “Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe ; “for our dear Lady’s sake, tell me which has fallen ! ” “ The Black Knight,” answered Bebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness — “ But no ! but no ! the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed ! he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men’s strength in his single arm — his sword is broken — he snatches an ax from a yeo- man — he presses Front de Ba3uf, blow on blow — the giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the wood- man — he falls — he falls!” “Front de Boeuf ? ” exclaimed Ivanhoe. “Front de Boeuf,” answered the Jewess; “his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar, — their united force compels the champion to pause — they drag Front de Boeuf within the walls.” 7. “ The assailants have won the barriers, have they not? ” said Ivanhoe. “ They have — they have,— and they press the besieged hard, upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other ; down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Grreat Grod ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! ” — “Think not of that,” replied Ivanhoe; “this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield? Who push their way?” 8. “ The ladders are thrown down,” replied Bebecca, shuddering ; “ the soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles; the besieged have the better.” “Saint George strike for us!” said the knight; “do the false yeo- men give way?” “No,” exclaimed Bebecca, “they bear themselves right yeomanly ; the Black Knight approaches the postern v/ith his huge ax ; the thundering blows which lie deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle ; stones and beams are hailed down on the brave champion ; he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down and feathers.” 9. “St. John of Acre!” said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, “ methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed.” “ The postern gate shakes,” continued Bebecca; “it crashes — it is splintered by 164 NEW SIXTH READER. his powerful blows — they rush in — the outwork is won ! O Grod ! they hurry the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat ! 0 men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer ! ” “ The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the castle — have they won that pass?” exclaimed Ivanhoe. “No,” replied Rebecca; “ the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, tell the fate of the others. Alas ! I see that it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle.” 10. “What do they now, maiden?” said Ivanhoe; “look forth yet again, this is no time to faint at bloodshed.” “ It is over, for a time,” said Rebecca; “ our friends strengthen them- selves within the outwork which they have mastered.” “Our friends,” said Ivanhoe, “will surely not abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun, and so happily attained ; 0 no ! I will put my faith in the good knight, whose ax has rent heart of oak, and bars of iron. Singular,” he again muttered to himself, “if there cun be two who are capable of such achievements. It is, it mz/.s/ be Richard C(EUR de Lion.’’^ 11. “ Seest thou nothing else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be distinguished? ” “ Nothing,” said the Jewess, “ all about him is as black as the wing of the night-raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further ; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray, as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength ; it seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion, were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. Giod forgive him the sin of bloodshed ! it is fearful, yet magnificent to behold, how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds.” ECLECTIC SERIES. 165 LVL— DESCRIPTION OF A STORM AT SEA. From Carrington. 1. The evening winds shrieked wildly: the dark cloiid Rested upon the horizon’s hem, and grew Mightier and mightier, flinging its black arch Around the troubled offing, till it grasped Within its terrible embrace, the all That eye could see of ocean. There arose, Forth from the infinite of waters, sounds. Confused, appalling; from the dread lee shore There came a heavier swell, a lengthened roar, Each moment deeper, rolling on the ear With most portentous voice. Rock howled to rock, Headland to headland, as the Atlantic flung Its billows shoreward; and the feathery foam Of twice ten thousand broken surges, sailed High o’er 'the dim-seen land. The startled gull, With scream prophetic, sought his savage cliff. And e’en the bird that loves to sail between The ridges of the sea, Avith hurried Aving, Flew from the blast’s fierce onset. 2. One — far off, — One hapless ship was seen upon the deep, Breasting the Avestern Avaters. Nothing lived Around her; all AAms desert; for the storm Had made old ocean’s realm a solitude. Where man might fear to roam. And there she sat, A lonely thing amid the gathering strife. With pinions folded — not for rest, — prepared To struggle Avith the tempest. 3. And it came, As night abruptly closed; nor moon nor star Looked from the sky, but darkness deep as that Which reigned OA^er primcAml chaos, wrapped That fated bark, save AAffien the lightning hissed Along the bursting billow. Ocean howled To the high thunder, and the thunder spoke To the rebellious ocean, with a voice So terrible, that all the rush and roar Of waves were but as the meek lapse of rills, To that deep, everlasting peal, Avhich comes From thee, Niagara, Avild flinging o’er Thy steep the waters of a world. 14 166 NEAV SIXTH READER. 4. Anon, The lightnings glared more fiercely, burning round The glowing offing with unwonted stay, As if they lingered o’er the dark abyss. And raised its veil of horror, but to show Its wild and tortured face. And then the winds Held oft a momentary pause. As spent with their own fury ; but they came Again with added power; with shriek and cry, Almost unearthly, as if on their wings, Passed by the spirit of the storm 5. T^^cy heard, Who rode the midnight mountain wave ; the voice Of death was in that cry unearthly. Oft, In the red battle had they seen him stride The glowing deck, scattering his burning hail. And breathing liquid flame, until the Avinds, The very winds grew faint, and on the waves Rested the columned smokes; but on that night He came with tenfold terrors; with a power That shook at once heaven, earth; his ministers Of vengeance round him, the great wind, the sea. The thunder, and the fatal flash ! Alas ! Day dawned not on the mariner; ere morn. The lightning lit the seaman to his grave, And the fierce sea-dog feasted on the dead! ].VH.— -LIFE, A MIGHTY RIVER. From Heber. Reginald Hebkr, late Bishop of Calcutta, was born in 178.3, Kiid died suddenly at Trichinopoli, in 1826. Heber was truly a Christian poet, and a spirit of affectionate piety pervades all his writings. 1. Life bears us on, like the current of a mighty river. Our boat, at first, glides down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook, and the wind- ings of its happy border. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads ; the flowers on the brink seem to ofler themselves to our hands ; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around us ; but the stream hurries us on. and still our hands are empty. ECLECTIC SERIES. 167 2. Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, and amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated by the moving picture of enjoyment and industry which passes before us ; we are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed and made miserable by some equally short-lived disappointment. But pur energy and our dependence are both in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left behind us ; we may be shipwrecked, but we can not anchor ; our voyage may be hastened, but it can not be delayed ; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens toward its home, till the roaring of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of the waves is beneath our keel, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted up around us, and we take our last leave of the earth, and its inhabitants ; and of our further voyage there is no witness but the Infinite and Eternal. 3. And do we still take so much anxious thought for future days, when the days which have gone by have so strangely and so uniformly deceived us? Can we still so set our hearts on the creatures of God, when we find, by sad experience, that the Creator only is permanent? Or shall we not rather lay aside eveiy weight, and every sin which doth most easily beset us, and think ourselves henceforth as wayfaring persons only, who have no abiding inheritance but in the hope of a better world, and to whom even that world would be worse than hopeless, if it were aot for our Lord Jesus Christ, and the interest we have obtained in his mercies? LVIIL— THE FAMILY MEETING. From Sprague. Charles Sprague, a native of Boston, was bom in 1791, and died in 1875. In his leisure moments, he wrote some admirable poems, marked by much beauty and finish of style. Among these are Curiosity, Shakspeare Ode, Cen- tennial Ode, The Winged Worshipers, The Family Meeting, etc. 1. We are all here'" ! Father', mother', Sister', brother^, All who hold each other dear. Each chair is filled^; we’re all at home>: 168 NEW SIXTH READER. To-night, let no cold stranger come': It is not often thus around Our old familiar hearth we’re found. Bless then the meeting and the spot'; For once, be every care forgot'; Let gentle Peace assert her power, And kind Affection rule the hour': We’re alV — alV here. 2. We’re not' all here! Some are away', — the deadt ones dear. Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, Looked in and thinned our little band': Some^, like a night-flash, passed away^. And some^ sank, lingering, day by day' ; The quiet grave-yard' — some^ lie there'. And cruel Ocean has his^ share ; I/V e ’re not all here. 3. ‘ We ard' all here! Even they^^ the dead} — though dead^, so dea Fond Memory, to her duty true, Brings back theid faded forms to view. How life-like through the mist of years. Each well-remembered face appears'! We see them as in times long past; From each to each kind looks are cast ; We hear their words'^ ^ their smiles^ behold. They ’re round us as they were of old' : We are' all here. 4. We are all here'! Father^, mother^, Sister^, brother', You that I love with love so dear'. This may not long of us be said ; Soon must we join the gathered dead; And by the hearth we now sit round, Some other circle will be found. O, then, that wisdom may we know. Which yields a life of peace below! So, in the world to follow this. May each repeat in words of bliss, We’re alV — alV — here'll ECLECTIC SERIES. 169 LIX— A VIEW OF THE COLISEUM. From Dewey. Coliseum, (pro. Col-i-se^-um,) the ruins of an ancient building at Rome. 1. On the eighth of November, from the high land, about fourteen miles distant, I first saw Rome'; and although there is something very unfavorable to impression in the expecta- tion that you are to be greatly impressed^ or that you oug}it to be, or that such is the fashioii" ; yet Rome is too mighty a name to be withstood by such or any other^ influences. Let you come upon that hill in what mood you may^^ the scene will lay hold upon you as with the hand of a giant. I scarcely know how to describe' the impression, but it seemed to me, as if something strong and stately, like fhe slow and majestic march of a mighty whirlwind, swept around those eternal towers'; the storms of time, that had prostrated the proudest monuments of the world', seemed to have left their vibrations in the still and solemn air' ; ages of history passed before me; the mighty procession of nations', kings', con- suls', emperors', empires', and generations, had passed over that sublime theater. The fire, the storm, the earthquake, had gone by' ; but there was yet left the still small voice like that, at which the prophet ^‘wrapped his face in his mantle.” 2. I went to see the Coliseum by moonlight. It is the monarch, the majesty of all ruins'; there is nothing like'' it. All the associations of the place, too, give it the most impress- ive character. When you enter within this stupendoui circle of ruinous walls and arches, and grand terraces of ma ^onry, rising one above another, you stand upon the arena of the old gladiatorial combats and Christian martyrdom'; and as you lift your eyes to the vast amphitheater, you meet, in imagination, the eyes of a hundred thousand Romans, assem- bled to witness these bloody spectacles. What a multitude and mighty array of human beings'; and how little do we know in modern times of great assemblies'! One, two, and three, and at its last enlargement by Constantine, more than three hundred thousand persons could be seated in the Circus Maximus 1 170 NEW SIXTH READER. 3. But to return to the Coliseum'; we went up under the conduct of a guide, upon the walls and terraces, or embank- ments which supported the ranges of seats. The seats have long since disappeared'; and grass overgrows the spots where the pride, and power, and wealth, and beauty of Borne sat down to its barbarous entertainments. What throno’ino* life o o was here then'! What voices, what greetings', what hurry- ing footsteps upon the staircases of the eighty arches of en- trance ! and now^ as we picked our way carefully through the decayed passages, or cautiously ascended some moldering flight of steps, or stood by the lonely walls — ourselves silent, and, for a wonder, the guide silent, too — there was no sound here but of the bat, and none came from without, but the roll of a distant carriage, or the convent bell from the sum- mit of the neighboring Esquiline. 4. It is scarcely possible to describe the effect of moonlight upon this ruin. Through a hundred lonely arches, and blackened passage-ways, it streamed in, pure, bright, soft, lambent, and yet distinct and clear, as if it came there at once to reveal, and cheer, and pity the mighty desolation. But if the Coliseum is a mournful and desolate spectacle as seen from within — without^ and especially on the side which is in best preservation, it is glorious. We passed around' it; and, as we looked upward, the moon shining through its arches, from the opposite side, it appeared as if it were the coronet of the heavens', so vast'" was it — or like a glorious crown upon the brow of night. 5. I feel that I do not and can not describe this mighty ruin I can only say that I came away paralyzed, and ^s passive as a child. A soldier stretched out his hand for “ w/i as we passed the guard'; and when my companion said I did wrong to give, I told him that I should have given my cloal^^ if the man had asked' it. Would you break any spell that worldly feeling or selflsh sorrow may have spread over your mind, go and see the Coliseum by moonlight. ECLECTIC SERIES. 171 LX.— ON MODULATION. From Lloyd. 1. ’T IS not enough the voice^ be sound and clear^, ’T is modulation' that must charm the ear. When desperate heroes grieve with tedious moan. And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone, The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes, Can only make the yawning hearers doze. The voice all modes of passion can express, That marks the proper word with proper stress: But none emphatic can that speaker call. Who lays an equal emphasis on all. 2. Some o’er the tongue the labored measure roll, Slow and deliberate as the parting toll ; Point every stop, mark every pause so strong. Their wordc like stage processions stalk along. 3. All affectation but creates disgust; And e’en in speaking, we may seem too just. In vain for therri^ the pleasing measure flows, Whose recitation runs it all to prose; Repeating what the poet sets not down, The verb disjointing from its favorite noun. While pause, and break, and repetition join To make a discord in each tuneful line'. 4. 8omey placid natures fill the allotted scene With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene; While others' thunder every couplet o’er. And almost crack your ears with rant and roar; More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone ; And Hamlet’s hollow voice and fixed amaze. More powerful terror to the mind conveys. Than he, who, swollen with impetuous rage, Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage. 5. He who, in earnest, studies o’er his part, Will find true nature cling about his heart. The modes of grief are not included all In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl: A single lookl^ more marks the internal woe. Than all the windings of the lengthened Ohhl 172 NEW SIXTH READER. Up to the face the quick sensation flies, And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes: Love^, transport\ madness', anger', scorn', despair^; And all the passions^, all the soul is there. LXI.— COMBAT AT A TOURNAMENT. * From Walter Scott. Tournament ; {pro. turn'a-ment.) Formerly, when the chief business of mankind was war, it was customary for knights to try their courage and skill, in mock-fights, armed with their usual weapons, the lance and sword. When several knights were engaged it was called a tourna- mont; when but two, o. joust. The challenge to combat was given, by touching the shield of the knight whom the challenger wished to encounter. The challenge to a contest with headless or blunt lances, was given by touching the shield gently with the reversed spear, while a blow with the point denoted a challenge to mortal conflict. List ; the inclosure within which the tournaments were held. Bois Guilbert; pro. Bwah Guil-bare'. Gra-mer'cy ; many thanks. 1. The music of the challengers breathed, from time to time, wild bursts, expressive of triumph or defiance ; while the clowns grudged a holiday which seemed to pass away in inactivity; and old knights and nobles lamented the decay of martial spirit, and spoke of the triumphs of their younger days. Prince John began to talk to his attendants about making ready the banquet, and the necessity of adjudging the prize to Brian de Bois Guilbert, who had, with a single spear, overthrown two knights, and foiled a third. 2. At length, as the music of the challengers concluded one of those long and high flourishes with which they had broken the silence of the lists, it was answered by a solitary trumpet, which breathed a note of defiance, from the north- ern extremity. All eyes were turned to see the new cham- pion which these sounds announced, and no sooner were the barriers opened than he paced into the lists. 3. As far as could be judged of a man sheathed in armor, the new adventurer did not greatly exceed the middle size, and seemed to be rather slender than strongly made. His suit of armor was formed of steel, richly inlaid with gold; ECLECTIC SERIES. 173 and the device on his shield was a young oak-tree pulled up by the roots, with the single word “Disinherited.’' He was mounted on a gallant black horse, and as he passed through the lists, he gracefully saluted the prince and the ladies, by lowering his lance. The dexterity with which he managed his steed, and something of youthful grace which he displayed in his manner, won him the favor of the multi- tude, which some of the lower classes expressed by calling out, “Touch Ralph de Yipont’s shield, touch the Hospital- er’s shield; he has the least sure seat; he is your cheapest bargain.” 4. The champion, moving onward amid the well-meant hints, ascended the platform by the sloping alley which led to it from the lists, and, to the astonishment of all present, riding straight up to the central pavilion, struck with the sharp end of his spear the shield of Brian de Bois Gruilbert, until it rang again. All stood astonished at his presump- tion, but none more so than the redoubted knight whom he had thus defied to mortal combat, and who, little expecting so rude a challenge, was standing carelessly at the door of his pavilion. 5. “Have you confessed yourself, brother,” said the Tem- plar Guilbert, “and have you heard mass this morning, that you peril your life so frankly?” “I am fitter to meet death than thou art,” answered the Disinherited Knight; for by this name the stranger had recorded himself in the book of the tourney. “Then take your place in the lists,” said De Bois Guilbert, “ and look your last upon the sun ; for this night thou shalt sleep in paradise.” “ Gramercy for thy courtesy,” replied the Disinherited Knight; “and to requite it, I advise thee to take a fresh horse and a new lance, for, by my honor, you will need both.” 6. Having expressed himself thus confidently, he reined his horse backward down the slope which he had ascended, and compelled him in the same manner to move backward through the lists, till he reached the northern extremity, where he remained stationary, in expectation of his antag- onist. This feat of horsemanship again attracted the ap- plause of the multitude. 7. However incensed at his adversary for the precaution 15 174 NEW SIXTH READER. which he recommended, the Templar did not neglect his ad- vice; for his honor was too nearly concerned to permit his neglecting any means which might insure victory over his presumptuous opponent. He changed his horse for a proved and fresh one of great strength and spirit. He chose a new and tough spear, lest the wood of the former might have been strained in the previous encounters he had sustained. Lastly, he laid aside his shield, which had received some little damage, and received another from his squires. 8. When the two champions stood opposed to each other at the two extremities of the lists, the public expectation was strained to the highest pitch. Few augured the possi- bility that the encounter could terminate well for the Dis- inherited Knight, yet his courage and gallantry secured the general good wishes of the spectators. The trumpets had no sooner given the signal, than the champions vanished from their posts with the speed of lightning, and closed in the center of the lists with the shock of a^ thunderbolt. The lances burst into shivers up to the very grasp, and it seemed, at the moment, that both knights had fallen, for the shock had made each horse recoil backward upon its haunches. The address of the riders recovered their steeds by the use of the bridle and spur; and having glared on each other, for an instant, with eyes that seemed to flash fire through the bars of their visors, each retired to the extremity of the lists, and received a fresh lance from the attendants. 9. A loud shout from the spectators, waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs, and general acclamations, attested the interest taken in the encounter. But no sooner had the knights resumed their station, than the clamor of applause was hushed into a silence so deep and so dead, that it seemed the multitude were afraid to breathe. A few minutes’ pause having been allowed, that the combatants and their horses might recover breath, the trumpets again sounded the onset. The champions a second time sprung from their sta- tions, and met in the center of the lists, with the same speed, the same dexterity, the same violence, but not the same equal fortune as before, 10. In the second encounter, the Templar aimed at the ECLECTIC SERIES. 175 center of his antagonist’s shield, and struck it so fairly and forcibly, that his spear went to shivers, and the Disinherited Knight reeled in his saddle. On the other hand, the cham- pion had, in the beginning of his career, directed the point of his lance toward Bois Guilbert’s shield; but changing his aim almost in the moment of encounter, he addressed to the helmet, a mark more difficult to hit, but which, if attained, rendered the shock more irresistible. Fair and true he hit the Templar on the visor, where h:s lance’s point kept hold of the bars. Yet even at this disadvantage, Bois Guilbert sustained his high reputation ; and had not the girths of his saddle burst, he might not have been unhorsed. As it chanced, however, saddle, horse, and man, rolled on the ground under a cloud of dust. 11. To extricate himself from the stirrups and fallen steed, was to the Templar scarce the work of a moment ; and stung * with madness, both at his disgrace, and the acclamations by which it was hailed by the spectators, he drew" his sword, and waved it in defiance of his conqueror. The Disinherited Knight sprung from his steed', and also unsheathed his sword\ The marshals of the field, however, spurred their horses between' them, and reminded them that the daws of the tournament did not, on the present occasion, permit this species of encounter', but that to the “Disinherit- ed Knight'” the meed of victory was fairly and honorably awarded. LXIL— THE BANNER OF PULASKI. From Longfellow. Pulaski was a Polish officer who took part with the Americans, and fell at the taking of Savannah, during the American revolution. His standard of crimson silk was presented to him by the Moravians of Beth- lehem, Pennsylvania, and it became his shroud. » 1. When the dying flame of day, Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer burning swung, 176 NEW SIXTH READER. Where, before the altar, hung That proud banner, which, with prayer. Had been consecrated there. And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 2. “Take thy bannerM — may it wave Proudly o’er the good .and brave, When the battle’s distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale, When the clarion’s music thrills To the heart of these lone hills. When the spear in conflict shakes. And the strong lance shivering breaks. 3. Take thy banner! and, beneath The war-cloud’s encircling wreath, Guard it — till our homes are free; Guard^ it — God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour. In the breaking forth of power. In the rush of steeds and men. His right hand will shield thee then. 4. Take thy banner'' ! But when night Closes round the ghastly fight. If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare^ him ! — By our holy vow. By our prayers and many tears. By the mercy that endears, Spare^ him! — he our love hath shared! Spare'^ him! — as thou wouldst be spared! 5. Take thy bannerM — and if e’er Thou shouldst press the soldier’s bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet. Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee.” And the warrior took that banner proud^, And it was his martial cloak and shroud. ECLECTIC SERIES. 177 LXIIL— THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. From Campbell. Thomas Campbell is the most classical poet of the present century, and there are few modern bards whose works are more likely to be ranked among the standard classics of the language. He died in 1844. Pan'dours; Hungarian soldiers. Hus-sars'; Hungarian horsemen. 1. O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceas€:d with thee to smile. When leagued Oppression poured to northern wars Her whiskered pandours and hei;^ fierce hussars. Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horrOr brooded o’er her van, Presaging wrath to -Poland, — and to man ! 2. Warsaw’s last champion, from her height surveyed. Wide o’er the fields a Avaste of ruin laid; (A) “O Heaven! ” he cried, “my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise'', fellow-men ! our country^ yet remains ! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high^, And swear for her — to live- — with her — to die!'" 3. (1) He said'', a.nd on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge or deaths — the Avatch-word^ and reply^; (A) Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm. 4 In Amin, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank, your volleyed thunder flew! Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time, Sarmatia felP, unwept, without a crime; PYund not a generous friend, a pitying foe. Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerAmless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell ! 178 NEW 8IXTH READER. The sun went down^, nor ceased the carnage there'^, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air; On Prague’s proud arch the tires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails', the rampart yields away, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark' ! as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! Earth shook, red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry! 6. (A) O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a graved Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? Where was thine^ arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod. That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; • That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below? 1. Departed spirits of the mighty dead^! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled^! Friends of the world^ ! restore your swords to man. Fight in his sacred cause and lead the van ! Yet, for Sarmatia s tears of blood, atone. And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh ! once again to Freedom’s cause return The patriot Tell' — the Bruce of Bannockburn'! LXIV.— SOUTH CAROLINA. From Hayne. Mr. Hayne was a Senator in Congress from the State of South Carolina. This is an extract from a speech delivered by him, while a member of that body. 1. If there be one state in the Union, Mr. President, that may challenge comparison with any other, for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the Union', that state is South Carolina^. Sir', from the very commence- ment of the revolution', up to this hour', there is no sacri- ECLECTIC SERIES. 179 fice, however great, she has not cheerfully made\ no service she has ever hesitated to perform. 2. She has adhered to you in your prosperity'; but in your adversity', she has clung to you with more than filial affection'. No matter what was the condition of her domes- tic affairs; though deprived of her resources', divided by parties', or surrounded by difiiculties', the call of the coun- try has been to her as the voice of Grod'. Domestic discord ceased at the sound'; every man became at once reconciled to his brethren', and the sons of Carolina were all seen, crowding together to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country'. 3. What, sir, was the conduct of the South, during the revolution? Sir, I honor New England, for her conduct in that glorious struggle. But great as is the praise which belongs to her', I think at least equal honor is due to the South. Never" were there exhibited, in the history of the world^^ higher examples of noble daring', dreadful suffer- ing', and heroic endurance', than by the whigs of Carolina, during the revolution'. The whole state^ from the moun- tains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. 4. The plains of Carolina drank up the most precious blood of her citizens. Black, smoking ruins marked the places which had been the habitation of her children. Driven from their homes into the gloomy and almost im- penetrable swamps, even there^^ the spirit of liberty sur- vived', and South Carolina, sustained by the example of her Sumters' and her Marions', proved, by her conduct, that though her soit might be overrun, the spirit of her people' was invincible. 180 NEW SIXTH READER. LXV.— MASSACHUSETTS AND SOUTH CAROLINA. From Webster. Daniel Webster was born in 1782. He graduated at the age of twenty, and established himself in the practice of the law in New Hampshire. Tie became a member of Congress av. the age of thirty, in which he continued, with few intermissions, until his death, hold- ing the foremost rank as an orator, statesman, and expounder of the Constitution. This is an extract from his answer to the preceding speech. He died in 1852. 1. The eulogium pronounced on the character of the State of South Carolina, by the honorable gentleman, for her revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty con- currence. I shall not acknowledge that the honorable mem- ber goes before me, in regard for whatever of distinguished talent or distinguished character. South Carolina has pro- duced. I claim part of the honor; I partake in the pride of her great names. I claim them for countrymen', one' and alV — the Laurenses', the Rutledges', the Pinckneys', the Sumters', the " Marions' — Americans alV — whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by state lines, than their tal- ents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. 2. In their day and generation, they served and honored the country, and the whole'" country, and their renown is of the treasures' of the whole country. Him"^ whose honored name the gentleman himself^ bears, — does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his' patriotism, or sympathy for his' suffering, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina' ! Sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit in Carolina a name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom'? No, sir, — in- creased gratification^ and delight'" rather. Sir, I thank Clod', that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said to be able to raise mortals' to the skies', I have yet none', as I trust, of that other' spirit, which would drag angels' down . 3. When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because it happened to spring up beyond the little limits of my oion' ECLECTIC SERIES. 181 state or neigborhood ; when I refuse for any such cause, or for arvy^ cause, the homage due to American talent, to ele- vated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the coun- try'; or if I see an uncommon endowment of Heaven'; if I see extraordinary capacity or virtue in any son of the South' ; and if, moved by local prejudice^ ^ or gangrened by state JeaZ- I get up here to abate a tithe of a hair^ from his just character and just fame', may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth. 4. Mr. President, I , shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts. She needs' none. There she is'; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history'; the world knows it by heart. The past\ at least, is secure'. There is Boston', and Concord', and Lexington', and Bun- ker-Hi'l'; and there they will remain forever'. And, sir, where American Liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained', there it still lives'", in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound' it; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and mad- ness, if uneasiness under salutary restraint', shall succeed to separate it from that Union', by which alone its existeiice is made sure', it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked'; it will stretch forth its arm with whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who gathered around it ; and it will fall at last, if fall it must', amid the proudest monuments of its glory and on the very spot of its origin. LXVI.— THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM. From Atherstone. Herculaneum and Pompeii were cities of Italy, which were destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius, being entirely buried under ashes and lava. During the last century, they have been dug out to a considerable ex- tent, and the streets, buildings, and utensils have been found in a state of perfect preservation. 1. There was a man^, A Roman soldier, for some daring deed That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low 182 NEW SIXTH READER. Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, But generous, and brave, and kind. He had a son^ ; it was a rosy boy, A little faithful copy of his sire. In face and gesture. From infancy, the child Had been his father s solace and his care. 2. Every sport The father shared and heightened. But at length, The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned To fetters and to darkness. 3. The captive’s lot. He felt in all its bitterness : the wajls Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched His jailer with compassion^ ; and the boy, Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled His father’s lingering hours, and brought a balm With his loved presence, that in every wound Dropped healing. But, in this terrific hour, He was a poisoned arrow^ in the breast Where he had been a cure. 4. With earliest morn Of that first day of darkness and amaze. He came. The iron door was closed^ — for them Never to open more! The day^, the nighD Dragged slowly by^; nor did they know the fate Impending o’er the city. Well they heard The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath, Axidifelt its giddy rocking; and the air Grew hoi^ at length, and thick"^ ; but in his straw The boy was sleeping' : and the father hoped The earthquake might pass by'' : nor would he wake From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell The dangers of their state. 5. (T) On his low couch The fettered soldier sank, and with deep awe. Listened the fearful sounds' : with upturned eye, To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then, strove To calm himself, and lose in sleeps awhile His useless terrors. But he could^ not sleep : His body burned vfiih. feverish heat'; his chains Clanked loud^ although he moved not'; deep in earth ECLECTIC SERIES. 183 Groaned unimaginable thunders^ ; sounds, Fearful and ominous, arose and died^, Like the sad meanings of November s wind, In the blank midnight, {ll) Deepest horror chilled His blood that burned before : cold, clammy sweats Came o’er him; then anon, a fiery thrill Shot through his veins. Now, on his couch he shrunk, And shivered as in fear^ ; now, upright leaped. As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, And longed to cope with death. 6. He slept^, at last, A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept Never to waken more! His hours are few, But terrible his agony. 7. Soon the storm , Burst forth ; the lightnings glanced' ; the air Shook'^ with the thunders. They awoke' ; they sprung Amazed upon their feet'. The dungeon glowed A moment as in sunshine — and was dark : Again, a fiood of white fiame fills the cell. Dying away upon the dazzled eye In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound^ Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear. 8 With intensest awe. The soldier’s frame was filled' ; and many a thought Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind, As underneath he felt the fevered earth Jarring and lifting'; and the massive walls. Heard harshly grate and strain': yet knew he not. While evils undefined and yet to come Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound Fate had alread^^ given. — Where^^ man of woe^ ! Where^j wretched father^ ! is thy /^oy' f Thou call’st His name in vain' : — he can not answer' thee. ‘ U JjQudly the father called upon his child' : No voice replied'. Trembling and anxiously He searched their couch of straw'; with headlong haste Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent, Groped darkling on the earth': — n5 child was there. (A) Again' he called : again', at farthest stretch Of his accursed fetters, till the blood Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes 184 NEW SIXTH READER. Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far, And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch Though but his idol's garment. Useless toiD! Yet still renewed' : still round and round he goes, And strains^, and snatches^, and with dreadful cries Calls'^ on his boy. 10. (hh) Mad frenzy fires him now. He plants against the wall his feet' ; his chain Grasps^ ; tugs^ with giant strength to force away The deep-driven staple'; yells^ and shrieks with rage; And, like a desert lion in the snare, Raging to break his toils, — to and fro bounds'. (f) But see ! the ground is opening' ; — a blue light Mounts, gently waving', — noiseless; — thin and cold It seems, and like a rainbow' tint, not flame ; But by its luster, on the earth outstretched. Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed, And, o’er his face serene, a darkened line Points out the lightning’s track. 11. {ll) The father saw. And all his fury fled': — a dead calm fell That instant on' him: — speechless^ — fixed^ — he stood'', And with a look that never wanderecF ^ gazed Intensely on the corse'. Those laughing eyes^ Were not yet closed', — and round those ruby lips The wonted smile returned'. 12. Silent and pale The father stands' : — no tear is in his eye : — The thunders bellow'; — but he hears them noU: — * The ground lifts like a sea'; — he knows'^ it noP : — The strong walls grind and gape' : — the vaulted roof Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind' ; See ! he looks up and smiles' ; for death to him I Is happiness'. Yet could one last embrace Be given^, ’twere still a sweeter^ thing to die. 13. It will^ be given. (A) Look' ! how the rolling ground, At every swell, nearer and still more near Moves toward the father’s outstretched arm his boy. Once he has touched his garment' : — how his eye Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears'! Ha', see'! he has'^ him now! — he clasps him round; Kisses his face ; puts back the curling locks, RCLECTIC SERIES. 185 That shaded his fine brow ; looks in his eyes ; Grasps^ in his own those little dimpled hands^ ; (1) Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont To lie when sleeping; and resigned, awaits Undreaded death. 14. (ll) And death came soon and swift And pangless. The liQge pile sank down at once Into the opening earth. Walls — arches^ — roof ^ — And deep foundation stones — all — mingling — felU 1 LXVII.— THE KNAVE UNMASKED. From Shakspeare. Scene I. — Camp before Florence. Enter Count Rosencrantz, the captain of horse in the Duke of Florence s army^ and Capt. Dumain and his brother^ two officers under the Count. Is^ Capt. Dumain. Nay, good, my lord, try him. If your lordship find him not a knave, take me henceforth for a fool. 2id Capt. Dumain. On my life', my lord', he is a mere bubble. Count Rosencrantz. Do you think I am so far deceived' in him? Is^ Capt. D. Believe it, my lord. To my certain knowl- edge, without any malice, but to speak of him as gently as if he were my hinsmaF^ he ’s a notorious coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, and the owner of no one good^ quality worthy your lordship’s respect. 2id Capt. D. It is important that you should understand him, lest, reposing too far in a virtue which he hath not, he might, on some important occasion, in some pressing danger, fail you. Count R. I would I knew in what particular action to try him. 2d Capt. D. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you heard him so confidently undertake' to do. Capt. D. I', with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprise' him. I will have men whom, I am sure, he knows 186 NEW SIXTH READER. not from the enemy. We will bind and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose he is carried into the enemy’s camp, when we bring him to our tents. Be but your lordship pres- ent at the examination ; if he do not\ for the promise of his life, and under the compulsion of base fear, vilify us all^ offer to betray you^ and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in any thing. 2id Capt. D. 0 for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem' for ’t. When your lordship sees the upshot of this affair, and to what metal this counter- feit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum’s entertainment, your partiality is indeed beyond the influence of reason. Here he comes. Enter Delgrado. 1st Capt. D. 0 for the love of laughter, hinder not the humor of his design ; let him fetch off his drum, anyhow. Count R. How now'. Monsieur' ? This drum sticks sorely in your disposition. 2id Capt. D. Hang' it, let it go' ; ’t is but a drum. Delgrado. But a drum' 1 Is ’t but a drum'? A drum so lost ! 2d Capt. D. It was a disaster of war that Caesar himself"' could not have prevented, if he had been there to command. Count R. Weir, we have reason to be satisfied with our success'. Some dishonor we had in the loss of that drum', but it is not to be recovered. Del. It might' have been recovered. Count R. It mighty but it is not 7iovx Del. It iV to be recovered ; but that the merit of seiwice is seldom attached to the real performer, I would have that"' drum or another'^ or hie jacet. Count R. Why, if you have a stomach' to ’t. Monsieur', if you think your skill in stratagem can recover' this instru- ment of honor, be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on. I will do honor to the attempt as a worthy exploit. If you speed well in it, the Duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you what ful-ther becomes his greatness, even to the utmost extent of your merit. Del. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it. ECLECTIC SERIES. 187 Count R. But you must not now slumber' in it. Del. I ’ll about it this evening. I will contrive my plans', prepare myself for the encounter', and, by midnight, look to hear further from me. Count R. I know thou art valiant. Farewell! Del. I love not many words. \_Exit. Is^ Capt. D. No more than a fish loves loater. Is not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confidently undertakes this business, which he knows is not to be done ? 2d Capt. D. You do not hioiR him, my lord, as we' do : certain it is, that he will steal himself into a man’s favor, and for a week escape discovery' ; but when you find him out, you have him ever after. Count R. Why, do you think he will make no attempt at the deed, which he so boldly and seriously promises? \st Capt.,D. None in the world; but return with an in- vention, and clap upon you two or three plausible lies ; but we have almost encompassed' him ; you shall see him fall to-night ; for, indeed, he is not worthy of your lordship’s confidence. y_Exeunt. Scene II. — Without the Florentine Camp. Enter Capt. Dumain, with five or six soldiers in amhush. Capt. D. He can come no other w?«.y but by this hedge corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will ; though you understand it not yourselves^ no matter; for we must not seem to understand him; but some one among us must be an interpreter. 1st Soldier. Grood Captain, let me^ be the interpreter. Is^ Capt. D. Are you not acquainted with him? Knows he not your voice? ls< Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. 1st Gapi. D. But what linsey-woolsey have you to speak to us again? ls/5 Sold. Even such as you speak to me. Is^ Capt. D. He must think us some band of strangers in the enemy’s army. Now, he hath a smack of all neighbor- ing languages; therefore, we must all gabble, each after his own fancy; so we seem to know what we say, is to know straight to our purpose. As for you, interpreter, you must 188 NEW SIXTH READER. seem very politic. But, hide : ho ! here he comes ; to beguile two hours in sleep, and then to return and swear to the lies he forges. Enter Delgrado. Del. Ten o’clock : within these two hours t’ will be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausible invention that carries it. They begin to smoke' me; and disgraces have, of late, knocked too often at my door. I find my tongue is too fool -hardy ; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring to make good the reports of my tongue. Capt. D. This is the first truth that thy tongue was ever guilty of. \_Aside. Del. What madness'" should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum; being not ignorant of the impossi- bility, and knowing'^ I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say, I got them in the exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry it : they will say : — Come you off with so little f — and great ones I dare" not give. Tongue', I must put you into a butter- woman’s mouth, and buy another of Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these"" perils. Is^ Capt. D. Is it possible, he should know' what he is, and he^ what he is? \^Aside. Del. I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn ; or the breaking of m_y Spanish sword. Is^ Capt. D. We can not let you off so. \^Aside. Del. Or the shaving of my beard', and say it was in stratagem'. 1st Capt. D. ’T would not do. [^Aside. Del. Or to drown my clothes', and say, I was stripped'. Is^ Capt. D. Hardly serve. \_Aside. Del. Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel' — Is^ Capt. D. How deep? \_Aside. Del. Thirty fathom. Capt. D. Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed'. \^Aside. Del. I would I had any drum of the enemy’s; I would swear'"., I had recovered it. Is^ Copt. D. You shall hear"" one anon. l^Aside. ECLECTIC SERIES. 189 Del, A drum now of the enemy’s! [^Alarm within, Is^ Capt. D. Throca movoiisus, cargo, cargo, cargo. All. Cargo, cargo, villianda par cargo, cargo. Del. O ! ransom' ! ransom' ! — do not hide mine eyes'. \Theif seize him and blindfold him. Is^ Sold. Boskos thromuklo boskos. Del. I know you are the Muskos’ regiment. And I shall lose my life for want of language : If there be here German, or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speaJc^ to me; I will discover that, which shall undo^ The Florentine. 1st Sold. Boskos vanvado : — I understand' thee, and can speak thy tongue; — Kerely bonto : — Sir ; Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards Are at thy bosom. Del. Oh! oh! oh! Is^ Sold. O pray', pray', pray, — Manka ravania dulche. Is^ Capt.. D. Oscorbi dulchos volivorca. Is^ Sold. The general is content to spare thee yet-; And, hoodwinked as thou art, will lead thee on To gather news from thee; perhaps, thou may’st inform Something to save thy life. Del. 0, let me live. And all the secrets of our camp I T1 show; Their force', their purposes' ; nay, I ’ll spcaK that, Which thou wilt wonder' at. Sold. But wilt thou speak trulj'? Del. If I do not, hang' me for a spy. Sold. Acordo linta — Come on', thou art granted space. ( Exit^ with Dt lgrad.o guarded. Is/ Capt. D. Go', tell Count Bosencrantz and m 3 " brother. We have caught the woodcock, and will keep hira muffled, Till we do hear' from them. 2d Sold. Captain, I will. 1st Capt. D. He will betray us all unto ourselves : Inform ’em that\ 16 190 NEW SIXTH READER. 2d Sold. So I will, sir. Capt. D. Till then I T1 keep him dark and safely locked. \_Exeunt. Scene ITE. — The Florentine Camp. Enter Captain Dumain, his brother and soldiers. 1st Capt. D. Shall we not have the Count to-night? 2d Capt. D. Yes, at the appointed hour. Is^ Capt. D. That approaches apace : I would gladly have him see his follower anatomized, that he might take a meas- ure of his own judgment, in which he hath set him so high. 2d Capt. D. We will not meddle with him till he come. But here is his lordship now. Enter Count Rosencrantz. Count R. Come, shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier? Bring forth this counterfeit model; he has deceived me, like a double meaning prophesier. Capt. D. Bring him forth. \_Exeunt Soldiers.~^ He has set in the stocks all night, poor knave. Count R. No matter; his heels have deserved it, in usurp- ing spw^s^ so long. How does he carry" himself? Is/! Capt. D. I have told your lordship already ; the stocks carry him. But, to answer you as you would be understood, he weeps like a sick girl : he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance, to the very instant of his setting in the stocks. And what think you he has confessed? Count R. Nothing of has he? 2d Capt. D. His confession is taken, and shall be read to his face. If your lordship be in it, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it . Re-enter Soldiers, with Helgrado. Count R. A^Zaywe'upon him! muffled! he can' say noth- ing of me; hush! hushJ 2d Capt. D. Porto tartarossa. Is^ Sold, He calls for tortures ; what will you say without them ? Del. I will confess what i know, without constraint ; if pinch me like a pasty, T can say no more. ECLECTIC SERIES. 191 Is^ Sold. Bosko chimurclio. 2d Capt. D. Boblifindo chicurmusco. Is^ Sold. You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I ask you out of a note. Del. And truly' as I hope to live. Sold. ^Reading.^ First demand of him^ how many horses the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Del. Five or six thousand, but very weak and miser viceahle ) the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues', upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live. Is^ Sold. Shall I set down your answer so? Del. Do. I ’ll take my sacrament' on ’t, how and which way you will. Count R. All ’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this ! Is/; Capt. D. You are deceived', my lord; this is Monsieur Delgradoi' the gallant militarist^ (that was his own phrase^^') that had the whole theory of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the sheath of his dagger. 2d Capt. D. I will never trust a man again, for keeping his sword clean'; nor believe he can have every thing in him by wearing his apparel neatly. Is^ Sold. Well, that ^ s'" set down'. Del. Five or six thousand horse, I said — I will say true --or thereabouts : set down — for I ’ll speak truth. Count R. He is very near the truiF in this. Is^ Capt. D. No thanks to Mm, though. Del. Poor rogues', I pray you, say. 1st Sold. Well, that^s"' set down. Del. I humbly thank you, sir : a truth ’s a truth ; the rogues are marvelously poor. 1st Sold. Demand of him^ of what strength they are afoot. What say you to that? Del. By my troth, sir, if I were to live but this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see'; Spurio', a hundred and fifty'; Sebastian', so many'; Corambus', so many'; Cosmo', Lodovick', and Glrati', two hundred and fifty each'; mine own company', Lammond', Bentii', two hundred and fifty each' ; so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand full; half of which 192 NEW SIXTH READER. dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves" to pieces. Count R. What shall be done' to him? 1st Capt. D. Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my character, and what credit I have with the Duke. Is^ Sold. Well, that's'" set down. [Reading from a note.^ You shall demand of him.^ whether one Captain Dumain'" he in the camp: what his reputation is with the Duke'"., what his valor., honesty., expertness in wars'" ; or whether he thinks it were possible^ with well-iveighed sums of gold., to corrupt him to a revolt. What say you to tills'"? What do you know' of it? Del. I beseech you let me answer to the particulars. De- mand them singly. Is^ Sold. Do you know? this Captain Dumain ? Del. I know' him. He was a butcher’s apprentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for some paltry theft. [Dumain lifts up his hand to strike him. Count R. Nay', by your leave, hold your hands; though I know, his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls. Is^ Sold. Well', is this captain in the Duke’s camp? Del. Upon my knowledge he is', and a mean, dirty villain, Capt. D. [To Count i?.] Nay', look not so upon me' ; we shall hear of your lordship'" anon. Is^ Sold. What is his reputation with the Duke? Del. The Duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine'; and writ to me this other day, to turn him out o’ the band. I think I have his letter in my pocket. Is^ SoM. Marry, we ’ll search. Del. In good sadness, I do not know': either it is there', or it is upon file', with the Duke’s other letters, in my tent. Is^ Sold. Here ’tis'; here’s a paper; shall I read it you? Del. I do not know', if it be it, or no. Count R. Our interpreter does it well. Is^ Capt. D. Excellently. 1st Sold. [Reads.~\ The count ’s a fool and full of gold. Del. That ’s' not the Duke’s letter, sir ; that is a notice to a certain person to take heed of one Count Rosencrantz" ., a foolish, idle boy'; for all that, very knavish. Pray you, put it up' again. ECLECTIC SERIES. 193 \st Sold. Nay, I ’ll read^ it first, by your favor. [^Reading.'] When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take^ it; After he scores, he never pays^ the score : ^ Zalf won is match well made^ ; match, and well make' it. He ne’er pays after'^ debts, take it before. For count of this, the count’s a fooF, I know^ it, Who pays before, but not when he does owe^ it. Count R. He shall be whipped through the army, with these rhymes on his forehead. 2cZ Capt. D. This is your devoted friendf the learned lin^ quist., and the gallant soldier. Count R. I could endure any thing before but a and now he ’s a cat to me. Is^ Sold. I perceive, sir, by the general’s looks, we shall be fain to hang' you. Del. My life\ in any^ case : not that I am afraid to die ; but that my offenses being many, I would repent out the remainder of my nature. Let me live'"., sir, in a dungeort.^ in the stockt., or anywhere, so I may live. Sold. We ’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain. You have answered to his reputation with the Duke', and to his valor. What, his honesty? Del. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister. He pre- tends not to keep oaths; but in breaking them is stronger than Hercules. He will Zic, sir, with such volubility', that you would think truth were a fool'; drunkenness is his best virtue''. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty : he has every thing'^ that an honest man should not have ; what an* honest man should' have, he has nothing'". Count R. Hang him. He is more and more a cat. Is^ Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, I need not ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt. Del. Sir, for the fourth part of a French crown, he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it, and cut the entail from all remainder. Sold. What’s his the Captain Dumain? 2d, Copt. D. Why does he ask of \st Sold. What ’s he f 194 NEW SIXTH READER. Del. E’en a crow of the same nest''; not altogether so great as the other in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is : in a retreat, he outruns a lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp. Sold. If your life is saved, will you undertake to be- tray your friends? Del. Ay, the captain of their horse. Count Rosencrantz, and air of them. Sold. I ’ll whisper with the general and know his pleasure. Del. I ’ll no more drumming' ; a plague^ of all drums. Only to seem to deserve well, and to get the good opinion of that foolish young boy, the count, have I run into this dan- ger. Yet who w^ould have suspected an ambush where I was taken ? \^Aside. 1st Sold. There is no remedy, sir', but you must die\ The general says, gou\ that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such villainous reports of men in high estimation', can serve the world for no honest use ; therefore, you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head. Del. 0 sir, let me live', or let me see' my death! Sold. That you shall', and take your leave of all your friends. [ JJnmuffling him. So', look about' you; know* you any here'? Count R. Good morrow', noble captain. 2d Capt. D. God bless' you, Captain Helgrado. Is^ Capt. D. God save' you, noble captain. 2d Capt. D. What greeting will you to my lord Lafeu'? I ’m for France. Capt. D. Good captain, wul) you give me a copy of your sonnet? If I were not a very coward, I ’d compel it of you; but fare you well. \_Exeunt Count i?., Capt. D. and brother. 1st Sold. You are undone, captain; ail but your scarf, that^ has a knot on ’t yet. Del. Who can not be crushed with a plot? Is^ Sold. I ’m for France, too' : farewell', we shall speak of you there. \^ExiU Del. Yet I am thankful. If my heart were great^ 'T would bursti" at this. Captain' I’ll be no more'; ECLECTIC SERIES. 195 But I will eat", and drink', and sleep as soft' As captain shall; simply the thing I am Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this. Bust', sword' ! cool', blushes' ! and, Belgrade', live ! Safest in shame! being fooled, by foolery thrive'! There ’s place and means for every man alive'. \_ExiL LXVIII.— A PASSAGE IN HUMAN LIFE. 1. In my daily walks into the country, I was accustomed to pass a certain cottage. It had nothing particularly pic turesque about it. It had its little garden, and its vine spreading over its front; but, beyond these, it possessed no feature likely to fix it in the mind of the poet or novel-writer, and which might induce him to people it with creatures of his own fancy. In fact, it appeared to be inhabited by persons as little extraordinary as itself. A “good man of the house’' it might possess, — but he was never visible. The only in- mates I ever saw, were a young woman, and another female, in the wane of life, no doubt the mother. 2. The damsel was a comely, fresh, mild-looking cottage girl, always seated in one spot, near the window, intent on her needle. The old dame was as regularly busied, to and fro, in household aifairs. She appeared one of those good housewives, who never dream of rest, except when in sleep. The cottage stood so near the road, that the fire at the further end of the room, showed you, without your being rudely in- quisitive, the whole interior in a single moment of passing. A clean hearth and a cheerful fire, shining upon homely but neat and orderly furniture, spoke of comfort : but whether the old dame enjoyed, or merely diffused that comfort, was a problem. 3. I passed the house many successive days. It was always alike, — the fire snining brightly and peacefully, — the girl seated at her post by the window, — the housewife going to and fro, catering and contriving, dusting and managing. One morning as I went by, there was a change. The dame 196 NEW SIXTH READER. was seated near her daughter, her arms laid upon the table, and her head reclined upon her arms. I was sure that it was sickness which had compelled her to that action of repose ; nothing less could have done it. I felt that I knew exactly the poor woman's feelings. She had felt a weariness stealing upon her ; she had wondered at it, and struggled against it, and borne up, hoping it would pass by ; till, loth as she was to yield, it had forced submission. 4. The next day, when I passed, the room appeared as usual ; the fire burning pleasantly, the girl at her needle, but her mother was not to be seen ; and, glancing my eye upward, I perceived the blind close drawn, in the window above. It is so, said I to myself, disease is in progress. Perhaps it occasions no gloomy fear of consequences, no extreme con- cern : and yet, who knows how it may end ? It is thus, that begin those changes that draw out the central bolt that holds families together; which steal away our fire-side faces, and lay waste our affections. 5. I passed by, day after day. The scene was the same; the fire burning, the hearth beaming clear and beautiful; but the mother was not to be seen ; the blind was still drawn above. At length, I missed the girl, and in her place ap- peared another woman, bearing considerable resemblance to the mother, but of a more quiet habit. It was easy to inter- pret this change. Disease had assumed an alarming aspect; the daughter was occupied in intense watching and caring for the suftering mother, and the good woman’s sister had been summoned to her side, perhaps from a distant spot, and, perhaps, from her family cares, which no less important an event could have induced her to elude. G. Thus appearances continued some days. There was silence around the house, and an air of neglect within it, till, one morning, I beheld the blind drawn, in the room below, and the window thrown open above. The scene was over ; the mother was removed from her family, and one of those great changes effetjted in human life, which com- mence with so little observation, but leave behind them such lasting effects. FCLECTIO SERIES. 197 LXIX.— THANATOPSIS. From Bryant. Thanatopsis is composed of two Greek words, thanatos meaning death, and opsis a view. The word, therefore, signifies a view of death, or Re- flections on Death. 1. To him who in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. 2. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around, Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, Comes a still voice: 3. A"et a few days, and thee, The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet, in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements. To be a brother to the insensible rock. And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold, 4. Yet not to thy eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shait lie down 17 198 NEW SIXTH READEK. WitK patriarchs of the infant world, with kings, The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good. Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulcher. 5. ‘ The hills. Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales. Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all- Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. 6. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — ^yet — the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone. 7. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living; and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave ' Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men. The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid. The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off*, — Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side. By those who in their turn shall follow them. ECLECTIC SERIES. 199 8. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou ^o not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. LXX.— THE DEPARTED. From Park Benjamin. 1. The aeparted! the departed! They visit us in dreams. And they glide above our memories Like shadows over streams; But where the cheerful lights of home In constant luster burn, The departed, the departed. Can never more return I 2. The good, the brave, the beautiful. How dreamless is their sleep. Where rolls the dirge-like music Of the ever-tossing deep! Or where the surging night-winds Pale winter’s robes have spread Above the narrow palaces, In the cities of the dead! 3. I look around, and feel the awe Of one who walks alone, , Among the wrecks of former days, In mournful ruin strown ; I start to hear the stirring sounds ' Among the cypress-trees. For the voice of the departed Is borne upon the breeze. 4. That solemn voice ! it mingles with Each free and careless strain; I scarce can think earth’s minstrelsy Will cheer my heart again. 200 NEW SIXTH READER. The melody of summer waves, The thrilling notes of birds, Can never be so dear to me, As their remembered words. 5. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles Still on me sweetly fall. Their tones of love I faintly hear My name in sadness call. 1 know that they are happy, With their angel-plumage on, But my heart is very desolate. To think that they are gone. LXXI.— ELIJAH THE TISHBITE. From the Bible. 1. And Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done, and withal how he had slain all the prophets with the sword. Then Jezebel sent a messenger unto Elijah, saying, So let the gods do to me\ and more also, if I make not thy' life as the life of one of theivb by to-morrow about this time. And when he saw that', he arose and went for his Zi/e', and came and sat down under a juniper-tree', and he requested for himself that he might die, and said. It is enough ; now, 0 Lord', take away my life' ; for I am not better than my fathers. 2. And as he lay and slept under a juniper-tree', behold, then an angel' touched him, and said unto him. Arise, and eat! And he looked, and behold, there was a cake baked on the coals, and a cruse of water at his head. And he did eat and drink, and laid him down' again. And the angel of the Lord came again the second^ time, and touched him, and said. Arise and eat; because the journey is too great' for thee. And he arose, and did eat and drink', and went in the strength of that meat, forty days and forty nights', unto Horeb, the mount of Grod. 3. And he came thither unto a cave, and lodged' there ; and, behold, the word of the Lord came to him, and he said unto him, What doest thou here^ Elijah'? And he said, I ECLECTIC SERIES. 201 have been very jealous for the Lord God of hosts ; for the children of Israel have forsaken thy covenant, thrown down thine altars, and slain thy prophets with the sword': and I, even P only, am left'; and they seek mi/ life, to take it away. 4. And he said. Go forth and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by', and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks, before the Lord' ; but the Lord was not in the wind' : and after the wind an earthquake': but the Lord was not in the earthquake': and after the earthquake, a fire': but the Lord was not in the fire': and after the fire, a still, small voice. And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle', and went out, and stood in the enter- ing in of the cave. 5. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said. What doest thou /icre', Elijah'? And he said, I have been very jealous for the Lord God of hosts'; because the children of Israel have forsaken thy covenant, thrown down thine altars, and slain thy prophets with the sword'; and I', even /' only, am left'; and they seek my life to take it away. And the Lord said unto him. Go', return on thy way to the wilderness of Damascus' : and when thou comest, anoint Hazael to be king over Syria'; and Jehu the son of Nim- shi shalt thou anoint to be king over Israel'; and Elisha shalt thou anoint to be prophet in thy room. And it shall come to pass, that him that escapeth the sword of Hazael, shall Jehu slay; and him that escapeth the sword of Jehu, shall Elisha slay. Yet I have left me seven thousand in Israel, all the knees which have not bowed unto Baal, and every mouth which hath not kissed' him. So, he departed thence. 202 NEW SIXTH READER. LXXII.— ELIJAH AT MOUNT HOREB. From Krummacher. Krummacher was a German divine, who wrote several very interest- ing and instructive works, among which are ^‘Elisha the Tishbite,^^ Parables,’* etc. 1. “GrO forth'/’ it had been said to Elijah', “and stand upon the mount before the Lord.” The prophet hears it, and leaves his cave'; and no sooner is he gone forth, than signs occur which announce to him the approach of the Almighty. The sacred historian here, indeed, depicts in simple language, a most sublime scene. 2. The first sign was a tremendous wind'. Just be- fore, probably, the deepest silence had prevailed throughout this dreary wilderness. The mountain tempest breaks forth, and the bursting rocks thunder, as if the four winds' having been confined there, had in an instant broken from their prisons to fight' together. The clouds are driven about in the sky, like squadrons of combatants rushing to the conflict. The sandy desert is like a raging sea, tossing its curling billows to the sky. Sinai is agitated, as if the terrors of the law-giving were renewed around it. The prophet feels the majesty of Jehovah; it is awful and appalling. It is not a feeling of peace, and of the Lord’s blissful nearness, which possesses Elijah’s soul in this tremendous scene'; it is rather a feeling of distressing distance'; “a strong iDin(P went before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind.” 3. The terrors of an earthquake' next ensue. The very foundations of the hills shake and are removed. The mount- ains and the rocks which were rent by the mighty wind, threaten now to fall upon one another. Hills sink down, and valleys rise; chasms yawn, and horrible depths unfold, as if the earth were removed out of his place. The prophet, sur- rounded by the ruins of nature, feels still more of that divine majesty, which “ looketh upon the earth, and it trembleth.” But he still remains without any gracious communication of Jehovah in the inner man. The earthquake was only the second herald of the Deity. It went before rhe Lord, “ but the Lord was not in the earthquake^ ECLECTIC SERIES. 203 4. When this had ceased, an awful fire" passed by. As the winds had done before^ so now the flames'' come upon him from every side, and the deepest shades of night are turned into the light of day. Elijah, lost in adoring as- tonishment', beholds the awfully sublime spectacle', and the inmost sensation of his heart must have been that of sur- prise and dread; but he enjoys, as yet, no delightful sensa- tion of the divine presence'; “the Lord was not in the fire.'' 5. The fire disappears', and tranquillity, like the stillness of the sanctuary, spreads gradually over all nature', and it seems as if every hill and dale', yea, the whole earth and skies', lay in silent homage at the footstool of eternal Maj- esty. The very mountains seemed to worship'; the whole scene is hushed to profound peace'; and now, he hears a “still, small voice.” “And it was so when Elijah heard it he wrapt his face in his mantle,” in token of reverential awe and adoring wonder, and went forth, “and s^ood at the en- trance of the cave.” TO TEACHERS. Rhetorical notation will now be omitted, as the learner may be supposed to have become sufficiently acquainted with the subject to judge for himself, with such occasional aid as the teacher may think proper to give. 204 NEW SIXTH READER. LXXIIL— EARTH AND HEAVEN. Words marked thus in the subsequent lessons, should be spelled and defined by the pupil j as, +summoned ’’ and “’^couch in the first par- agraph of this lesson. The pupil may be required to write them upon a blackboard or slate. If resort to a dictionary is needed, Webster* s should be referred to as standard authority in spelling and definition. EARTH. 1. There is grief, there is grief, there is wringing of hands. And weeping and calling for aid ; For Sorrow hath '’'summoned her group, and it stands Found the "^couch where the "^sufferer is laid ; And lips are all pallid, and cheeks are all cold. And tears from the heart-springs are shed; Yet who that looks on, the sweet saint to behold, But would gladly lie down in her stead. 2. There is g>def, there is grief, there is '^'anguish and strife. And the sufferer is striving for breath; For the spirit will cling, oh, how fondly, to life, And stern is the struggle with death! But the terrible '^conflict grows deadlier still, Till the last fatal symptoms have birth; And the eyeball is glazed, and the heart-blood is chill; And this is the portion of earth! HEAVEN. 3. There is bliss, there is bliss, in the regions above, They have opened the gates of the sky; A spirit has soared to those mansions of love, And seeks for '•'admittance on high ; And friends long divided are hasting to greet. In a land where no sorrow may come. And the '•'seraphs are eager a sister to meet, And to welcome the child to its home. 4. There is bliss, there is bliss, at the foot of the throne; See the spirit all '•'purified bend ; And it beams with delight, since it gazes alone, On the face of a father, a friend! Then it joins in the '•'anthems forever that rise. And its '•'frailty or folly forgiven. It is dead to the earth, and new-born to the skies, And this is the portion of Heaven ! ECLECTIC SERIES- 205 LXXIV.—THE SLEEPERS. 1. They are sleeping! Who are sleeping? Children wearied with their play ; For the stars of night are peeping, And the sun hath sunk away; As the dew upon the '^blossoms Bow them on their slender stem, Lo, as light as their own bosoms. Balmy sleep hath '^'conquered them. 2. They are sleeping! Who are sleeping? Mortals '^'compassed round with woe. Eyelids wearing out with weeping. Close for very weakness now: And that short relief from sorrow, Harassed nature shall "^sustain Till they wake again to-morrow, Strengthened to '^'contend with pain 1 3 They are sleeping! Who are sleeping? Captives in their gloomy cells; Yet, sweet dreams are o’er them creeping. With their many-colored spells; All they love — again they clasp them; Feel again their long lost joys ; But the haste with which they grasp them^ Every fairy form destroys. 4. They are sleeping! Who are sleeping? Misers by their "^hoarded gold; And in fancy now are heaping Gems and pearls of price untold. Golden chains their limbs ^encumber, Diamonds seem before them strown; But they waken from their slumber. And the splendid dream is flown. 5. They are sleeping! Who are sleeping? Pause a moment, softly tread ; Anxious friends are fondly keeping Vigils by the sleeper’s bed! 206 NEW SIXTH READER. Other hopes have all forsaken ; One remains; that slumber deep Break not^ lest the slumberer waken From that sweet, that saving sleep. 6. They are sleeping! Who are sleeping? Thousands who have passed away From a world of woe and weeping To the regions of '‘'decay ! Safe they rest, the green turf under; Sighing breeze, or music’s breath, Winter’s wind, or summer’s thunder Can not break the sleep of death I LXXV.— THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. From Jane Taylor. 1. In a remote period of '‘'antiquity, when the '‘'supernatural and the marvelous obtained a readier credence than now, it was fabled that a stranger of extraordinary appearance was observed passing the streets of one of the magnificent cities of the east, remarking, with an eye of intelligent curiosity, every surrounding object. Several individuals gathering around him, questioned him concerning his country and his business; but they presently perceived that he was unac- quainted with their language, and he soon discovered himself to be equally ignorant of the most common usages of society. At the same time, the dignity and intelligence of his air and demeanor, forbade the idea of his being either a '‘'barbarian or a '‘'lunatic. 2. When, at length, he understood by their signs, that tney wished to be informed whence he came, he pointed with great significance to the sky ^ upon which, the crowd, concluding him to be one of their deities, were proceeding to pay him divine honors; but he no sooner comprehended their design, than he rejected it with horror; and, bending his knees and raising his hands toward heaven, in the attitude of prayer, gave them to understand that he also was a worshiper of the powers above. After a time, it is said, the mysterious stranger accepted the '‘'hos{)italities of one of the nobles of ECLECTIC SERIES. 207 the city; under whose roof he applied himself with great diligence to the '•'acquirement of the language, in which he made such surprising '•'proficiency, that in a few days, he was able to hold intelligent intercourse with those around him. 3. The noble host now resolved to take an early oppor- tunity of satisfying his curiosity respecting the country and quality of his guest; and upon his expressing his desire, the stranger assured him, that he would answer his inquiries that evening, after sunset. Accordingly, as night approached, he led him forth upon the '•'balconies of the palace, which over- looked the wealthy and populous city. Innumerable lights from its busy streets and splendid palaces, were now reflected in the dark bosom of its noble river ; where stately ves- sels, laden with rich '•'merchandise from all parts of the known world, lay anchored in the port. This was a city in which the voice of the harp and the viol, and the sound of the millstone were continually heard ; and '•'craftsmen of all kinds of craft were there ; and the light of a candle was seen in every dwelling ; and the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride were heard there. 4. The stranger mused awhile upon the glittering scene; and listened to the confused murmur of mingling sounds. Then suddenly raising his eyes to the starry '•'firmament, he fixed them with an expressive gaze, on the beautiful evening star, which was just sinking behind a dark grove, that sur- rounded one of the principal temples of the city. “ Marvel not,” said he to his host, “that I am wont to gaze with fond affection on yon silvery star. That was my home ; yes, I was lately an inhabitant of that tranquil planet; from whence a vain curiosity has tempted me to wander. 5. “ Often had I beheld, with wondering admiration, this brilliant world of yours, even one of the brightest gems of our firmament, and the ardent desire I had long felt to know something of its condition, was at length unexpectedly gratified. I received permission and power from above to '•'traverse the mighty void, and to direct my course to this distant sphere. To that permission, however, one condition was annexed, to which my eagerness for the enterprise induced me hastily to consent, namely, that I must thence- forth remain an inhabitant of this strange earth, and undergo 208 NEW SIXTH READER. all the ■‘'vicissitudes to which its natives are subject. Tell me, therefore, I pray you, what is the lot of man ; and explain to me more fully than I yet understand, all that I see and hear around me.” 6. ‘‘ Truly, sir,” replied the astonished noble, “ although I am altogether unacquainted with the manners and customs, products and '‘'privileges of your country, yet methinks, I ’.an not but congratulate you on your arrival in our world ; ’specially since it has been your good fortune to alight on a j^ctrt of it, affording such various sources of enjoyment, ns this our ■‘'opulent and '‘'luxuriant city. And be assured it will be my pride and pleasure to introduce you to all that is most worthy the attention of such a distinguished foreigner.” 7. Our adventurer, accordingly, was presently '‘'initiated into those arts of luxury and pleasure, which were there well understood. He was introduced by his obliging friend to their public games and festivals ; to their '‘'theatrical '‘'diver- sions and ■‘'convivial assemblies; and, in a short time, he began to feel some relish for amusements, the meaning of which, at first, he could scarcely comprehend. The next lesson which it became desirable to impart to him, was the necessity of acquiring wealth, as the only means of obtain- ing pleasure. This fact was no sooner understood by the stranger, than he gratefully accepted the offer of his friendly host, to place him in a situation in which he might '‘'amass riches. To this object he began to apply himself with dili- gence; and soon became, in some measure, reconciled to the manners and customs of our planet, strangely as they dif- fered from those of his own. LXXVL— THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER— CONCLUDED. 1. He had been but a few weeks diligently engaged in his new plans for the acquisition of wealth, when, walking in the cool of the day with his friend, in the outskirts of the city, his attention was arrested by the appearance of a '‘'spacious inclosure near which they passed. He inquired the use to which it was appropriated. “It is,” replied the nobleman. ECLECTIC SERIES. 209 “a place of public interment.” “I do not understand you,” said the stranger. “It is the place,” repeated his friend, “where we bury our dead.” “Excuse me, sir,” replied his companion, with some '^'embarrassment, “I must trouble you to explain yourself yet further.” 2. The nobleman repeated the information in still plainer terms. “ I am still at a loss to comprehend you perfectly,” said the stranger, turning deadly pale. “ This must relate to something of which I was not only totally ignorant in my own world, but of which I have, as yet, had no '^intimation in yours. I pray you, therefore, to satisfy my curiosity; for if I have any clue to your meaning, this surely, is a matter of more mighty concernment, than any to which you have hitherto directed me.” 3. “My good friend,” replied the nobleman, “you must indeed be a '^novice among us, if you have yet to learn that we must all, sooner or later, submit to take our place in these dismal abodes. Nor will I deny, that it is one of the least desirable of the circumstances which '^'appertain to our con- dition; for which reason it is a matter rarely referred to in polished society; and this accounts for your being hitherto uninformed on the subject. But, truly, sir, if the inhabit- ants of the place from whence you came are not liable to any similar misfortune, I advise you to betake yourself back again with all speed ; for be assured there is no escape here, nor could I guarantee your safety even for a single hour.” 4. “Alas!” replied the adventurer, “I must submit to the conditions of my enterprise, of which, till now, I little understood the import. But explain to me, I beseech you, something more of the nature and consequence of this won- drous change, and tell me at what period it commonly happens to man.” While he thus spoke, his voice '^faltered,, and his whole frame shook violently ; his countenance was as pale as death. By this time his companion, finding the discourse becoming more serious than was agreeable, declared he must refer him to the priests for further information, this subject being very much out of his province. “How ! ” exclaimed the stranger, “then I could not have understood you. Do the priests only die? Are you not to die also?” His friend, "^evading these questions, hastily conducted his 210 NEW SIXTH READER. importunate companion to one of their '^'magnificent temples, where he gladly consigned him to the instructions of the priesthood. 5. The emotion which the stranger had betrayed when he received the first idea of death, was yet slight in comparison with that which he experienced as soon as he gathered, from r.ie discourses of the priests, some notions of immortality, i.:id of the '^'altefnative of happiness or misery in a future state. But this agony of mind was exchanged for '^'trans- port, when he learned that, by the '^performance of certain conditions before death, the state of happiness might be secured. His eagerness to learn the nature of these terms, excited the surprise and even the contempt of his sacred teachers. They advised .him to remain satisfied, for the present, with the instructions he had received, and defer the remainder of the discussion till to-morrow. “How!” ex- claimed the novice, “ say ye not that death may come at any hour? May it not come this hour? And what if it should come, before I have performed these conditions? Oh! with- hold not the excellent knowledge from me a single moment! ” 6. The priests, suppressing a smile at his simplicity, pro- ceeded to explain their '^theology to their attentive auditor. But who can describe the '^'ecstasy of his happiness, w^hen he was given to understand the required conditions were, gener- ally, of easy and pleasant performance, and the occasional difficulties, which might attend them, would entirely cease with the short term of his earthly existence. “ If, then, I understand you rightly,” said he to his instructors, “this event which you call death, and which seems in itself strangely terrible, is most desirable and '^'blissful. What a favor is this which is granted to me, in being sent to inhabit a planet-in which I can die!” 7. The priests again exchanged smiles with each other ; but their ridicule was wholly lost on the "^enraptured stranger. When the first '^'transports of his emotion had subsided, he began to reflect with more uneasiness on the time he had already lost since his arrival. “ Alas ! what have I been doing?” exclaimed he. “This gold which I have been col- lecting, tell me, reverend priests, will it avail me any thing when the thirty or forty years are expired, which you say I ECLECTIC SERIES. 21 i may possibly '^sojourn in your planet?” “Nay,” replied the priests, “ but verily you will find it of excellent use so long as you remain in it.” “A very little of it will suffice me,” replied he; “for consider how soon this period will be past. What avails it what my condition may be for so short a season? I will betake myself from this hour, to the grand concerns of which you have so charitably informed me.” 8. Accordingly, from that period, continues the '^'legend, the stranger devoted himself to the performance of those con- ditions on which, he was told, his future welfare depended ; but, in so doing, he had an opposition to '^'encounter wholly unexpected, and for which he was at a loss even to account. By thus devoting his chief attention to his chief interests, he excited the surprise, the contempt, and even the enmity of most of the inhabitants of the city; and they rarely men- tioned him but with a term of reproach, which has been variously rendered in all the modern languages. 9. Nothing could equal the stranger’s surprise at this cir- cumstance ; as well as that of his fellow-citizens’ appearing, generally, so extremely indifferent as they did, to their own interest. That they should have so little prudence and fore- thought, as to provide only for their '‘'necessities and pleasures, for that short part of their existence in which they were to remain on this planet, he could but consider as the effect of disordered intellect; so that he even returned their incivili- ties to himself with affectionate '‘'expostulation, accompanied by lively emotions of compassion and '‘'amazement. 10. If ever he was tempted for a moment to violate any of the conditions of his future happiness, he bewailed his own madness with '‘'agonizing emotions ; and to all the invitations he received from others to do any thing inconsistent with his real interest, he had but one answer — -“Oh.” he would say, “I am to die; I am to die!” 212 NEW SIXTH READER. LXXVIL— A PSALM OF LIFE. From Longfellow. 1. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not wh it they seem. 2. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its +goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. 3. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our '^'destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. 4. Art is long, and Time is fleeting And our hearts, though stout and brave. Still, like ■’'muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. 5 In the world’s broad field of battle. In the ■’'bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife ! 6. Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead I Act — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead. 7. Lives of great, men all remind us We can make our lives 'tsublime, And, departing, leave behind us Foot-prints on the sands of time. 8. Foot-prints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn ■’'main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. 9. Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate; Still ■’'achieving, still pursuing. Learn to labor and .to wait. ECLECTIC SERIES. 213 LXXVIIL— THE DREAM OF CLARENCE. From Shakspeare. Clarence, prisoner in the Tower of London. Enter Brakenbury. ■Bralcenhury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day? Clarence. 0, I have passed a miserable night. So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian, faithful man. I would not spend another such a night. Though T were to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time. Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. Clar. Methought that T had broken from the Tower, And was ^embarked to cross to Burgundy; And, in my company, my brother Gloster; Who, from my cabin, tempted me to walk Upon the "^hatches; whence we looked toward England, And +cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York rnd Lancaster, That had befallen us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard. Into the tumbling billows of the main. O then, methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes! Methought I saw a thousand "earful wrecks; A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, '•'Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. All scattered in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men’s sculls; and, in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep. And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death, To gaze upon these secrets of the deep? Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost: but still the '•'envious flood 18 214 NEW SIXTH READER. Kept in mj soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air; But "^smothered it within my panting bulk; Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony? Clar. O no ; my dream was lengthened after life I 0, then began the tempest of my soul ! I passed, methought, the melancholy flood. With that '^grim ferry-man which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, “ What scourge for '^perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence'}'^ And so he vanished. Then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood ; and he shrieked out aloud : '‘^Clarence is come! false^ fleeting^ perjured. Clarence! That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury : Seize on him^ "^'FurieSj take him to your torments I ’ With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends ^'Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 1, trembling, waked, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell ; Such terrible Umpression made my dream. Brak. No marvel, my lord, that it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things, That now give evidence against my soul. For Edward’s sake; and see how he '^'requites me! O God I if my deep prayers can not appease thee. But thou wilt be Avenged on my misdeeds. Yet ^execute thy wrath on me alone: 0, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children I I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest! [Clarence reposes himself on a chair. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night. ECLECTIC SERIES. 215 LXXIX.— CHOICE OF HERCULES. From The Tatler, 1. When Hercules was in that part of his youth, in which it was natural for him to consider what course of life he ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence and the solitude of the place very much favored his '^'meditations. As he was musing on his present condition, and very much perplexed in himself on the state of life which he should choose, he saw two women of larger stature than ordinary, approaching him. 2. One of them had a very noble air and graceful '^deport- ment; her beauty was natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her eyes cast toward the ground with an agreeable '‘'reserve, her motion and behavior full of modesty, and her raiment as white as snow. The other had a great deal of health and '‘'floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red ; and she en- deavored to appear more graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful confidence and '‘'assurance in her looks, and all the variety of colors in her dress, that she thought were the most proper to show her complexion to advantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them on those that were present, to see how they liked her, and often looked on the figure she made in her own shadow. Upon her approach to Hercules, she stepped before the other lady, who came for- ward with a regular composed '‘'carriage, and running up to him, '‘'accosted him after the following manner : 3. “ My dear Hercules, I find you are very much divided in your thoughts upon the way of life that you ought to choose: be my friend, and follow me : I will lead you into the possession of pleasure, and out of the reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise and disquietude of business. The affairs of either war or peace shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole employment shall be to make your life easy, and entertain every sense with its proper gratifica- tions. '‘'Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, '‘'concerts of music crawds of beauties, are all in readiness to 216 NEW SIXTH READER. receive you. Come along with me into this region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid farewell forever to care, to pain, to business.” Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to know her name ; to which she answered, “ My friends and those who are well acquainted with me, call me Happiness : but my enemies and those who would injure my "^reputation, ha\ e given me the name of Pleasure.” 4. By this time, the other lady had come up, and ad^ dressed herself to the young hero in a very different manner. “Hercules,” said she, “I offer myself to you, because I know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent, by your love of virtue, and application to the studies proper for your age. This makes me hope that you will gain, both for yourself and me, an immortal reputation. But before I invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with you; and must lay this down as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains and labor. The gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favor of "‘'Deity, you must be at the pains of worshiping him ; if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige them; if you would be honored by your country, you must take care to serve it; in short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These are the only terms and condi- tions upon which I can promise happiness.” 5. The goddess of Pleasure here broke in upon her dis- course; “You see,” said she, “Hercules, by her own con- fession, the way to her pleasures is long and difficult, whereas that which I propose is short and easy.” “Alas!” said the other lady, whose "‘'visage glowed with scorn and pity, “what are the pleasures you propose? To eat before you are hungry, drink before you are thirsty, sleep before you are tired; to gratify appetites before they are raised, and raise such ap- petites as nature never planted. You never heard the most "’'delicious music, which is the praise of yourself; or saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of your own hands. Your "‘'votaries pass away their youth in a dream of mistaken pleasures ; while they are hoarding up "‘'anguish, torment, and remorse, for old age. ECLECTIC SERIES. 217 6. ‘‘As for me, I am the friend of the gods and of good men; an agreeable companion of the '•'artisan; a household guardian to the fathers of families ; a '•'patron and protector of servants ; an associate in all true and generous friend- ships. The banquets of my '•'votaries are never costly, but always delicious ; for none eat or drink at them, who are not invited by hunger and thirst. Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those who are in years: and those who are in years, of being honored by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favored by the gods, beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and, after the close of their labors, honored by posterity.” 7. We know, by the life of this '•'memorable hero to which of these two ladies he gave up his heart; and, I believe, every one who reads this, will do him the justice to approve of his choice. LXXX.— AMBITION. From Willis. 1. What is ambition? ’T is a glorious cheat! It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy, And lifts his humble window, and comes in; The narrow walls '•'expand, and spread away Into a kingly palace, and the roof Lifts to the sky, and ninseen fingers work The ceilings with rich '•'blazonry, and write His name in burning letters over all. And ever, as he shuts his wildered eyes, The '•'phantom comes and lays upon his lids A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain Breathes a fierce thirst no waters will allay. 2. He is its slave henceforth. His days are spent In chaining down his heart, and watching where To rise by human weaknesses. His nights Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours. His kindred are forgotten or '•'estranged; Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eyd 218 NEW SIXTH READER. His lip grows restless, and its smile is curled Half into scorn ; till the bright, fiery boy, That ’twas a daily blessing but to see. His spirit was so bird-like and so pure. Is frozen, in the very flush of youth. Into a cold, +care-fretted, heartless man. 3. And what is its reward? At best, a name! Praise — ^when the ear has grown too dull to hear; Gold — when the senses it should please are dead; Wreaths — when the hair they cover has grown gray. Fame — when the heart it should have "^thrilled is numb; All things but love — when love is all we want; And close behind comes Death, and ere we know. That even these '^'unavailing gifts are ours. He sends us, stripped and naked, to the grave. LXXXI.— LAMENT FOR THE DEAD. From Ossian. 1. Reyno. The wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven ; over the green hill flies the inconstant sun ; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy "^murmurs, O stream ! But more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood, as a wave on the lonely shore? 2. Aljpin. My tears, 0 Beyno ! are for the dead; my voice for the '^'inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill ; fair among the sons of the slain. But thou shalt fall like Morar ; and the mourners shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy bow shall lie in the hails, unstrung. 3. Thou wert swift, 0 Morar ! as a roe on the hill ; terrible as a '^meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm; thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm ; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow ! Thy face was like the sun, after rain ; like the moon, ECLECTIC SERIES. 219 in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose. Narrow is thy dwell- ing, now; dark the place of thine abode. With three steps, I '^compass thy grave, 0 thou, who wast so great before ! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only '^memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass whistling in the wind, mark to the hunter’s eye, the grave of mighty Morar. 4. Morar ! thou art low indeed : thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth ; fallen is the daughter of Morglan. Who, on his staff, is this? Who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are '^'galled with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, 0 Morar! the father of no son but thee. Weep, thou hxther of Morar, weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men; thou conqueror of the field; but the field shall see thee no more, nor the gloomy wood be lightened by the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son, — but the song shall pre- ser'ue thy name. LXXXII.— THE CHURCH-YARD. From Karamisin, [The two Voices from the Grave.] First Voice. How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear! With the howls of the storm-wind, the '^creaks of the bier, And the white bones all '’'clattering together! Second Voice. How peaceful the grave; its quiet how deep! Its ■’'zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flow’ rets perfume it with ether. First Voice, There '’riots the ‘’'blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow scull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in the nettle-weeds hiss. 220 NEW SIXTH READER. Second Voice. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb ! No tempests are there; but the nightingales come. And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. First Voice. The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave; ’Tis the vulture’s abode; ’tis the wolfs dreary cave^ Where they tear up the dead with their fangs. Second Voice. There the ^cony, at evening, '•'disports with his love, Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above Repose on the bough that o’erhangs First Voice. There darkness and dampness, with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death; The trees are all barren and bare. Second Voice. O! soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet, with the violets’ wafted perfume. With lilies and jessamine fair. First Voice. The pilgrim, who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by; and, with trembling and fears, lie is launched on the wreck-covered river Second Voice. Here the traveler, worn with life’s pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff*, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes forever. LXXXIII.— AVESTMINSTER ABBEY. From Addison. Joseph Addison, an English author, was born in 1672. He con- tributed largely to the Tatler, a periodical paper, and was also the chief writer of the Spectator. His writings afford the best models of style in our language. He died in 1719. 1. When I am in a serious humor, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity ECLECTIC SERIES. 221 of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. 1 yesterday passed the whole afternoon in the church-yard, the '^cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscrip- tions that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another; the whole history of his life being '^'comprehended in those two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these '^'registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of '•'satire upon the departed persons; who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were l)orn, and that they died. 2. Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave, and saw in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull, inter- mixed with a kind of fresh, '•'moldering earth, that, sometime or other, had a place in the composition of a human body. Upon this, I began to consider with myself, what innumer- able multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient '•'cathedral ; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and '•'prebend- aries, were crumbled among one another, and blended to- gether in the same common mass ; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistin- guished in the same '•'promiscuous heap of matter. 3. After having thus surveyed this '•'magazine of mortality, as it were in the lump, I examined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments, which are raised in every quarter of that ancient '•'fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant '•'epitaphs, that if it were posssible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and, by that means, are not understood once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter, I found there were poets who had no monuments, and monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, that the present war had 19 222 NEiV SIXTH READER. filled the church with many of those uninhabited '‘'monu- ments, which had been erected to the memory of persons, whose bodies were^ perhaps, buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. 4. I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations; but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy ; and can, therefore, take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delight- ful ones. By this means, I can improve myself with those objects, which others consider with terror. 5. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emo- tion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every '‘'inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion ; when I see the tomb of the parents them- selves, I consider the vanity of grieving for them, whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who '‘'deposed them, when I see rival wits lying side by side, or holy men that divided the world by their contests and dis- putes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little '‘'competitions, '‘'factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, some, six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be '‘'cotemporaries, and make our appearance together. LXXXIV.— ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. From Gray. Thomas Gray, an English poet, was born 1716, and was educated Cambridge. The Elegy Written in a Country Church-yardj is the most celebrated and popular of his poems. He died in 1771. 1. The ■‘'curfew tolls the '‘'knell of parting day, The lowing herd Avinds slowly o’er the '‘'lea, The plowman homeward '‘'plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. ECLECTIC SERIES. 223 2. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his '•'droning flighty And drowsy '•'tinklings lull the distant folds ' 3. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The '•'moping owl does to the mr-'^n complain Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bower. Molest her ancient '•'solitary reign. 1 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade. Where heaves the turf in many a mold’ ring heap. Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the '•'hamlet sleep. \ The breezy call of '•'incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed. The cock’s shrill '•'clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; Nor children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 7. 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 strok® 8. 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. 9. The boast of '•'heraldry, the pomp of power. And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike, th’ inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 10. Nor you, ye proud, '•'impute to these the fault. If memory o’er their tomb no '•'trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawm aisle and fretted vault, The pealing '•'anthem swells the note of praise. 11. Can '•'storied urn, or animated '•'bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust. Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 224 NEW SIXTH READER. 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 ; 13. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; Chill "^penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the '•'genial current of the soul. 14. 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. 15. 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 his country’s blood. 16. Th’ applause of list’ning 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, 17. Their lot forbade: nor, '^circumscribed alone Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 18. 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. 19. 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. 20. Yet e’en 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. 21. Their names, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews. Teaching the rustic '•'moralist to die. ECLECTIC SERIES. 225 22. 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, ling’ ring look behind f 23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 24. For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relat:e If, chance, by lonely contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 25. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, ‘'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn. Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 26. There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, ^fantastic roots so high^ His listless length, at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 27. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt’ring his Avayward ^fancies, he would rove,- Now, drooping, woful, Avan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 28. One morn, I missed him on the accustomed hill. Along the heath, and near his fa v’ rite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the laAvn, nor at the Avood Avas he : 29. The next, with ^dirges due, in sad '’'array. Slow through the church-yard path, we saw him borne: — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay ’Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” THE EPITAPH. 30. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth, to fortune and to fame, unknoAvn : Fair "tScience frowned not on his humble birth. And Melancholy marked him for her own. 31. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere: Heaven did a recompense as largely send.- 226 NEW SIXTH READER. He gave to mis’ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav’n (’twas all he wished) a friend. 32. No further 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. LXXXV.— THE VOYAGE. From Irving. 1. To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres- sions. The vast space of waters that separates the '''hemi- spheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual '''transition, by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost '''imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is '''vacancy until you step on the op- posite shore, and are launched, at once, into, the bustle and novelties of another world. 2. In traveling by land, there is a '''continuity of scene, and a connection of persons and ''incidents that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separa- tion. We drag, it is true, “a lengthened chain,” at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken: we can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last of them still '''grapples us to home. But a wide sea-voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely im- aginary, but real, between us and our homes; a gulf, subject to tempests, and fear, and uncertainty, that make distance ■''palpable, and return ''precarious. 3. Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the ■''horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns; and I had time for meditation before ECLECTIC SERIES. 227 I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was most dear to me in life ; what '^'vicissitudes might occur in it, what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may re- turn ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 4. I said, that at sea all is vacancy. I should correct the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea-voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly '♦'themes. I delighted to '♦'loll over the quarter-railing, or to climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer’s sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds, just peering above the hori- zon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; to watch the gentle '‘'undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 5. There was a delicious '♦'sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, at the monsters of the deep at their uncouth '♦'gambols; shoals of porpoises, tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above the surface, or the '♦'ravenous shark, darting, like a specter, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless mon^ sters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild '♦'phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 6. Sometimes, a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle '♦'speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious motiument of hu- man invention, that has thus triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communion ; has estab- lished an '♦'interchange of blessings, pouring into the '♦'sterile 228 NEW SIXTH READER. regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; has dif- fused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an "^insurmountable '^'barrier. 7. We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse, attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to the spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. 8. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been over; they have gone down amid the roar of the tempest; their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence and "’'ob- livion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been "’'wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fire- side of home ! How often has the father, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some "’'casual in- telligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not one "’'memento shall ever return, for love to cherish. All that shall ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, “and was never heard of more.” LXXXVI.— THE VOYAGE— CONCLUDED. 1. The sight of the wreck gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the ■^serenity of a summer’s voyage. As we sat around the dull ECLECTIC SERIES. 229 light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ’^ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck by a short one related by the captain. 2. “As I was once sailing,” said he, “in a fine, stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to *see far ahead, even in the day-time ; but at night, the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for '^'fishing-smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly, the watch gave the alarm of ^ a sail ahead ! ’ It was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. 3. “We struck her just '^'amid-ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves; we passed over her and were hurried on pur course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any '^sur- vivors : but all was silent — we never saw or heard any thing of them more.” 4. I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was / ished into '^'tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken '’'surges. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the 230 NEW SIXTH READER. foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed '^miraculous that she re- gained her balance, or preserved her '^'buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes, an '^impending '‘'surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a '‘'dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 5. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funeral wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of '‘'bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the '‘'weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this float- ing prison, seeking for his prey; the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 6. A flne day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of flne weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her '‘'canvas, every sail swelled, and '‘'careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears! how she seems to lord it over the deep ! — But it is time to get ashore. 7. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of ‘Hand!” was heard from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American’s bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume t)f associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, '‘'teeming with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have '‘'pondered. From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all fever- ish '‘'excitement. The ships of war, that '‘'prowled like '‘'guard- ian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, st etch- ing out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, my eye dwelt with delight- on neat cottages, ECLECTIC SERIES. 231 with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the moldering ruins of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of the village church, rising from the brow of a neighboring hill. All were '^characteristic of England. 8. The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some, idle lookers-on ; others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was "^consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfull}^, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded to him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to "^recognize each other. 9. I particularly noticed one young woman, of humble dress, but interesting '^'demeanor. She was leaning: forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill, all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mat- tress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he h :d taken to his '^hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of , his voice, her eye darted on his features: it read, at once, the f whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. 10. All was now hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- quaintances; the greetings of friends ; the consultations of men of business. I alone was '^'solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers, but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 232 NEW SIXTH READER. LXXXVIL— SONG OF EMIGRATION. From Mrs. Hemans. 1. There was heard a song on the '•'chiming sea, A mingled breathing of grief and '•'glee ; Man’s voice, unbroken by sighs, was there. Filling with triumph the sunny air; Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new. It sang, while the bark through the '•'surges flew, But ever and anon A murmur of farewell. Told, by its '’'plaintive tone. That from woman’s lip it fell. 2. “Away, away, o’er the foaming main!” This was the free and joyous strain, “There are clearer skies than ours afar. We will shape our course by a brighter star; There are plains whose '•'verdure no foot hath pressed^ And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest.’ “But, alas! that we should go,” Sang the farewell voices then, “From the '•'homestead, warm and low, By the brook and in the glen!” 3. “We will rear new homes, under trees that glow As if gems were the '•'fruitage of every bough; O’er our white walls, we will train the vine. And sit in its shadow at day’s decline; And watch our herds as they range at will Through the green '‘ savannas, all bright and still.'’ “ But woe for that sweet shade Of the flowering orchard trees. Where first our children played ’Mid the birds and honey-bees!” 4. “All, all our own shall the forests be. As to the bound of the '•'roebuck free! None shall say, ‘ Hither, no further pass ! ' We will track each step through the wavy grass; We will chase the elk in his speed and might, And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night.” “But 0, the gray church tower. And the sound of the sabbath bell. And the sheltered garden bower. We have bid them all farewell!” ECLECTIC SERIES. 233 5. “We will give the names of our fearless race To each bright river whose course we trace; We will leave our memory with mounts and floods, And the path of our daring in boundless woods; And our works on many a lake’s green shore, Where the Indians’ graves lay alone, before.” “But who shall teach the flowers, Which our children loved, to dwell • In a soil that is not ours? Home, home and friends, farewell!” LXXXVIII.— SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. From Colman. Si7- Rohei't Bramble and Humphrey Dobbins. Sir R. I ’ll tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is. Hum. Yes. Sir R. Yes ! is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What 's my name ? Hum. Robert Bramble. Sir R. An’t I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble of Black- berry Hall, in the county of Kent? ’T is time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-flsted valet these thirty years : can you deny that ? Hum. Hem ! Sir R. Hem? AVhat do you mean by hem? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why do n’t you answer my question? Hum. Because, if I '^contradict you, I shall tell you a lie, and when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out. Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavor- ing to beat a few brains into your "^pate, that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried. Hum. What then ? Our parson says my head is an '^em- blem of both our honors. Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty. Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his mas- 234 NEW SIXTH READER. ter’s nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other. Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Hum’C'hrey, you are as honest as a — pshaw! the parson means to '^palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you, I do n’t like your flat '^'contradiction. Hum. Yes, you do. Sir R. I tell you I do n’t. I only love to hear men’s ar- guments. I hate their '^flummery. Hum. What do you call flummery? Sir R. Flattery, blockhead 1 a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones. Hum. I never serve it up to you. Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a difl^rent description. Hum. Hem! what is it? Sir R. '*'Sour-krout, you old crab. Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year. Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a '^syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him; now I am rich, and hate flattery. Ergo — when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him. Hum. That ’s wrong. Sir R. Very well; negatur ; now prove it. Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man. Sir R. You an’t, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want, while I have a shilling. Hum. Well, then, I am a poor — I must be ^ poor man now, or I never shall get on. Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man. Him. I am a poor man, and argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion : now, that ’s no flattery. Sir R. Why, no; but when a mah ’s of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puls an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where ’s my nephew, Frederic ? Hum. Been out these two hours. Sir R. An undutiful cub ! Only arrived from Bussia. last ECLECTIC SERIES. 235 night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he ’s scampering over the fields like a Calmuc '‘'Tartar. Hum. He ’s a fine fellow. Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Ho n’t you think he is a little like me, Humphrey? Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on. Sir R. Now that’s plaguy impudent, but there’s no flat- tery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit — Hum- phrey, you remember my brother Job? Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five-and-twenty years ago. Sir R. I did not drive him. Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument. Sir R. At peace ! Zounds, he would never go to war. Hum. He had the merit to be calm. Sir R. So has a duck-pond. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poor-box gaping for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resist- ance. We couldn’t disagree, and so we parted. Him. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life. Sir R. A quiet life ! Why, he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew '‘'relict of a Russian mer- chant, and continued a '‘'speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen, and leather; what’s the consequence? Thirteen months ago he broke. Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the busi- ness for him. Sir R. I fiincy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress, I must not neg- lect his son. Hum. Here comes his son ; that ’s Mr. Frederic. Fred. 0, my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty. Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay ia-doors till I got up. 236 NEW SIXTH READER. Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it. Sir R. And pray, what made you forget it? Fred. The sun. Sir R. The sun ! he ’s mad ! you mean the moon, I believe. Fred. 0, my dear uncle, you do n’t know the effect of a hne spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay that I took a leap out of your old '^balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle. Sir R. Oh, oh ! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer. Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me. Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat '^'legacy. Fred. I hate legacies. Sir R. Sir, that ’s mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens, at least. Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are '’'posthu- mous '‘'dispatches, affection sends to gratitude, to inform us we have lost a gracious friend. Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues! Fred. Rut I own my spirits ran away with me this morn- ing. I will obey you better in future ; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of gentleman. Sir R. Now who had the '‘'familiar '•'impudence to tell you that? Fred. Old rusty, there. Sir R. Why Humphrey, you did n’t? Hum. Yes, but I did though. Fred. Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience, for ’t is as '•'meritorious to attempt sharing a good man’s heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man’s money. A noble nature aims its atten- tions full breast high, uncle ; a mean mind levels its dirty '^assiduities at the pocket. Sir R. [^Shaking him by the hand.'] Jump out of every window I have in the house; hunt my deer into high feversi, ECLECTIC SERIES. 237 my fine fellow ! Ay, that ’s right. This is spunk, and plain speaking. Grive me a man, who is always flinging his '♦'dis- sent to my doctrines smack in my teeth. Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle. Hum. And so do I. Fred. You ! you forward puppy ! If you were not so old, I ’d knock you down. Sir R. I ’ll knock you down, if you do. I won’t have my servants thumped into dumb flattery. Hum. Come, you are ruffled. Let us go to the business of the morning. Sir R. I hate the business of the morning. Do n’t you see we are engaged in '♦'discussion. I tell you, I hate the business of the morning. Hum. No you do n’t. Sir R. Do n’t I? Why not? Hum. Because ’t is charity. Sir R. Pshaw ! Well, we must not neglect the business, if there be any distress in the parish. Bead the list, Humphrey. Hum. \Tahing out a pag)er and reading. “Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put in prison for debt.” Sir R. Why, it was only last week that Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds. Hum. Yes, and charged a hundred for his trouble; so seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder. Sir R. A harpy ! I must relieve the poor fellow’s distress. Fred. And I must kick his attorney. Hum. \_Reading.~\ “The curate’s horse is dead.” Sir R. Pshaw ! There ’s no distress in that. Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday, to preach, for thirty pounds a year. Sir R. Why won’t the vicar give him another nag? Hum. Because ’t is cheaper to get another curate already mounted. Sir R. Well, send him the black pad which I purchased last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives. What else have we upon the list? Hum. Something out of the common ; there ’s one Lieuten- ant Worthington, a disabled officer and widower, come to lodge 20 238 NEW SIXTH READER, at farmer Harrowby’s, in the village; he is, it seems, very poor, and more proud than poor, and more honest than proud. Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance. Hum. He ’d see you hanged first ! No, he ’d sooner die than ask you or any man for a shilling ! There ’s his daughter, and his wife’s aunt, and an old corporal that served in the wars with him, he keeps them all upon his half-pay. Sir R. Starves them all, I ’m afraid, Humphrey. Fred. \_Going.'\ Good morning, uncle. Sir R. You rogue, where are you running, now? Fred. To talk with Lieutenant Worthington. Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him? Fred. I can’t tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who has been disabled in his country’s service, and is struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant, in honorable '‘'indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments. Sir R. Stop, you rogue ; I must be before you in this business. Fred. That depends on who can run the fastest; so, start fair, uncle, and here goes. — out.'\ Sir R. Stop, stop ; why, Frederic — a '^'jackanapes — to take my department out of my hands! I ’ll disinherit the dog for his assurance. Hum. No, you won’t. Sir R. Won’t I? Hang me if I — but we’ll argue that point as we go. So, come along Humphrey. LXXXIX.—THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. From Southey. St. Keyne was a Welch princess, who lived and died near the well which was named after her. It was tpopularly believed, that she laid upon this well the spell described in this ballad. * An ; an obsolete word, meaning if. 1. A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country, But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. ECLECTIC SERIES. 239 2. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above, Droops to the water below. 3. A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne : Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been traveling. And there was not a cloud in the sky. 4. He drank of the water, so cool and clear. For thirsty and hot was he ; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. 5. There came a man from the neighboring town. At the well to fill his pail ; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger '^hail. d. “Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he, '‘For an thou hast a wife. The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in th}^ life. 7. “Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. Ever here in Cornwall been ? For an she have, I ’ll venture my life, fehe has drank of the well of St. Keyne.” S. “I have left a good woman, who never was here,” The stranger he made reply ; “ But that my draught should be better for that, 1 pray you answer me why.” 9. “St. Keyne,’’ '^'quoth the Cornish-man, “many a time Drank of this ^crystal well ; And before the angel summoned her. She laid on the water a spell. 10. “ If the husband, of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he. For he shall be master for life. 11. “ But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then ! ” The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. 240 NEW SIXTH READER. 12. “ You drank of the well, I warrant, '•'betimes ! He to the Cornish-man said : But the Cornish-man smiled, as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. 13. “I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch ; But in faith ! she had been wiser than I, For she took a bottle to church.” XC.— THE FOLLY OF INTOXICATION. From Shakspeare. Cassio and Iago. lago. What! are you hurt, lieutenant? Cassio. Past ail surgery. Iago. Marry, heaven forbid ! Cas. '•'Beputation, reputation, reputation I Oh, I have lost my reputation 1 I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is '•'bestial. My reputation! Iago, my reputa- tion ! Iago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound . there is more sense in that than in reputation. Heputatioa is an idle and most false imposition : oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. What, man ! there are ways to recover the general again. Sue to him, and he ’s yours. Cas. I will rather sue to be despised. Drunk ! and squab- ble ! swagger ! swear ! and discourse '•'fustian with one’s own shadow! Oh, thou '•'invisible spirit of wine! if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil. Iago. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you? Cas. I know not. Iago. Is ’t possible? Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly ; a qucrrrel, but nothing wherefore. Oh, that men should put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains : that we should, with joy, gayety, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! ECLECTIC SERIES. 24J lago. Why, but you are now well enough : how came you thus recovered ? Cas. It has pleased the devil, Drunkenness, to give place to the devil, Wrath; one imperfection shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. lago. Come, you are too severe a '‘'moralizer. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. Cas. If I ask him for my place again, he will teil me I am a drunkard ! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. 'To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast ! Every '’'inordinate cup is unblessed, and the '’'ingredient is a devil. lago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used ; exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think, you think I love you. Cas. I have well approved it, sir. I, drunk ! lago You or any living man, may be drunk at some time, man. I tell you what you shall do. Our general’s wife is now the general. Confess yourself freely to her; '’'importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so apt, so kind, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband, entreat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any '’'lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. Cas. You advise me well. lago. I protest in all the sincerity of love and honest kindness. Cas. I think it freely, and betimes in the morning, I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me. lago. You are in the right. Grood-night, lieutenant, I must go to the watch. Cas. Good-night, honest lagq. 242 NEW SIXTH READER. XCI.— AN ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE. From Goldsmith. 1. Good people all, with one "^accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise. 2. The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor — Who left a pledge behind. 3. She strove the neighborhood to please, With manner wondrous winning; She never followed wicked ways — Unless Avhen she was sinning. 4. At church, in silks and satin new. With "^hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew — But Avhen she shut her eyes. 5. Her love was sought, 1 do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has followed her — When she has walked before. 6. But now, her wealth and ^finery fled, Her +hangers-on cut short all. Her doctors found, when she was dead — » Her last disorder mortal. 7. 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. XCIL— THE EVILS OF WAR. 1. Nobody sees a battle. The common soldier fires away amid a smoke-mist, or hurries on to the charge in a crowd, which hides every thing from him. The officer is too anx- ious about the '^performance of what he is '^'especially charged with, to mind what others are doing. The com- ECLECTIC SERIES. 243 mander can not be present every-wliere, and see every wood, water-course, or '’'ravine, in wliicli bis orders are carried into execution ; he learns, from reports, how the work goes on. It is well; for a battle is one of those jobs which men do, without daring to look upon. Over miles of country, at ev ery field-fence, in every '’'gorge of a valley, or entry into a wood, there is murder committing — wholesale, continuous, ■’'reciprocal murder. The human form, God’s image, is ’'mu- tilated, deformed, '’'lacerated, in every possible way, and with every variety of torture. The wounded are jolted off in carts to the rear, their bared nerves crushed into madden- ing pain at every stone or rut; or the fiight and pursuit trample over them, leaving them to writhe and groan, with- out assistance; and fever and thirst, the most enduring of painful ■’'sensations, possess them entirely. 2. Thirst, too, has seized upon the yet able-bodied soldier, who with blood-shot eye and tongue lolling out, '’'plies his trade; blaspheming; killing, with savage delight; callous, when the brains of his best-loved comrade are spattered over him ! The battle-field is, if possible, a more painful object of contemplation than the combatants. They are in their ’’'vocation, earning their bread : what will not men do for a shilling a day? But their work is carried on amid the fields, gardens, and homesteads of men unused to war. They left their homes, with all that habit and happy associations have made precious, to bear its brunt. The poor, the aged, the sick are left in a hurry, to be killed by stray shots or beaten down as the charge or counter-charge goes over them. The ripening grain is trampled down ; the garden is trodden into a black mud; the fruit-trees, bending beneath their '’'lus- cious load, are shattered by the cannon-shot; churches and private dwellings are used as fortresses, and ruined in the ■’'confiict; barns and '’'granaries take fire, and the confiagra- tion spreads on all sides. 3. At night, the steed is stabled beside the altar, and the weary ’'homicides of the day complete the wrecking of houses, to make their '’'lairs for slumber. The fires of the ■’'bivouac complete what the fires kindled by the battle have not consumed. The surviving soldiers march on, to act the same scene -over again, elsewhere; and the remnant of the 244 NEW SIXTH READER. scattered inhabitants return, to find the mangled bodies of those they had loved, amid the blackened ruins of their homes; to mourn, with more than agonizing grief, over the missing, of whose fate they are uncertain ; to feel themselves bankrupts of the world’s stores, and look from their children to the desolate fields and garners, and think of famine and pestilence, '^engendered by the rotting bodies of the half- buried myriads of slain. 4. The soldier marches on and on, inflicting and sulferinir as before. War is a continuance of battles, an ‘‘'epidemic, striding from place to place, more horrible than the typhus, pestilence, or cholera, which not unfrequently follow in its train. The siege is an aggravation of the battle. The peace- ful inhabitants of the ‘‘'beleaguered town are cooped up, and can not fly the place of conflict. The mutual injuries, in- flicted by ‘‘'assailants and assailed, are ‘‘'aggravated ; their wrath is more frenzied ; then come the storm and the capture, and the riot and excesses of the victor soldiery, striving to quench the drunkenness of blood in the drunkenness of wine. 5. The ‘‘'eccentric movements of war, the marching and counter-marching, often repeat the blow on districts, slowly recovering from the first. Between destruction and the wasteful consumption of the soldiery, poverty pervades the land. Hopeless of the future, hardened by the scenes of which he is a daily witness, perhaps goaded by revenge, the peasant becomes a plunderer and assassin. The families of the upper classes are ‘‘'dispersed ; the discipline of the family circle is removed ; a habit of living in the day, for the day, of drowning the morrow in transient and ‘‘'illicit pleasure, is ‘‘'engendered. The waste and desolation which a battle spreads over the battle-field, is as nothing, when compared with the moral desolation which war diffuses through all ranks of society, in the country which is the scene of war. ECLECTIC SERIES. 245 XCIII.— THE PHILOSOPHER’S SCALES. From Jane Taylor. 1. A MONK, when his rites '^sacerdotal were o’er, In the depth of his cell with his stone-covered floor. Resigning to thought his '•'chimerical brain, Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain; But whether by magic’s or '•'alchemy’s powers. We know not; indeed, ’tis no business of ours. 2. Perhaps it was only by patience and care. At last, that he brought his invention to bear; In youth ’twas '•'projected, but years stole away. And ere ’twas complete, he was wrinkled and gray; But success is secure, unless energy fails ; And, at length, he produced the philosopher’s scales. 3. “What were they?” you ask. You shall presently see, These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea ; O no ; for such '•'properties wondrous had they. That qualities, feelings, and thoughts, they could weigh; Together with articles small or immense. From mountains or planets, to ■•■ atoms of sense. 4 Naught was there so bulky, but there it would lay, And naught so '•'ethereal, but there it would stay, And naught so '•'reluctant, but in it must go : All which some examples more clearly will show. 5 The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire, Which retained all the wit that had ever been there; As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, Containing the prayer of the '•'penitent thief; When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell. 6 One time, he put in Alexander the Great, With a garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight. And, though '•'clad in armor from '•'sandals to crown, The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 1 A long row of alms-houses, amply '•'endowed By a well-esteemed '•'Pharisee, busy and proud. Next loaded one scale; while the other was prest By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest, Up flew the '•'endowment, not weighing an ounce. And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce. a* 246 NEW SIXTH READER. 8. By further ^experiments, (no matter how,) He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plow; A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale, Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail ; A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear, Weighed less than a widow’s '^uncrystalized tear. 9. A lord and a lady went up at full sail. When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale ; Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, Ten counselors’ wigs, full of powder and curl, All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence. Weighed less than a few grains of '^'candor and sense; 10. A first water '^'diamond, with ^brilliants begirt. Than one good potato, just washed from the dirt; Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice, One pearl to outweigh, ’twas the pearl of great price. 1 1. Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate, With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight, When the former sprang up with so strong a '^'rebuff. That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof; When, balanced in air, it ascended on high. And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky; While the scale with the soul in’t so mightily fell. That it jerked the ‘‘'philosopher out of his cell. XCIV.— ORIGIN OF PROPERTY. From Blackstone. 1. In the beginning of the world, we are informed by Holy Writ, the all-bountiful Creator gave to man “dominion over all the earth, and over the fishes of the sea, and over the fowl of ihe air, and over every living thing that moved upon the earth. This is the only true and solid foundation of man’s dominion over external things, whatever airy, '‘'meta- physical notions may have been started by fanciful writers on this subject. The earth, therefore, and all things therein, are the general property of mankind, '‘‘exclusive of other beings, from the immediate gift of the Creator. And while the earth continued bare of inhabitants, it is reasonable to ECLECTIC SERIES. 247 suppose that all was in common among them, and that every one took from the public stock, to his own use, such things as his immediate necessities required. 2. These general notions of property were then sufficient to answer all purposes of human life; and might, perhaps, still have answered them, had it been possible for mankind to have remained in a state of '^'primeval simplicity, in which ‘‘all thinsrs were common to him.” Not that this communion O of goods seems ever to have been applicable, even in the ear- liest stages, to aught but the substance of the thing; nor could it be extended to the use of it. For, by the law of nature and reason, he who first began to use it, acquired therein, a kind of "^transient property, that lasted so long as he was using it, and no longer. Or, to speak with greater ■^'precision, the right of possession continued for the same time, only, that the act of possession lasted. 3. Thus, the ground was in common, and no part of it was the property of any man in particular ; yet, whoever was in the occupation of any determined spot of it, for rest, for shade, or the like, acquired for the time, a sort of ownership, from which, it would have been unjust and contrary to the law of nature, to have driven him by force ; but, the instant he quitted the use or occupation of it, another might seize it without injustice. Thus, also, a vine or a tree might be said to be in common, as all men were equally entitled to its produce ; and yet, any private individual might gain the sole property of the fruit which he had gathered for his own repast: a doctrine well illustrated by Cicero, who compares the world to a great theater which is common to the public, and yet the place which any man has taken, is, for the time, his own. 4. But when mankind increased in number, '^'craft, and ambition, it became necessary to entertain ‘^'conceptions of a more permanent dominion; and to '^'appropriate to individu- als, not the immediate use only, but the very substance of the thing to be used. Otherwise, innumerable tumults must have arisen, and the good order of the world been continually broken and dist irbed, while a variety of persons were striving who should get vhe first occupation of the same thing, or dis- puting which, of them had actually gained it. As human, life 248 NEW SIXTH READER. grew more and more refined, many conveniences were devised to render, it more easy, commodious, and agreeable ; as habi- tations for shelter and safety, and raiment for warmth and decency. But no man would be at the trouble to provide either, so long as he had only an "^usufructuary property in them, which was to cease the instant that he quitted posses- sion ; if, as soon as he walked out of his tent or pulled off his garment, the next stranger who came by would have a right to inhabit the one and to wear the other. 5. In the case of habitations, in particular, it was natural to observe that even the brute creation, to whom every thing else was in common, maintained a kind of permanent property in their dwellings, especially for the protection of their young; that the birds of the air had nests, and the beasts of the fields had caverns, the invasion of which they esteemed a very '^'flagrant injustice, and in the preservation of which, they would sacrifice their lives. Hence a j)roperty was soon estab- lished in every man’s house and '^'homestead ; which seem to have been originally mere temporary huts or movable cabins, suited to the design of Providence for more speedily peopling the earth, and to the wandering life of their owners, before any extensive property in the soil or ground was established. 6. There can be no doubt but that movables of every kind became sooner appropriated than the '^'permanent, substantial soil; partly because they were more "‘"susceptible of a long occupancy, which might be continued for months together, without any sensible interruption, and at length, by usage, ripen into an established right; but, principally, because few of them could be fit for use, till improved and "‘"meliorated by the bodily labor of the occupant; which bodily labor, bestowed upon any subject that lay in common to all men, is universally allowed to give the fairest and most reasonable title to an exclusive property therein. 7. The article of food was a more immediate call, and therefore a more early consideration. Such as were not con- tented with the "‘"spontaneous products of the earth, sought for a more solid refreshment in the flesh of beasts, which they obtained by hunting. But the frequent disappointments incident to that method of provision, induced them to gather logqther such animals as were of a more tame and "‘"sequacious ECLECTIC SERIES. 249 nature, and to establish a more permanent property in their flocks and herds, in order to sustain themselves in a less '^'pre- carious manner, partly by the milk of the dams, and partly by the flesh of the young. 8. The support of these their cattle, made the article of water also a very important point. And, therefore, the book of Genesis, (the most venerable monument of '^antiquity, considered merely with a view to history,) will furnish us with frequent instances of violent contentions concerning wells ; the exclusive property of which appears to have been established in the first digger or occupant, even in places where the ground and '•'herbage remained yet in common. Thus, we find Abraham, who was but a sojourner, asserting his right to a well in the country of Abimelech, and exacting an oath for security, “because he had digged that well.” And Isaac, about ninety years afterward, reclaimed this his father’s prop- erty; and, after much contention with the Philistines, was sufiered to enjoy it in peace. 9. All this while, the soil and pasture of the earth, re- mained still in common as before, and open to every occupant; except, perhaps, in the neighborhood of towns, where the necessity of a sole and exclusive property in lands, (for the sake of agriculture,) was earlier felt, and therefore more readily complied with. Otherwise, when the multitude of men and cattle had consumed every convenience on one spot of ground, it was deemed a natural right to seize upon, and occupy such other lands, as would more easily supply their necessities. 10. We have a striking example of this, in the history of Abraham and his nephew Lot. When their joint substance became so great, that pasture and other conveniences grew scarce, the natural consequence was, that a strife arose be- tween their servants ; so that it was no longer '•'practicable to dwell together. This contention, Abraham thus endeavored to compose : “ Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee. Is not the whole land before thee ? Separate thy- self, I pray thee, from me. If thou wilt take the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left.” This plainly implies an acknowledged right in either, to occupy whatever ground he 250 NEW SIXTH READER. pleased, that was not preoccupied by other tribes. “And Lot lifted up his eyes, and beheld all the plain of Jordan, that it was well watered every-where, even as the garden of the Lord. Then Lot chose him all the plain of Jordan, and journeyed east; and Abraham dwelt in the land of Canaan.” 11. As the world grew by degrees more populous, it daily became more difficult to find out new spots to inhabit, without encroaching upon former occupants ; and, by constantly occu- pying the same individual spot, the fruits of the earth were consumed, and its spontaneous products destroyed, without any provision for future supply or succession. It, therefore, became necessary to pursue some regular method of providing a constant subsistence ; and this necessity produced, or at least promoted and encouraged the art of agriculture. And the art of agriculture, by a regular connection and conse- quence, introduced and e-stablished the idea of a more per- manent property in the soil, than had hitherto been received and adopted. 12. It was clear that the earth would not produce her fruits in sufficient quantities, without the assistance of "^till- age; but who would be at the pains of tilling it, if another might watch an opportunity to seize upon and enjoy the product of his industry, art, and labor? Had not, therefore, a separate property in lands, as well as movables, been vested in some individuals, the world must have continued a forest, and men have been mere animals of prey. Whereas, now, (so graciously has Providence interw^oven our duty and our happiness together,) the result of this very necessity has been the ennobling of the human species, by giving it opportunities of improving its rational^ as well as of exerting its natural faculties. 13. Necessity begat property; and, in order to insure that property, recourse was had to civil society, which brought along with it a long train of inseparable '•'concomitants; states, government, laws, punishments, and the public exer- cise of religious duties. Thus connected together, it was found that a part only of society was sufficient to provide, by their manual labor, for the necessary subsistence of all; and leisure was given to others to cultivate the human mind, to invent useful arts, and to lay the foundations of science. ECLECTIC SERIES. 251 xcv.— BRITISH REFUGEES. From Patrick Henry. Extract from a speech delivered in the Legislature of Virginia, in favor of permitting the British ^refugees, or those who had joined the English party in the war of Independence, to return to the United States. 1. We have, Mr. Chairman, an extensive country without population. What can be a more obvious policy, than that this country ought to be peopled? People form the strength and constitute the wealth of a nation. I want to see our va«it forests filled up, by some process ‘a little more speedy than the ordinary course of nature. I wish to see these states rapidly ascending to that rank, which their natural advantages authorize them to hold among the nations of the earth. Cast your eyes over this extensive country. Observe the '^'salubrity of your climate ; the variety and fertility of your soil; and see that soil intersected in every quarter, by bold, navigable streams, flowing to the east and to the west, as if the finger of heaven were marking out the course of your settlements, inviting you to enterprise, and pointing the way to wealth. 2. Sir, you are destined, at some period or other, to be- come a great agricultural and '‘'commercial people : the only question is, whether you choose to reach this point by slow '‘'gradations, and at some distant period, lingering on through a long and sickly '‘'minority, subjected meanwhile to the machinations, insults, and oppression of enemies, foreign and domestic, without sufficient strength to resist and chastise them; or whether you choose rather to rush at once, as it were, to the full enjoyment of those high destinies, and be able to '‘'cope, single-handed, with the proudest '‘'oppressor of the world. 3. If you prefer the latter course, as I trust you do, encourage '‘'emigration ; encourage the husbandmen, the me- chanics, the merchants of the old world to come and settle in the land of promise. Make it the home of the skillful, the fortunate, and the happy, as well as the '‘'asylum of the dis- tressed. Fill up the measure of your population as speedily as you can, by the means which Heaven has placed in your 252 NEW SIXTH READER. power ; and I venture to prophesy there are now those living, who will see this favored land among the most powerful on earth ; able to take care of herself, without resorting to that policy so dangerous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling in foreign aid. Yes, they will see her great in arts and in arms; her golden harvests waving over fields of immeasur- able extent; her commerce '^'penetrating the most distant seas ; and her cannon silencing the vain boast of those who now proudly affect to rule the waves. 4. Instead of refusing permission to the refugees to return, it is your true policy to encourage '♦'emigration to this coun- try, by every means in your power. Sir, you must have men. You can not get along without them. Those heavy forests of timber, under which your lands are groaning, must be cleared away. Those vast riches which cover the face of your soil, as well as those which lie hid in its bosom, are to be de- veloped and gathered only by the skill and enterprise of men. Your timber must be worked up into ships, to '•'transport the productions of the soil, and find the best markets for them abroad. Your great want is the want of men; and these you must have^ and will have speedily, if you are wise. 5. Do you ask, how you are to get them? Open your doors, sir, and they will come. The population of the old world is full to overflowing. That population is ground, too, by the oppressions of the governments under which they live. They are already standing on tiptoe upon their native shores, and looking to your coasts with a wishful and longing eye. They see here a land blessed with natural and '♦'political advantages, which are not equaled by those of any other country on earth; a land, on which a gracious Providence hath emptied the horn of abundance; a land, over which peace hath now stretched forth her white wings, and where content and plenty lie down at every door. 6. They see something still more '♦'attractive than this. They see a land in which Liberty has taken up her abode; that Liberty whom they had considered a fabled goddess, ex- isting onfy in the fancies of the poets. They see her here, a real '♦'divinity ; her altars rising on every hand, throughout these happy states ; her glories '•'chanted by three millions of tongues; and the ’^hole regiop smiling imder her blessed ECLECTIC SERIES. 258 influeDce. Let but this '‘'celestial goddess, Liberty, stretch forth her fair hand toward the people of the old world, tell them to come and bid them welcome ; and you will see them pouring in from the north, from the south, from the east, and from the west. Your wilderness will be cleared and settled; your deserts will smile ; your ranks will be filled ; and you will soon be in a condition to defy the powers of any adversary. 7. But gentlemen object to any '‘'accession from Great Britain, and particularly to the return of the British refugees. Sir, I feel no objection to the return of those deluded peo- ple. They have, to be sure, mistaken their own interests most wonderfully, and most wofully have they suffered the punishment due to their offenses. But the relations which we bear to them and to their native country, are now changed. Their king has acknowledged our '‘'independence. The quarrel is over. Peace has returned, and found us a free people. 8. Let us have the magnanimity to lay aside our '‘'antipa- thies and prejudices, and consider the subject in a political light. They are an enterprising, moneyed people. They will be serviceable in taking off the surplus produce of our lands, and supplying us with necessaries during the infant state of our '‘'manufactures. Even if they be '‘'inimical to us, in point of feeling and principle, I can see no objection, in a political view, to making them '‘'tributary to our advantage. And as I have no prejudices to prevent my making use of them, so I have no fear of any mischief they can do us. Afraid of them! What, sir, shall we^ who have laid the proud British lion at our feet, now be afraid of his lohelpsf CXVL— ANTONY OVER CESAR’S DEAD BODY. From Shakspeare. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury CaBsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is often '‘'interrM with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault. And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 2^4 NEW SIXTH READER. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest — For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men — Come I to speak on Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general '^'coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff; Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see, that on the Lupercal, 1 thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And, sure, he is an honorable man. T speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him ? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts. And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him "treverence. 0 masters! if 1 were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men: 1 will not do them wrong : I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here ’s a '^'parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, ’t is his will; Let but the Commons hear this '’’testament — Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read — And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; ECLECTIC SERIES. 255 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, ■’'Bequeathing it as a rich '’'legacy (Into their issue. One of the people. We’ll hear the will: read it. AIL The will, the will; we will hear Caesar’s will. Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad; ’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For, if you should, O, what would come of it! Citizen. Read the will; we will hear it, Antony; You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will. Ant. Will you be patient ? Will you stay awhile ? I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it: 1 fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar. 1 do fear it. Citizen. They were traitors : honorable men ? All. The will! the testament! Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. [^He comes down from the pulpit^ If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle; I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on ; ’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii; Look! in this place, ran Cassius’ dagger through; See what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ; And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it. This was the most unkindest cut of all; For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab. Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquished him ; then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face. Great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen I Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 256 NEW SIXTH READER. While bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The +dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s "^vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, '•'marred, as you see, by traitors. 1^^ Citizen. 0 piteous spectacle! 2d Oit 0 noble Caesar! Zd Cit We will be revenged! Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live. Ant. Stay, countrymen. Cit. Peace there! hear the noble Antony. [him. 2d Cit. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of '•'mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable ; What private griefs they have, alas, I know not. That made them do it; they are wise and honorable. And will, rto doubt, with reason answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; 1 am no orator, as Brutus is ; But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man. That love my friend ; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him : For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, ■I’ Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on: T tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Show you sweet CsBsar’s wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would '•'ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cmsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. XCVII.— THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. From Jane Taylor. 1. An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farm- er’s kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of com- plaint, early one summer’s morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped. Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm; the ECLECTIC SERIES. 257 hands made a vain effort to continue their course ; the wheels remained motionless with surprise ; the weights hung speech- less; and each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the '‘'stagnation ; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. 2. But now, a faint tick was heard below, from the '•'pendu- lum, who thus spoke : “ I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing for the general ■•'satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking.” Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of striking. “ Lazy wire!” exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands. “Very good! ” replied the pendulum; “It is vastly easy for you. Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me, it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness ! you, who have had nothing to do, all your life, but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen. Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backward and forward, year after year, as I do.” 3. “As to that,” said the dial, “is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?” “For all that,” resumed the pendulum, “it is very dark here; and, although there is a window, I dare not stop even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life ; and if you wish, I ’ll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened, this morning, to be '•'calculating, how many times I should have to tick in the course of only the next twenty-four hours ; perhaps some one of you, above there, can give me the exact sum.” 4. The minute hand being quick at figures, presently replied, “Eighty-six thousand, four hundred times.” “ Ex- aetly so,” replied the pendulum. “Well, I '•'appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue any one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect. So, after a great deal of reason- ing and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I ’ll stop.” 258 NEW SIXTH READER. 5. The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this ■•'harangue ; but resuming its gravity, thus replied : “Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself, should have been seized by this sudden weariness. It is true, you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do ; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes, to '•'illustrate my argument?” 6. The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. “Now,” resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to inquire if that '•'exertion is at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?” “Not in the least,” replied the pendulum; “it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions.^' “Yery good,” replied the dial; “but recollect that, although you may think of a million of strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will be always given you to swing in.” “ That '•'consideration staggers me, I con- fess,” said the pendulum. “Then I hope,” resumed the dial- plate, “ that we shall all return to our duty immediately ; for the maids will lie in bed, if we stand idling thus.” 7. Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed : when, as if with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen, shining full upon the dial -plate, it brightened up as if noth- ing had been the matter. 8. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morn- ing, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night. MORAL. 9. A celebrated '•'modern writer says, “ Take care of the minutes^ and the hours will take care of themselves.” This is an admirable remark, and might be very seasonably recol- lected, when we begin to be “weary in well-doing,” from th^ ECLECTIC SERIES. 259 thought of having too much to do. The present moment is all we have to do with in any sense ; the past is '‘'irrecover- able, the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair to burden one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the moment is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hundred miles, we still should have to step but one step at a time ; and this process continued, would '^'infallibly bring us to our jour- ney’s end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by calculating, in a minute, the exertion of hours. 10. Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its suf- ferings, or encounter all its crosses, at once. One moment comes laden with its own little burdens, then flies, and is suc- ceeded by another no heavier than the last. If one could be borne, so can another and another. Even looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an '^'antiei- pation of the duties, the labors, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the burden of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one resolve always to do right now^ leaving then to do as it can, and if he were to live to the age of '^Methuselah, he would never do wrong. But the common error is to resolve to act right after breakfast, or after dinner, or to-morrow morning, or next time; but now.^ just now.^ this once^ we must go on the same as ever. 11. It is easy, for instance, for the most ill-tempered per- son to resolve, that the next time he is provoked, he will not let his temper overcome him ; but the victory would be to subdue temper on the '*'pr evocation. If, without tak- ing up the burden of the future, we would always make the single effort at the present moment, while there would be, at any one time, very little to do, yet, by this simple '‘'process, continued from day to day, every thing would at last be done. 12. It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely because we forget, that when to-morrow comes, then will be now. Thus life passes with many, with resolutions for the future, which the present never fulfills. It is not thus with those, who, “ by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for glory, honor, and '•'immortality.” Day by day, min- ute by minute, they execute the appointed task, to which the 260 NEW SIXTH READER. requisite measure of time and strength is proportioned; and thus, having worked while it is called day, they at length, “rest from their labors, and their works follow them.” Let us then, whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting that now is the proper and accepted time. XCVIIL— THE NOSE AND THE EYES. From Cowper. William Cowper, an English poet, was born in 1731. His poetry ex- hibits a mixture of playful humor, and of the somber melancholy which darkened the latter part of his life. In beauty and delicacy of thought, and in his high tone of moral and religious sentiment, he has no supe- rior among English poets. He died in 1800. 1. Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose; The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 2. So Tongue was the lawyer, and +argued the cause. With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws. So famed for his talent in nicely '•'discerning. 3. In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear. And your lordship,” he said, “will undoubtedly find That the nose has the spectacles always to wear. Which amounts to possession, time out of mind.” 4. Then, holding the spectacles up to the court, “ Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short. Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 6. “Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, (’Tis a case that has happened, and may happen again,) That the '•'visage or countenance had not a Nose^ Pray, who would^ or who could wear spectacles then? 6. “On the whole it appears, and my '•'argument shows. With a reasoning the court will never condemn. That the spectacles, plainly, were made for the Nose, And the Nose was, as plainly, intended for them.” 7. Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : EOLECTTC SERIES. 261 But what were his arguments, few people know, For the court did not think them equally wise. 8. So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone. Decisive and clear, without one if or but^ That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By day-light or candle-light , — Eyes should be shut. XCIX.— GRATEFUL OLD AGE. From the German of Gesner. 1. How beautifully the dawn shines through the hazel- bush, and the wild roses blossom at the window! How joy- fully the swallow sings on the rafter, under my roof, and the little lark in the high air! Every thing is cheerful, and every plant is revived in the dew. I also feel revived. My staff shall guide my tottering steps to the threshold of my cottage, and there will I sit down facing the rising sun, and look abroad on the green meadows. How beautiful is all around me here! All that I hear are voices of joy and thanks. The birds in the air, and the shepherds on the hill, sing their delight, and the flocks from the grassy slopes and out of the '^'variegated valleys, bellow out their joy. 2. How long, how long, shall I yet be a witness of divine goodness? Ninety times, have I already seen the change of the seasons ; and when I look back from the present hour to the time of my birth, — a beautiful and extended prospect which at last is lost in pure air, — how swells my heart ! The '^'emotion which my tongue can not utter, is it not rapture? And are not these tears, tears of joy? And yet, are not both too feeble an expression of thanks ? Ah ! flow, ye tears 1 flow down these cheeks. 3. When I look back, it seems as if I had lived only through a long spring, my sorrowful hours being only short storms, which refreshed the fields and enlivened the plants. Hurtful '^'pestilences have never diminished our flocks'; never has a '^mischance happened to our trees, nor a lingering misfortune rested on this cottage. I looked out '^'enraptured into futurity, when my children played smiling in my arms, or when my hand guided their tottering footsteps. With tears of joy 1 23 262 NEW SIXTH READER. looked out into the future, when I saw these young sprouts spring up. “I will protect them from mischance/’ said I; “I will watch over their growth, and Heaven will bless my endeavors. They will grow up and bear excellent fruit, and become trees, which shall shelter my declining age with their spreading branches.’’ 4. So I spake, and pressed them to my heart, and now, they have grown up, full of blessings, covering my weary years with their refreshing shade. So, the apple-trees, the pear- trf^es, and the tall nut-trees, planted by me while yet a boy, around my cottage, have grown up, carrying their widely- extended branches high into the air; and my little home nestles in their covering shade. This, this was my most '^'vehement grief, O Myrta, when thou didst expire on my agitated breast, within my arms. Spring has already covered thy grave, twelve times, with flowers. But the day approaches, a joyful day, when my bones shall be laid with thine. Per haps, the coming night conducts it hither. 0, I see with delight, how my gray beard flows down over my breast. Yes, play with the white hair on my breast, thou little '•'zephyr, who '•'hoverest about me ! It is as worthy of thy '•'caresses, as the golden hair of joyful youth, or the brown curls on the neck of the blooming maiden. 5. This day shall be to me a day of joy! I will assemble my children around me here, even down to the little '•'stam mering grandchild, and will offer thanksgiving to God ; the altar shall be here before my cottage. I will '•'garland my bald head, and my trembling hand shall take the lyre, and then will we, I and my children, sing songs of praise. Then, will I '•'strew flowers over my table, and with joyful '•'discourses partake of the bounty of the Most High. 6. Thus spake Palaemon, and rose trembling upon his staff, and having called his children together, held a glad '•'festival of devout and joyous '•'thanksgiving to the Deity. ECLECTTC SERIES. 263 C.— THE THREE WARNINGS. From Mrs. Thrale. I 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. This great affection to believe. Which all confess, but few perceive, If old ■’’assertions can ’t prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 2. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbor Dodson’s wedding-day; Death called aside the ’’’jocund groom With him into another room; And looking grave, “ You must,” says he, “Quit 3^our sweet bride, and come with me.” “With you! and quit my Susan’s side? With you I ” the hapless bridegroom cried : “Young as I am, ’tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I’m not prepared.” 3. 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; “Neighbor,” he said, “farewell! no more Shall Death disturb your ’’’mirthful hour; And further, 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, ‘^64 NEW SIXTH READER. But, when 1 call again this way, Well pleased the world will leave.” To these '^conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented. 4. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wisely, and how well, It boots not that the muse should tell; He plowed, he sowed, 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 mortal spares. Uncalled, unheeded, '•'unawares. Brought on his eightieth year. 5. And noAV, one night, in musing mood As all alone he sate. The unwelcome messenger of Fate Once more before him stood. Half-killed with wonder and surprise, “So soon returned!” old Dodson cries. “So soon d’ye call it?” Death replies: “Surely, my friend, you’re but in jest; Since I was here before, ’T is six and thirty years at least. And you are now fourscore.” “So much the worse I” the clown '•'rejoined; “ To spare the ag^d would be kind : Besides, you promised me three warnings^ Which I have looked for nights and mornings! 6 “I know,” cfies Death, “that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don’t be '•'captious, friend; at least, 1 little thought that you’d be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length, Yet still you seem to have your strength.” 7. “Hold!” says the farmer, “not so fast! 1 have been lame, these four years past” ECLECTIC SERIES. 265 “And no great wonder/’ Death replies; “However, you still keep your eyes; And surely, sir, to see one’s friends, For legs and arms would make amends. “Perhaps,” says Dodson, “so it might, But latterly I’ve lost my sight.” “This is a shocking story, faith; But there’s some comfort still,” says Death; “Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.” “There’s none,” cries he, “and if there were, I ’ve grown so deaf, I could not hear.” 8. “Nay, then,” the '•'specter stern rejoined, “These are unpardonable '•'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 Dodson, turning pale. Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. Cl.— THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS. From Dr. Beecher. 1. We are called upon to cherish with high veneration and grateful recollections, the memory of our fathers. Both the ties of nature and the dictates of '•'policy, demand this. And surely no nation had ever less occasion to be ashamed of its ancestry, or more occasion for '•'gratulation in that respect; for while most nations trace their origin to '•'bar- barians, the foundations of our nation were laid by civilized men, by Christians. Many of them were men of distin guished families, of powerful talents, of great learning and of '•'pre-eminent wisdom, of decision of character, and of most inflexible integrity. And yet not unfrequently, they have been treated as if they had no virtues ; while their sins and fol- lies have been '•'sedulously immortaliZiSd in '•'satirical anecdote. 2. The influence of such treatment of our fathers is too ^manifest. It creates, and lets loose upon their institutions, 266 NEW SIXTH READER. the '’’vandal spirit of '’’innovation and overthrow; for after the memory of our fathers shall have been rendered con- temptible, who will appreciate and sustain their institutions? The memory of our fathers^ should be the watch-word of liberty throughout the land ; for, imperfect as they were, the world before had not seen their like, nor will it soon, we fear, behold their like again. Such models of moral excel- lence, such apostles of civil and religious liberty, such shades of the illustrious dead looking down upon their descendants with approbation or reproof, according as they follow or de- part from the good way, constitute a '’’censorship inferior only to the eye of Grod; and to ridicule them is national '’’suicide. 3. The doctrines of our fathers have been represented as gloomy, ■’’superstitious, severe, irrational, and of a licentious tendency. But when other systems shall have produced a piety as devoted, a morality as pure, a patriotism as disinter- ested, and a state of society as happy, as have prevailed where their doctrines have been most prevalent, it may be in season to seek an answer to this objection. 4. The persecutions instituted by our fathers, have been the occasion of ceaseless '’’obloquy upon their fair fame. And truly, it was a fault of no ordinary magnitude, that sometimes they did persecute. But let him whose ancestors were not ten times more guilty, cast the first stone, and the ashes of our fathers will no more be disturbed. Theirs was the fault of the age, and it will be easy to show, that no class of men had, at that time, '’’approximated so nearly to just '’’apprehen- sions of religious liberty ; and that it is to them that the world is now indebted, for the more just and definite views which now prevail. 5. The '’’superstition and '’’bigotry of our fathers, are themes on which some of their descendants, themselves far enough from superstition, if not from bigotry, have delighted to dwell. But when we look abroad, and behold the condition of the world, compared with the condition of New England^ we may justly exclaim, “Would to God that the ancestors of all the nations had been not only almost, but altogether such bigots as our fathers were.” ECLECTIC SERIES. 267 CIL— LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. From Mrs. Hemans. 1. The breaking waves dashed hig’i On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tossed ; 2. 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. 3. 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; 4. Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear ; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. 5. Amid 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. 6. 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. 7. There were men with hoary hair. Amid that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there. Away from their childhood’s land? 8. 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. 9. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, tho spoils of war? ^ They sought a faith’s pure ‘‘'shrine 1 268 NEW SIXTH READER. 10. Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod: They have left unstained what there they found! Freedom to worship God. cm.— THE FOURTEENTH CONGRESS. From R. H. Wilde. 1. I had the honor to be a member of the fourteenth Con- gress. It was an honor then. What it is now., I shall not say. It is what the twenty-second Congress have been pleased to make it. I have neither time, nor strength, nor ability, to speak of the legislators of that day, as they de- serve; nor is this a fit occasion. Yet the coldest or most careless nature can not "^recur to such associates, without some touch of generous feeling, which, in quicker spirits, would kindle into high and almost holy '^'enthusiasm. 2. "^Pre-eminent among them was a gentleman of South Carolina,* now no more, the purest, the calmest, the most philosophical of our country’s modern statesmen : one, no less remarkable for gentleness of manners and kindness of heart, than for that passionless, unclouded intellect, which rendered him deserving of the praise, if ever man deserved it, of merely standing by, and letting reason argue for him: the true patriot, incapable of all selfish ambition, who shunned ofl&ce and distinction, yet served his country faithfully, be- cause he loved her: he, I mean, who '’'consecrated, by his example, the noble precept, so entirely his own, that the first station in a republic was neither to be sought after nor de- clined; a sentiment so just and so happily expressed, that it continues to be repeated, because it can not be improved. 3. There was, also, a gentleman from Maryland, f whose ashes now slumber in your '’'cemetery. It is not long since I stood by his tomb, and recalled him, as he was then, in all the pride and power of his genius. Among the first of his countrymen and '’'cotemporaries, as a '’'jurist and ‘’'statesman, first as an orator, he was, if not truly eloquent, the prince of * Lowndes, t" Pinckney. ECLECTIC SERIES. 269 ■^‘rhetoricians. Nor did the soundness of his '’'logic suffer any thing, by a comparison with the richness and classical purity of the language, in which he '•'copiously poured forth those figurative illustrations of his argument, which enforced while they adorned it. But let others pronounce his '•‘eulogy. 1 must not. I feel as if his mighty spirit still haunted the scenes of its triumphs, and when I dared to wrong them, in- dignantly rebuked me. 4. These names have become '•'historical. There were others, of whom it is more difficult to speak, because yet within the reach of praise or envy. For one who was, or aspired to be, a politician, it would be prudent, perhaps wise, to avoid all mention of these men. Their acts, their words, their thoughts, their very looks, have become subjects of party controversy. But he whose ambition is of a higher or lower order, has no such need of reserve. Talent is of no party exclusively ; nor is justice. 5. Among them, but not of them, in the fearful and solitary sublimity of genius, stood a gentleman from Yir- ginia * — whom it were '‘'superfluous to '•'designate ; whose speeches were universally read ; whose '•'satire was univers- ally feared. Upon whose accents, did this habitually listless and unlistening House, hang so frequently, with rapt atten- tion? Whose fame was '•'identified with that body for so long a period? Who was a more '•'dexterous debater? a riper scholar? better versed in the politics of our own country? or deeper read in the history of others? Above all, who was more thoroughly '•'imbued with the '•'idiom of the English lan- guage? more completely master of its strength, and beauty, and delicacy? or more capable of breathing thoughts of flame, in words of magic and tones of silver? 6. There was, also, a son of South Carolina, f still in the service of the republic, then, undoubtedly, the most influ- ential member of this house. With a genius eminently '•'metaphysical, he applied to politics his habits of '•'analysis, ■•'abstraction, and '•'condensation, and thus gave to the '•'prob- lems of government, something of that '•'grandeur, which the higher mathematics have borrowed from astronomy. The Randolph. t Calhoun. 270 NEW SIXTH READER. wirigy of his mind were rapid, but capricious, and tliere were times, when the light which flashed from them as they passed, glanced like a mirror in the sun, only to dazzle the beholder. '•'Engrossed with bis subject, careless of his words, his loftie^^t flights of eloquence were sometimes followed by '•'colloquial or '•'provincial '•'barbarisms. But, though often incorrect, he was always fascinating. Language, with him, was merely the ''vcaffolding of thought, employed to raise a dome, which, like Angelo’s, he suspended in the heavens. 7. It is equally impossible to forget or to omit, a gentle- man from Kentucky,* whom party has since made the fruit- ful topic of unmeasured '•'panegyric and '•'detraction. Of '•'sanguine '•'temperament, and impetuous character, his decla- mation was impassioned, his retorts '•'acrimonious. Beflcient in '•'reflnement, rather than in strength, his style was less elegant and correct, than animated and impressive. But it swept away your feelings with it, like a mountain torrent, and the force of the stream left you little leisure to remark upon its clearness. His estimate of human nature was, prob- ably, not very high. Unhappily, it is, perhaps, more likely to have been lowered, than raised, by his subsequent expe- rience. Yet then and ever since, except when that impru' dence so natural to genius prevailed over his better judg- ment, he adopted a lofty tone of sentiment, whether he spoke of measures or of men, of friend or adversary. On many occasions, he was noble and captivating. One, I can never forget. It was the flne burst of indignant eloquence, with which he replied to the taunting question, “What have we gained by the war?” 8. Nor may I pass over in silence a Bepresentative from* New Hampshire, f who has almost '•'obliterated all memory ot* that distinction, by the superior fame he has attained as a Senator from Massachusetts. Though then but in the bud of his political life, and hardly conscious, perhaps, of his own extraordinary powers, he gave promise of the greatness he has since '•'achieved. The same vigor of thought; the same force of expression; the short sentences; the calm, cold, col- lected manner; the air of solemn dignity; the deep, '•’sepul- Clay. t Webster. ECLECTIC SERIES. 271 chral, '*'unimpassioned voice; all have been developed only, not changed, even to the intense bitterness of his '^'frigid ■‘'irony. The piercing coldness of his sarcasm was indeed peculiar to him; it seemed to be an '^'emanation from the spirit of the icy ocean. Nothing could be at once so novel and so powerful ; it was frozen mercury, becoming as '‘'caustic as red hot iron. CIV.— THE AMERICAN FLAG. From Drake. ' 1. When Freedom, from her mountain height, ■‘'Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the ‘‘'azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ; She mingled with its ‘‘'gorgeous dyes, The milky '‘'baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, '‘'celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The '‘'symbol of her cLcsen land. 2. '‘'Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear ’st aloft thy '‘'regal form, To hear the tempest trumping loud, And see the lightning lances driven. When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven 1 Child of the sun! to thee ’t is given To guard the banner of the free. To '‘'hover in the sulphur smoke. To ward away the battle stroke. And bid its ‘‘'blendings shine afar. Like rainbows on the cloud of war. The '‘'harbinger of victory. 3. Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes '•'gleaming on; 272 NEW SIXTH READER. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has "^dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier’s eye shall brightly turn To where thy ^meteor glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance; And when the cannon’s '•'mouthings loud Heave, in wild wreaths, the battle '’'shroud. And '’’gory sabers rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall; Then shall thy victor glances glow. And "tcowering foes shall sink below Each gallant arm, that strikes beneath That awful '’'messenger of death. 4. Flag of the seas! on ocean’s wave Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave; When death, '’'careering on the gale. Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. And frighted waves rush wildly back. Before the broadside’s reeling rack, The dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee. And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o’er his closing eye. 5. Flag of the free heart’s only home. By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the '’'welkin '’'dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us. With E^eedom’s soil beneath our feet, And Freedom’s banner waving o’er us? CV. — THE EAGLE. From Percival. James G. Percival, a native of Connecticut, was a poet of distinction. He was also distinguished as a geologist, botanist, and philologist. He was remarkable for his extreme modesty and reserve, as well as for his learning and poetic talent. He died in 1856. 1. Bird of the broad and sweeping wing! 'J'hy home is high in heaven. ECLECTIC SERIES. 273 Where the wide storms their banners Hing, And the tempest clouds are driven. Thy throne is on the mountain-top ; Thy fields, the boundless air; And hoary peaks, that proudly prop The skies, thy dwellings are. 2. Thou art perched aloft, on the '^'beetling cragj And the waves are white below. And on, with a haste that can not lag, They rush in an endless flow. Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight. To lands beyond the sea, And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest, wdld and free. 3. Lord of the '•'boundless realm of air ! In thy '•'imperial name. The hearts of the bold and ardent dare The dangerous path of fame. Beneath the shade of thy golden wings. The Homan '•'legions bore. From the river of Egypt’s cloudy springs, Their pride, to the polar shore.* 4. For thee they fought, for thee they fell. And their oath on thee was laid ; To thee the '•'clarions raised their swell. And the dying warrior prayed. Thou wert, through an age of death and fears. The image of pride and power. Till the gathered rage of a thousand years, Burst forth in one awful hour f 5. And then, a deluge of wrath it came. And the nations shook with dread ; And it swept the earth, till its fields were flame. And piled with the mingled dead. Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood. With the low and '•'crouching slave ; And together lay, in a shroud of blood. The coward and the brave. ^ The Roman standard was the image of an eagle. The soldiers swore by it, and the loss of it was considered a disgrace. t Alluding to the destruction of Rome by the northern barbarians. 274 NEW SIXTH READER 6. And where was then thy fearless flight? “O’er the dark and ^mysterious sea, To the land, that caught the setting light, The cradle of Liber t}^ There, on the silent and lonely shore. For ages I watched alone. And the world, in its darkness, asked no more Where the glorious bird had flown. 7. “ But then, came a bold and hardy few. And they breasted the unknown wave; I saw from far the wandering crew. And I knew they were high and brave. I wheeled around the welcome bark. As it sought the "^desolate shore. And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, My ■‘■quivering '•'pinions bore. 8. “And now that bold and hardy few Are a nation wide and strong. And danger and doubt 1 have led them through. And they '•'worship me in song; And over their bright and '•'glancing arms. On field, and lake, and sea. With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, 1 guide them to '•’victory!” CVI.— THE SHIPWRECK. 1. In the winter of 1824, Lieutenant G , of tbe United States navy, with his beautiful wife and infant child, '•'embarked in a packet at Norfolk, bound to South Carolina. For tbe first day and night after their departure, the wind con- tinued fair, and the weather clear ; but, on the evening of the second day, a severe gale sprung up, and, toward midnight, the captain, judging himself much further from the land than he really was, and dreading the Gulf Stream, hauled in for the coast; but with the intention, it is presumed, of lying to when he supposed himself clear of the Gulf Lieut. G. did not approve of the captain’s determination, and the result proved that his fears were well-founded; for toward morning the vessel grounded. ECLECTIC SERIES. 275 2. Vain would it be, to attempt a description of the horror which was "^depicted in every countenance, when the awful shock, occasioned by the striking of the vessel’s bottom, was first experienced. The terror of such a situation can be known only to those, who have themselves been shipwrecked. No others can have a tolerable idea of what passed in the minds of the wretched crew, as they gazed with vacant horror on the thundering '•'elements, and felt, that their frail bark must soon, perhaps the next thump, be dashed to pieces, and they left at the mercy of the billows, with not even a plank between them and '•'eternity. First, comes the thumping of the vessel; next, the dashing of the surge over her sides ; then, the '•'careening of the vessel on her beam ends, as the waves, for an instant, '•'recede ; and lastly, the crashing of the spars and timbers, at each returning wave; the whole forming a scene of confusion and horror which no language can describe. 3. But awful as is the shipwrecked sailor’s prospect, what are Ms feelings compared to the agony of a fond Tiushand and father^ who clasps in a last embrace his little world, his be- loved wife and child ! The land was in sight, but to approach it was scarcely less dangerous, than to remain in the raging sea around them. Lieut. G. was a seaman, and a brave one ; accustomed to danger, and quick in seizing upon every means of rescuing the unfortunate. But now^ who were the unfor- tunate, that called on him for '•'rescue? Who were they, whose screams were heard louder than the roaring elements, imploring that aid which no human power could afford them? His wife and child! 0! heart-rending '•'agonj. 4. But why attempt to describe what few can imagine? In a word, the only boat which could be got, was manned ly two gallant tars. Mrs. G., and her child, and its nurse were lifted into it; it was the thought of '•'desperation! The freight was already too much. Mr. G. saw this, and knew that the addition of himself would diminish the chances of the boat’s reaching the shore in safety; and hor- rible as was the '•'alternative, he himself gave the order; — “ Push off, and make for the land, my brave lads ! ” — the last words that ever passed his lips ! The order was cbcycd ; but ere the little boat had proceeded fifty yards, (about half the 276 NEW SIXTH READER. distaDce to the beach,) it was struck by a wave, fcapsized, and boat, passengers, and all, '‘'enveloped in the angry surge ! The wretched husband saw but too distinctly the destruction of all that he held dear. But here, alas, and forever were shut out from him all '‘'sublunary prospects. He fell upon the deck — powerless^ senseless^ a CORPSE — the victim of a sublihie sensibility. 5. But what became of the unhappy wife and child ? The answer shall be brief. Mrs. Gr. was borne through the break- ers to the shore by one of the brave sailors ; the nurse was thrown upon the beach with the drowned infant in her arms. Mrs. Gr. was taken to a hut senseless, continued '‘'delirious many days, but finally recovered her senses, and with them, a consciousness of the awful '‘'catastrophe which, in a mo* ment, had made her a childless widow. evil.— TO MY MOTHER. 1. I KNOW thou art gone to the land of thy rest; Then why should my soul be so sad ? I know thou art gone where the weary are blest, And the mourner looks up and is glad ; Where Love has put off in the land of its birth, The stain it had gathered in this, And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth. Lies asleep in the bosom of bliss. 2. I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul, Where the light of thy loveliness can not be '‘'marred, Nor thy heart be flung back from its '‘'goal; I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows Through a land where they do not forget ; That sheds over memory only '‘'repose, And takes from it only regret. 3. This eye must be dark, that so long has been dim. Ere again it may gaze upon thine ; But my heart has '‘'revealings of thee and thy home, In many a token and sign ; ECLECTIC SERIES. 277 I never look up, with a vow, to the sky, But a light like thy beauty is there; And I hear a low murmur, like thine, reply, When I pour out my spirit in prayer. 4. In the far-away dwelling, wherever it be, 1 believe thou hast visions of mine; And the love that made all things as music to me, 1 have not yet learned to resign. In the +hush of the night, on the waste of the sea. Or alone with the breeze, on the hill, 1 have ever a presence that whispers of thee, And my spirit lies down and is still. 5. And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb, I am wrapped in a '•'mantle of care ; Yet the grief of my bosom — oh! call it not gloom — Is not the black grief of despair. By sorrow '•'revealed, as the stars are by night. Far off a bright vision appears; And hope, like the rainbow — a creature of light, Is born, like the rainbow, in tears. C VIII.— THE EAGLE’S NEST. From Wilson. Bairn; child. Wee Wean; a little child. 1. Almost all the people in the parish were loading in their meadow-hay on the same day of midsummer, so drying was the sunshine and the wind ; ana huge heaped-up '•'wains, that almost hid from view the horses that drew them along the sward beginning 'o get green with second growth, were moving in all directions toward the snug farm-yards. Never had the parish seemed before so populous. '•'Jocund was the balmy air with laughter, whistle, and song. But the '•'tree-gnomons threw the shadow of “ one o’clock” on the green dial-face of the earth; the horses were unyoked and took instantly to grazing ; groups of men, women, lads, lasses, and children, collected under grove, and bush, and hedge-row ; graces were pronounced, some of them rather too tedious in presence of the '•'mantling milk=cans, bullion-bars of butter, 278 NEW SIXTH READER. and crackling cakes; and tRe great Being who gave them that day their daily' bread, looked down from his eternal throne, well-pleased with the piety of his thankful creatures. 2. The great golden eagle, the pride and the pest of the parish, stooped down, and flew away with something in its talons. One single, sudden, female shriek arose; and, then, shouts and outcries, as if a church spire had tumbled down on a congregation at a '•'sacrament : “ Hannah Lamond’s bairn ! Hannah Lamond’s bairn ! ” was the loud, fast-spread- ing cry. “ The eagle has ta’en off Hannah Lamond’s bairn ! ” and many hundred feet were, in another instant hurrying toward the mountain. Two miles of hill and '•'dale, and '•'copse, and shingle, and many '•'intersecting brooks lay be- tween ; but, in an incredibly short time, the foot of the mountain was alive with people. 3. The '•'aerie was well known, and both old birds were visible on the rock-ledge. But who shall scale that dizzy clifi*, which Mark Steuart, the sailor, who had been at the storming of many a fort, attempted in vain ? All kept gazing, weeping, wringing their hands in vain, rooted to the ground, or running back and forward, like so many ants '•'essaying their new wings in '•'discomfiture. “ What ’s the use, what ’s the use o’ ony puir human means? We have no power but in prayer!” and many knelt down — fathers and mothers thinking of their own babies — as if they would force the deaf heavens to hear ! 4. Hannah Lamond had all this while been sitting on a rock, with a face perfectly white, and eyes like those of a mad person, fixed on the aerie. Nobody had noticed her; for strong as all sympathies with her had been at the swoop of the eagle, they were now swallowed up in the agony of eye-sight. ‘‘Only last sabbath was my sweet wee wean baptized in the name o’ the Father, and the Son, and tha Holy Ghost!” and on uttering these words, she flew ofi through the brakes and over the huge stones, up — up — up — faster than ever hunstsman ran in to the death, fear- less as a goat playing among the precipices. 5. No one doubted, no one could doubt, that she would soon be dashed to pieces. But have not people who walk in their sleep, obedient to the mysterious guidance of dreams, P.OT.ECTIC SERIES. 279 climbed the walls of old ruins, nnd found footing, even in ’‘'decrepitude, along the edge of unguarded '^battlements, and down '‘'dilapidated staircases, deep as draw-wells or coal-pits, and returned with open, fixed^ and unseeing eyes, unharmed to their beds, at midnight! It is all the work of the soul, to whom the body is a slave; and shall not the agony of a mother’s passion, who sees her baby whose warm mouth had just left her breast, hurried oil by a demon to a hideous death, bear her limbs aloft wherever there is dust to dust, till she reach that devouring den, and fiercer and more furious far, in the passion of love, than any bird of prey that ever bathed its beak in blood, throttle the fiends, that with their heavy wings would fain fiap her down the cliffs, and hold up her child in deliverance before the eye of the all-seeing God? 6. No stop — no stay, — she knew not that she drew her breath. Beneath her feet. Providence fastened every loose stone, and to her hands strengthened every root. How was she ever to descend? That fear but once crossed her heart, as she went up — up — up — to the little image of her own flesh and blood. “ The God who holds me now from perishing, will not the same God save me when my child is on my bosom?” Down came the fierce rushing of the eagles’ wings; each savage bird dashing close to her head, so that she saw the yellow of their wrathful eyes. All at once, they ■‘'quailed and were cowed. Yelling, they flew off to the stump of an ash '‘'jutting out of a cliff, a thousand feet above the cataract; and the Christian mother falling across the aerie, in the midst of bones and blood, clasped her child — dead — dead — dead — no doubt — but unmangled and untorn, and ■‘'swaddled up just as it was, when she laid it down asleep among the fresh hay in a nook of the harvest field. 7. Oh! what a pang of perfect blessedness '‘'transfixed her heart from that faint, feeble cry, — “ It lives — it lives — it lives!” and baring her bosom, with loud laughter and eyes dry as stones, she felt the lips of the '‘'unconscious innocent, once more murmuring at the fount of life and love ! 0 thou great and thou dreadful God ! whither hast thou brought me, one of the most sinful of thy creatures ? Oh ! save my soul, lest it perish, even for thy own name’s sake I 0 thou, who diedst to save sinners, have mercy upon me ! ” 280 NEW SIXTH READER. 8. Below, were cliffs, '^chasms, blocks of stone, and the ‘^'skeletons of old trees — far — far down — and '’’dwindled into specks, and a thousand creatures of her own kind, '’'stationary, or running to and fro ! Was that the sound of the water- fall, or the faint roar of voices? Is that her native strath? and that tuft of trees, does it contain the hut, in which stands the cradle of her child? Never more shall it be rocked by her foot! Here must she die; and when her breast is exhausted, her baby, too ! And those horrid beaks, and eyes, and talons, and wings, will return, and her child will be devoured at last, even within the dead bosom, that can protect it no more. CIX.— THE EAGLE’S NEST— CONCLUDED. Screes ; precipices. Maun ; must. Claes ; clothes. 1. Where, all this time, was Mark Steuart, the sailor? Half way up the cliffs. But his eye had got dim, and his heart sick; and he, who had so often reefed the top-gallant sail, when, at midnight, the coming of the gale was heard afar, covered his face with his hands, and dared look no lon- ger on the swimming heights. “And who will take care of my poor, bed-ridden mother?” thought Hannah, whose soul, through the '’'exhaustion of so many passions, could no more retain in its grasp that hope, which it had '’'clutched in despair. A voice whispered “God.” She looked around expecting to see an angel, but nothing moved, except a rotten branch, that, under its own weight, broke off from the crumb- ling rock. Her eye, by some secret '’'sympathy of her soul with the inanimate object, watched its fall; and it seemed to Hop not far off, on a small '’'platform. 2. Her child was bound within her bosom — she remem- bered not how or when, — but it was safe — and, scarcely dar- ing to open her eyes, she slid down the shelving rocks, and found herself on a small piece of firm, root-bound soil, with the tops of bushes appearing below. With fingers suddenly strengthened into the power of iron, she swting herself down, by briar, and broom, and '’'heather, and dwarf birch. Here, a loosened stone leaped over a ledge, and no sound was heard, ECLECTIC SERIES. 281 so profound was its fall. There, the shingle rattled down the screes, and she hesitated not to follow. Her feet bounded against the huge stone that stopped them, but she felt no pain. Her body was '♦'callous as the cliff. Steep, as the up- right wall of a house, was now the side of the precipice. But it was '♦'matted with ivy, '♦'centuries old, long ago dead, and without a single green leaf, but with thousands of arm- thick stems, '♦'petrified into the rock, and covering it, as with a '♦'trellis. She bound her baby to her neck, and, with hands and feet, clung to the fearful ladder. 3. Turning round her head and looking down, lo ! the whole population of the parish — so great was the multitude — on their knees ! and, hush ! the voice of psalms ! a hymn, breathing the spirit of one united prayer ! Sad and solemn was the strain, but nothing dirge-like, breathing not of death, but deliverance. Often had she sung that tune, perhaps the very words, — but them she heard not — in her own hut, she and her mother; or, in the kirk, along with the congregation. ' An unseen hand seemed fastening her fingers to the ribs of ivy, and, in sudden '♦'inspiration, believing that her life was to be saved, she became almost as fearless as if she had been changed into a winged creature. Again her feet touched stones and earthy the psalm was hushed, but a Hremulous, sobbing voice was close beside her, and lo ! a she- goat, with two little kids, at her feet! “Wild heights,” thought she, “ do these creatures climb, but the dam will lead down her kid by the easiest paths ; for, oh 1 even in the brute creatures, what is the holy power of a mother’s love!” and turning round her head, she kissed her sleeping baby, and, for the first time, she wept. 4. Overhead, frowned the front of the precipice, never before touched by human hand or foot. No one had ever dreamed of '♦'scaling it, and the golden eagles knew that well, in their instinct, as, before they built their aerie, they had brushed it with their wings. But all the rest of this part of the mountain side, though '♦'scarred, and '♦'seamed, and '♦'chasmed, was yet '♦'accessible ; and more than one person in the parish had reached the bottom of the Glead’s Cliff'. Many were now attempting it; and, ere the cautious mother had followed her dumb guides a hundred yards, though among 282 NEW SIXTH READER. dangers, that, although enough to terrify the stoutest heart, were '‘'traversed by her without a shudder, the head of one man appeared, and then the head of another; and she knew that God had delivered her and her child, in safety, into the care of their fellow-creatures. 5. Not a word was spoken, eyes said enough, she hushed her friends with her hands, and, with uplifted eyes, pointed to the guides lent to her by Heaven. Small, green '‘'plats, where those creatures nibble the wild flowers, became now more frequent; trodden lines, almost as easy as sheep-paths, showed that the dam had not led her young into danger; and now, the brush-wood dwindled away into straggling shrubs, and the party stood on a little '^'eminence above the stream, and forming part of the strath. 6. There had been trouble and agitation, much sobbing, and many tears, among the multitude, while the mother was scaling the cliffs ; sublime was the shout that echoed afar, the moment she reached the '*'aerie ; then, had succeeded a silence, deep as death; in a little while, arose that hym- ning prayer, succeeded by mute supplication; the wildness of thankful and '‘'congratulatory joy, had next its sway; and now, that her salvation was sure, the great crowd rustled like a wind-swept wood. And for whose sake was all this alternation of '‘'agony? A poor, humble creature, unknown to many, even by name ; one who had but few friends, nor wished for more ; contented to work all day, here, there, any- where, that she might be able to support her aged mother, and her little child ; and who, on sabbath, took her seat in an obscure pew, set apart for '‘'paupers, in the kirk ! 7. Fall back, and give her fresh air! ” said the old min- ister of the parish ; and the circle of close faces widened around her, lying as in death. “ Give me the bonnie bit bairn into m.y arms,” cried flrst one mother, and then another ; and it was tenderly handed around the circle of kisses, many of the snooded maidens bathing its face in tears. “There’s na a scratch about the puir innocent, for the eagle, you see, maun hae stuck its '‘'talons into the lang claes, and the shawl. Blin’, blin’, maun they be, who see not the finger o’ God in this thing ! ” 8. Hannah started up from her '‘'swoon, and, looking ECLECTIC SERIES. 283 wildly aroundj cried, “ Oh ! the bird ! the bird ! the eagle ! the eagle has carried off my bonnie wee Walter! is there nane to pursue?” A neighbor put her baby to her breast, and, shutting her eyes, and smiting her forehead, the sorely bewildered creature said, in a low voice, “Am I wauken? oh I tell me if I am wauken ? or if a’ this be the wark o’ a fever, and the delirium o’ a dream ! ” CX.— THE DEAD EAGLE. 1. It is a desolate eve; Dim, cheerless is the scene my path around ; ■^Patters the rain; the breeze-stirred forests grieve; And wails the scene with '•'melancholy sound, While at my feet, behold, With vigorous '•'talons '•'clinched, and bright eyes shut, With proud, curved beak, and wiry '^'plumage bold, Thou liest, dead eagle of the desert; but Preserving yet, in look, thy tameless mood. As if, though stilled by death, thy heart were unsubdued. 2. How cam’st thou to thy death? Did '•'lapsing years o’ercome, and leave thee weak. Or whirlwinds, on thy heaven-descending path, Dash thee against the precipice’s peak? ’Mid rack and floating cloud, Did scythe-winged lightning flash '•'athwart thy brain, And drive thee from thy elevation proud, Down whirling, lifeless, to the dim-seen plain? I know not, may not guess ; but here alone Lifeless thou liest, outstretched beside the desert stone. 3. A proud life hath been thine: High on the herbless rock, thou ’wok’st to birth, And, gazing down, saw far beneath thee shine Outstretched, '•'horizon-girt, the map-like earth. What rapture must have gushed Warm round thy heart, when first thy wings '•'essayed, ■•'Adventurously, their heavenward flight, and rushed Up toward day’s blazing eye-star, undismayed, Above thee, space’s vacancy unfurled. And, far receding down, the dim, materi.al world! 284 NEW SIXTH READER. 4. How fast, how far, how long, Thine hath it been, from cloud-veiled '‘'aerie high, To '•'swoop, and still the wood-lark’s '•'lyric song. The 'tleveret’s gambols, and the lambkin’s cry? The terror stricken dove '•'Cowered down amid the oak-wood’s '•'central shade, While '•'ferny glens below, and cliffs above. To thy fierce shriek, 'tresponsive echo made. Carrying the wild alarm from vale to vale. That thou, the forest king, wert out upon the gale ! 5. When wooded glens were dark, And o’er moist earth, glowed morning’s rosy star. High o’er the scarce '•'tinged clouds, ’twas thine to mark The orient chariot of the sun afar : And oh ! how grand to soar Beneath the full moon, on full pinion driven; To pierce the regions of gray cloud-land o’er. And drift amid the star-isled seas of heaven ! Even like a courier, sent from earth to hold With '•'space-dissevered worlds, unawed, communion bold. 6 Dead king bird of the waste! And is thy '•'curbless span of freedom o’er? No more shall thine ascending form be traced? And shall the hunter of the hills no more Hark to thy regal cry. While soaring o’er the '•'stream-girt vales, thy form, Lessening, '•'commingles with the azure sky, (flimpsed ’mid the masses of the gathering storm. As if it were thy proud resolve to see, Betwixt thee and dim earth, the '•'zigzag lightnings flee? T A child of freedom thou. Thy birthright the tall cliff and sky beyond : Thy feet were fetterless; thy fearless brow, Ne’er '•'quailing, tyrant man’s dominion owned. But nature’s general law The slave and freeman must alike obey: Pride reels ; and Power, that kept a world in awe, The dreadful summons hears; and where are they? Vanished, like night-dreams, from the sleeper’s mind. Dust, ’mid dissolving day, or clouds before the wind! ECLECTIC SERIES. 285 CXI.--NORTII AMERICAN INDIANS. From Sprague. 1. Not many generations ago, where you now sit, '‘'encir- cled with all that exalts and '‘'embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here, lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your head, 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 helpless, and 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. 2. Here, too, they worshiped ; and from many a dark bosom went up a fervent 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 sank in beauty behind his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his midday throne; in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze ; in the lofty pine that defied a thousand whirlwinds ; 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 feet; and in his own '•'matchless form, glowing with a •spark of that light, to whose mysterious source he bent in humble, though blind adoration. 3. 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 bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. Here and there, a 21 286 NEW SIXTH READER. stricken few remain ; but how unlike their bold, untamable '^progenitors.. The Indian of '‘'falcon glance and lion bearing. the '‘'theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone ! and his degraded '‘'offspring crawls 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. 4. 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 fading to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is prcvssing 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 '‘'struct- ure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of persons they belonged. They will live only in the songs and '‘'chronicles of their '‘'exterminators. Let these be faith- ful to their rude virtues, as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate, as a people. CXII.— RED JACKET, THE INDIAN CHIEF. From Halleck. Fitz Greene Halleck, a native of Coiineoticut ; he has written little,, but ranks high among American poets. Rob Roy and Robin Hood; celebrated outlaws, the one of Scotland, the other of England. Upas ; a poisonous tree which grows in India. 1. Thou wert a monarch born. Tradition’s pages Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, Hut that the forest tribe have bent for ages, To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 2. Thy name is princely, though no pcet’s '‘'magic Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme. Unless he had a genius for the tragic. And introduced it into '‘'pantomime. 3. Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land; and on her herald roll, ECLECTIC SERIES. 287 As nobly fought for, and as proud a token As ^CcEUR DE Lion’s, of a warrior’s soul. 4. Thy +garb — though Austria’s bcsora-star would frighten That metal pale, as diamonds the dark mine. And George the Fourth wore in the dance at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine; 5. Yet ’tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, And fitted for a couch on field and flood. As Rob Roy’s tartan for the Highland "‘'heather, Or forest green for England’s Robin Hood. 6. Is strength a monarch’s merit, like a whaler’s? Thou art as tall, as "‘'sinewy, and as strong As earth’s first kings — the Argo’s gallant sailors, "‘'Heroes in history, and gods in song. 7. Is eloquence ? Her spell is thine, that reaches The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport ; And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches — The secret of their "‘'mastery — they are short. 8. Is beauty ? Thine has with thy youth departed ; But the "‘'love-legends of thy manhood’s years, And she who perished, young and broken-hearted, Are — but I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears. 9. The monarch mind, — the mystery of commanding, The godlike power, the art Napoleon, Of winning, fettering, "‘'molding, "‘'wielding, banding. The hearts of millions till they move as one ; 10, Thou hast it. At thy bidding, men have crowded The road to death as to a "‘'festival; And minstrel-minds, without a blush, have "‘"shrouded With "‘"banner-folds of glory, their dark pall. IL Who will believe — not I — for in deceiving Lies the dear charin of life’s delightful dream; I can not spare the "’"luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem: — 12. Who would believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the "‘'patriarch’s, soothe a dying hour, With voice as low, as gentle, as "‘'caressing, As e’er won maiden’s lip in moonlight bower; ^ Cceur de Lion, (pro, Kur de Lee' on.) lion-hearted, a name given to Richard I, of England. 288 NEW SIXTH READER. 13. With look, like patient Job’s, ^eschewing evil; With motions graceful as a bird’s in air, Thou art, in sober truth, the '•'veriest devil, That e’er clinched fingers in a captive’s hair? 14. That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the Upas-tree : And, in thy wrath, a nursing cat o’ mountain Is calm as her babe’s sleep compared with thee? 15. And, underneath that face, like summer ocean’s, Its lips as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart’s '•'emotions. Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, — all, save fear. 16. Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipe in peace, her '•'tomahawk in wars ; Hatred — of missionaries and cold water ; Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 17. Hope — that thy wrongs will be, by the Great Spirit, Remembered and '•'revenged, when thou art gone ; Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne. CXHI.— THE TWINS. From Wilson. Manse; a clergyman’s house. 1. The Kirk of Auchindown stands, with its burials ground, on a little, green hill, surrounded by an irregular and straggling village, or rather about a hundred '•'hamlets clustering round it, with their fields and gardens. A few of these gardens come close up to the church-yard wall, and, in spring-time, many of the fruit-trees bang, rich and beautiful, over the '•'adjacent graves. The voices and the laughter of the children at play on the green before the parish school, or their composed murmur, when at their various lessons to- gether in the room, may be distinctly heard all over the burial-ground. So may the song of the maidens going to the well ; while all around, the singing of birds is thick and hurried ; and a small rivulet, as if brought there to be an ECLECTIC SERIES. 289 '♦'emblem of passing time, glides away beneath the mossy wall, '♦'murmuring continually a dream-like tune round the dwellings of the dead. 2. In the quiet of the evening, my venerable friend took me with him into the church-yard. We walked to the eastern corner, where, as we approached, I saw a monument standing almost by itself, and, even at that distance, appear- ing to be of a somewhat different character from any other in the burial-ground. And now we stood close to, and be- fore it. It was a low '♦'monument of the purest white marble ; simple, but perfectly elegant and graceful withal, and upon its unadorned slab, lay the '♦'sculptured images of two children asleep in each other’s arms. 3. Around it, was a small piece of the greenest ground, without the protection of any rail, but obviously belonging to the monument. It shone, without offending them, among simpler or ruder burial-beds round about it ; and, although the costliness of the materials, the affecting beauty of the design, and the delicacy of its execution, all showed that there slept the offspring neither of the poor nor low in life, yet so meekly and sadly did it lift up its unstained little walls, and so well 5id its unusual elegance meet and blend with the character of the common tombs, that no heart could see it without sympathy, and without owning, that it was a pathetic ornament of a place, filled with the ruder '♦'memori- als of the very humblest dead. 4. “Six years ago,” said my '♦'venerable companion, “I was an old man, and wished to have silence and stillness in my house, that my communion with Him before whom I ex- pected every day to be called, might be undisturbed. Accord- ingly, my Manse, that used to ring with boyish '♦'glee, was now quiet; when, a lady, elegant, graceful, beautiful, young, and a widow, came to my dwelling, and her soft, sweet, silver voice, told me that she was from England. She was the ■♦'relict of an officer slain in war ; and having heard one who had lived in my house, speak of his happy and innocent time there, she earnestly requested me to receive beneath my roof, her two sons. She, herself, lived with the bed-ridden mother of her dead husband; and anxious for the growing minds of her boys, she sought to commit them, for a short time, to my 290 NEW SIXTH READER. care. They and their mother soon won an old man’s heart, and I could say nothing in '^'opposition to her request, but that I was upward of three-score and ten years old. But I am living still; and that is their monument.” 5. We sat down at these words, on the sloping head-stone of the grave, just opposite to this little, beautiful "^structure ; and without entreaty, and as if to bring back upon his heart the delight of old, tender remembrances, the venerable man thus continued. 6. “ The lady left them with me in the Manse ; surely the two most beautiful and engaging creatures that ever died in youth. They were twins. Like were they unto each other, as two bright-plumaged doves of one color, or two flowers with the same blossom and the same leaves. They were dressed alike, and whatever they wore, in that did they seem more especially beautiful. Their hair was the same, a bright auburn ; their voices were as one ; so that the twins were '^inseparable in my love, whether I beheld them, or my dim eyes were closed. 7. “From the first hour they were left alone with me, and without their mother in the Manse, did I begin to love them; nor were they slow in returning an old man’s affection. They stole up to my side, and submitted their smooth, "^glossy, leaning heads to my withered and trembling hand ; nor, for awhile, could I tell, as the sweet beings came gliding '^glad- somely near me, which was Edward and which was Henry; and often did they, in winning playfulness, try to deceive my loving heart. But they could not defraud each other of their tenderness; for whatever the one received, that was ready to be '^bestowed upon the other. To love the one more than the other was impossible. 8. “ Sweet creatures ! It was not long before I learned to distinguish them. That which seemed to me, at first, so per- fectly the same, soon unfolded itself with many delightful “^varieties, and then I wondered how I ever could have mis- taken them for one another. Different shadows played upon their hair ; that of the one being silky and smooth, and of the other slightly curled at the edges, and '^'clustering thickly, when he flung back his locks in playfulness or joy. His eyes, though of a hazel hue, like those of his brother, were ECLECTIC SERIES. 291 considerably lighter, and a smile seemed native there; while those of the other seemed almost dark, and fitter for the mist of tears. Dimples marked the cheeks of the one, but those of the other were paler and smooth. 9. ‘‘Their voices too, when I listened to them, and knew their character, had a faint, '^'fluctuating difference of inflection and tone, like the same instrument blown upon with a some- what stronger or weaker breath. Their very laugh grew to be different to my ear; that of the one, free and more frequent, that of the other, mild in its utmost glee. And they had not been many days in the Manse, before I knew in a moment, dim as my eyes had long been, the soft, timid, stealing step of Edward, from the dancing and fearless motion of Henry Howard.” 10. Here the old man paused, not as it seemed from any fatigue in speaking so long, but as if to indulge more pro- foundly in his remembrance of the children whom he had so tenderly loved. He fixed his dim eyes on their '^'sculptured images, with as fond an expression as if they had been alive, and had lain down there to sleep ; and when, without looking on me, whom he felt to have been listening with a quiet at- tention, he again began to speak, it was partly to tell the tale of these fair sleepers, and partly to give vent to his loving grief. 11. “All strangers, even many who thought they knew them well, were pleasantly perplexed with the faces and figures of the bright English twins. The poor beggars, as they went their rounds, blessed them, without knowing whether it was Edward or Henry that had bestowed his alms. Even the mother of the cottage children with whom they played, con- fused their images in her affectionate heart, as she named them in her prayers. When only one was present, it gave a start of strange delight to them who did not know the twins, to see another creature, so beautifully the same, come gliding in upon them, and join his brother in a share of their suddenly bestowed affection. 12. “They soon came to love, with all their hearts, the place of their new habitation. Not even in their own merry England, had their young eyes ever seen brighter green fields ; trees more '•'umbrageous ; or, perhaps, even '•'rural gardens more flowery and blossoming, than those of this Scottish 292 NEW SIXTH RE ADEE. village. They had lived, indeed, mostly in a town ; and in the midst of the freshness and '•'balminess of the country, they became happier and more '•'gleesome ; it was said, by many, even more beautiful. The affectionate creatures did not forget their mother. '^Alternately did they write to her every week, and every week did one or other receive from her a letter, in which the sweetest maternal feelings were traced, in small, delicate lines, that bespoke the hand of an accomplished lady. 13. Their education had not been neglected ; and they learned every thing they were taught with a surprising quick- ness and docility. Morning and evening too, did they kneel down with clasped hands — these lovely twins — even at my feet, and resting on my knees ; and '^melodiously did they murmur together the hymns which their mother had taught them, and passages selected from the Scriptures. And always, the last thing they did before going to sleep in each other’s arms, was to look at their mother’s picture, and to kiss it with fond kisses, and many an endearing name.” 14. Just then two birds alighted softly on the white mar- ble monument, and began to trim their plumes. They were doves from their nests in the '^belfry of the '’'spire, from which a low, deep '’'plaintive murmuring was now heard to come, deepening the profound silence of the burying-ground. The two bright birds walked about for a few minutes, around the image of the children, or stood quietly at their feet; and then, clapping their wings, flew up and disappeared. The incident, though at any other time, common and uninteresting, had a strange effect upon my heart, and seemed dimly '’'emblematic of the innocence and beauty of the inhabitants of the tomb, and of the flight of their innocent souls to heaven. CXIV.— THE TWINS— CONCLUDED. • 1. “One evening in early autumn, (they had been with me from the middle of May,) Edward, the elder, complained, on going to bed, of a sore throat, and I proposed that his brother should sleep in another bed. I saw them myself, accordingly, in separate places of repose. But on going, about an hour afterward, into their room, there I found them. ECLECTIC SERIES. 293 Jocked, as usual, in each other’s arms, face to face; and their innocent breath mingling from lips that nearly touched. I could not find heart to separate them ; nor could I have done so without awaking Edward. His cheeks were red and flushed, and his sleep broken and full of starts. 2. “ Early in the morning, I went to their bedside. Henry was lying apart from his brother, looking at him with a tear- ful face, and his little arm laid so as to touch his bosom. Ed- ward was unable to rise. His throat was painful, his pulse high, and his heart sick. Before evening he became slightly '’'delirious, and his illness was evidently a fever of a danger- ous and ■’'malignant kind. He was, as I told you, a bold and gladsome child ; when not at his task, dancing and singing almost every hour; but the fever quickly '’'subdued his spirit; the ■’'shivering fits made him weep and wail ; and ’’'rueful in- deed was the change which a single night and day had brought forth. 3. His brother seemed to be afraid more than children usually are of sickness, which they are always slow to link with the thoughts of death. But he told me, weeping, that his eldest brother had died of a fever, and that his mother was always alarmed about that disease. ^ Did I think,’ asked he, with wild eyes and a ’’'palpitating heart, ^did I think that Edward was going to die? ’ I looked at the affectionate child, and taking him to iny bosom, I felt that his own blood was beating but too quickly, and, that fatal had been that night’s sleeping embrace in his brother’s bosom. The fever had tainted his sweet veins also, and I had soon to lay him shiv- ering on his bed. In another day, he too was delirious, and too plainly chasing his brother into the grave. 4. Never in the purest hours of their healthful happi- ness, had their innocent natures seemed to me more beautiful, than now, in their delirium. As it increased, all '’'vague fears of dying left their souls, and they kept talking as if to each other, of every thing here or in England, that was pleasant and interesting. Now and then, they murmured the names of persons of whom I had not formerly heard them speak; friends who had been kind to them before I had known of their existence, and servants in their mother’s or their fa- ther’s ■’’household. Of their mother they spoke to themselves, 25 294 NEW SIXTH READER. although necessarily kept apart, almost in the very same words, expecting a visit from her at the '^Manse, and then putting out their little hands to embrace her. Ah' their lit- tle, innocent plays were acted over and over again, on the bed of death. They were looking into the nests of the little singing-birds, which they never injured, in the hedge-rows and the woods. And the last intelligible words that I heard Edward utter were these — ^ Let us go, brother, to the church-yard, and lie down on the daisies, among the little, green mounds ! ’ 5. “ They died within an hour of each other. I lifted up Henry, when I saw he too was dead, and laid him down beside his brother. There lay the twins, and had their mother at that hour come into the room, she would have been thankful to see that sight, for she would have thought that her children were in a calm and refreshing sleep!” 6. My eyes were fixed upon the sculptured images of the dead, lying side by side, with their faces turned to heaven; their little hands folded, as in prayer, upon their bosoms, and their eyelids closed. The old man drew a sigh, almost like a sob, and wept. They had been '^'intrusted to his care ; they had come smilingly from another land ; for one summer they were happy, and then disappeared, like fading flowers, from the earth. I wished that the old man would cease his touch- ing narrative, both for his sake and my own. So I rose, and walked up quite close to the monument, inspecting the spirit of its design, and marking the finish of its execution. But he called me to him, and requesting me to resume my seat beside him on the grave-stone, he thus continued : 7. “I had written to their mother in England, that the children were in extreme danger ; but it was not possible that she could arrive in time to see them die; not even to see them buried. Decay was fast preying upon them, and the beauty of death was beginning to disappear ; so we could not wait the arrival of their mother, and iheir grave was made. Even the old, gray-headed sexton wept; for in this case of '^mortality, there was something to break in upon the ordinary "^tenor of his thoughts, and to stir up in his heart, feelings that he could not have known existed there. There was sadness, indeed, over all the parish for the fair English ECLECTIC SERIES. 295 twins, who had come to live in the Manse after all the other boys had left it: and who, as they were the last, so were they the loveliest of all my flock. The very sound, or '•'accent of their southern voices, so pretty and engaging to our ears, in the simplicity of childhood, had won many a heart, and touched, too, the imaginations cf many with a new delight; and, therefore, on the mornm^^ when they were buried, it may he said there was here a fast-day of grief. 8. “ The next day their mother arrived at the Manse. She knew, before she came, that her children were dead and buried. It is true that she wept, and at the sight of the grave, — for Ihey both lay in one coffin, — her grief was pas- sionate and bitter. But that flt soon passed away. Her tears were tears of pity for them, but, as for herself, she hoped that she was soon to see them in heaven. Her face pale, yet flushed ; her eyes hollow, yet bright ; and general languor and '•'lassitude over her whole frame, all told that she was in the first stage of a consumption. Soon, other duties called her back to England, for the short remainder of her life. She herself drew the design of that monument with her own hand, and left it with me when she went away. I soon heard of her death. Her husband lies near Grenada, in Spain; she lies in the '•'chancel of the '•'cathedral of Salisbury, in England; and there, sleep her twins, in the little buriab ground of Auchindown, a Scottish parish.” CXV.— MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. From Cowper. 1. O THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly, since I heard them last. My mother, when I learned that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou '•'conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss. Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss Ah, that '•'maternal smile ! it answers — Yes ! 2. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 296 NEW SIXTH READER. And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown, And, if I meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 3. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my '•'concern, Oft gave*me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished, I long believed ; And disappointed still, was still deceived; By expectation, every day '•'beguiled, '•'Dupe of to-morrow^ even when a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last, submission to my lot; But, though I less '•'deplored thee, ne’er forgot. 4 . My boast is not, that I derive my birth From loins '•'enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud '•'pretensions rise. The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell ! Time, '•'unrevoked, has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 5. By '•'contemplation’s help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again; . To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of '•'violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free. And I can view this '•'mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft: Thyself removed, thy power to '•'soothe me left. BXVI.— AN EVENING ADVENTURE. 1. ]!^ot long since, a gentleman was traveling in one of the fcounties of Virginia, and about the close of the day stopped at a public house to obtain refreshment and spend the night. He had been there but a short time, before an old man alighted from his gig, with the '•'apparent intention of becoming his fel- low guest at the same house. 2. As the old man drove up, he observed that both the ECLECTIC SERIES. 297 shafts of his gig were broken, and that they were held to- gether by withes, formed from the bark of a hickory sap- ling. Our traveler observed further, that he was plainly clad, that his knee buckles were loosened, and that some- thing like negligence '^'pervaded his dress. Conceiving him to be one of the honest '^yeomanry of our land, the '^courte- sies of strangers passed between them, and they entered the tavern. It was about the same time, that an addition of three or four young gentlemen, was made to their number most, if not all of them, of the legal profession. 3. As soon as they became conveniently '^'accommodated, the conversation was turned, by one of the latter, upon the eloquent harangue which had that day been displayed at the bar. It was replied by the other, that he had witnessed, the same day, a degree of eloquence, no doubt equal, but it was from the pulpit. Something like a "^sarcastic "trejoinder was made as to the eloquence of the pulpit, and a warm and able '‘'altercation ensued, in which the merits of the Christian religion became the subject of '^discussion. From six o’clock until eleven, the young champions wielded the sword of ar- gument, adducing with ingenuity and ability every thing that could be said pro and con. 4. During this protracted period, the old gentleman list- ened with the meekness and modesty of a child, as if he were adding new information to the stores of his own mind; or perhaps he was observing with a '^philosophic eye, the '‘'facul- ties of the youthful mind, and how new '‘'energies are '‘'evolved by repeated action ; or perhaps, with patriotic emotion, he was reflecting upon the future destinies of his country, and on the rising generation, upon whom those future destinies must '‘'devolve ; or, most probably, with a sentiment of moral and religious feeling, he was collecting an '‘'argument which no art would be “able to elude, and no force to resist.” Our traveler remained a spectator, and took no part in what was said. 5. At last, one of the young men, remarking that it was impossible to combat with long and established '‘'prejudices, wheeled around, and with some familiarity, exclaimed, “Well, my old gentleman, what think you of these things?” If, said the traveler, a streak of vivid lightning had at that 298 NEW SIXTH READER. moment crossed tlie room, their amazement could not have been greater than it was from what followed. The most elo- quent and unanswerable appeal that he had ever heard or read, was made for nearly an hour, by the old gentleman. So perfect was his recollection, that every argument urged against the Christian religion, was met in the order in which it was ad- vanced. Hume’s '’'sophistry on the subject of miracles, was, if possible, more perfectly answered, than it had already been done by Campbell. And in the whole lecture there was so much simplicity and energy, '’'pathos and sublimity, that not another word was uttered. 6. An attempt to describe it, said the traveler, would be an attempt to paint the sunbeams. It was now a matter of curiosity and inquiry, who the old gentleman was. The traveler concluded that it was the preacher from whom the pulpit eloquence was heard; but no; it was John Marshall, the Chief-Justice of the United States. CXVII.— NEW-YEAR’S NIGHT OF AN UNHAPPY MAN. From the German of Richter. 1. On new-year’s night, an old man stood at his window, and looked, with a glance of fearful despair, up to the im- movable, unfading heaven, and down upon the still, pure, white earth, on which no one was now so joyless and sleep- less as he. His grave stood near him; it was covered only with the snows of age, not with the verdure of youth; and^he brought with him out of a whole, rich life, nothing but errors, sins, and diseases ; a wasted body ; a desolate soul ; a heart, full of poison ; and an old age, full of repentance. 2. The happy days of his early youth passed before him, like a '’'procession of '’'specters, and brought back to him that lovely morning, when his father first placed him on the cross-way of life, where the right hand led by the sunny paths of virtue, into a large and quiet land, full of light and harvests; and the left plunged by the '’'subterranean walks of vice, into a black cave, full of ’’'distilling poison, of hissing snakes, and of dark, sultry vapors. , 3. Alas, the snakes were hanging upon his breast, and ECLECTIC SERIES. 299 ihe drops of poison on his tongue; and he now, at length, felt all the horror of his situation. '♦'Distracted with un- speakable grief, and with face up-turned to heaven, he cried, “ My father ! give me back my youth ! 0, place me once again upon life’s cross-way, that I may choose aright.” But his father and his youth were long since gone. He saw '♦'phantom-lights dancing upon the marshes and disappear- ing at the church-yard ; and he said, “ These are my foolish days! ” He saw a star shoot from heaven, and '♦'glittering in its fall, vanish upon the earth. “ Behold an '♦'emblem of my career,” said his bleeding heart, and the serpent tooth of repentance digged deeper into his wounds. 4. His excited '♦'imagination showed him specters flying upon the roof, and a skull, which had been left in the '♦'char- nel-house, gradually assumed his own features. In the midst of this confusion of objects, the music of the new-year flowed down from the steeple, like distant '♦'church-melodies. His heart began to melt. He looked around the horizon, and over the wide earth, and thought of the friends of his youth, who now, better and happier than he, were the wise of the earth, prosperous men, and the fathers of happy children; and he said, “Like you, I also might slumber, with tearless eyes, through the long nights, had I chosen aright in the outset of my career. Ah, my father 1 had I hearkened to thy instructions, I too might have been happy.” 5. In this feverish remembrance of his youthful days, a skull bearing his features, seemed slowly to rise from the door of the '♦'charnel-house. At length, by that '♦'superstition, which, in the new-year’s night, sees the shadow of the future, it became a living youth. He could look no longer; he covered his eyes; a thousand burning tears streamed down, and , fell upon the snow. In accents scarcely audible, he sighed '♦'disconsolately: “0, days of my youth, return, re- turn ! ” And they did return. It had only been a horrible dream. But, although he was still a youth, his errors had been a reality. And he thanked God, that he, still young, was able to pause in the degrading course of vice, and return to the sunny path which leads to the land of harvests. 6. Return with him, young reader, if thou art walking in the same downward path, lest his dream become thy reality. 300 NEW SIXTH HEADER. For if thou turnest not now, in the spring-time of thy days, vainly, in after years, when the shadows of age are darken- ing around thee, shalt thou call, “Return, 0 beautiful days of youth ! ” Those beautiful days, gone, gone forever, and hidden in the shadows of the misty past, shall close their ears against thy miserable cries, or answer thee in hollow accents, we return no more^ CXVIII.— THE CLOSING YEAR. From Prentice. 1. 'T IS midnight’s holy hour, and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o’er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds, The bell’s deep tones are swelling; ’tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred. As by a mourner’s sigh; and, on yon cloud. That floats so still and placidly through heaven. The spirits of the Seasons seem to stand. Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn’s solemn form, And Winter, with his aged locks, — and breathe In mournful '•'cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp’s wild and touching '•'wail, A melancholy '•'dirge o’er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. 2. ’T is a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a '•'specter dim, Whose tones are like the '•'wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions, that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. The '•'specter lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers, O’er what has passed to nothingness. ECLECTIC SERIES. 301 3. The year Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow, in each heart. In its swift course It waved its scepter o’er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its "^pallid hand Upon the strong man; and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of '•'revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous; and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And "treckless shout "^resounded. It passed o’er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of midday ; and the strength Of ■•'serried hosts is shivered, and the grass. Green from the soil of '•'carnage, waves above The crushed and '•'moldering '•'skeleton. It came, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the '•'viewless air, It '•'heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. 4 . ■’'Remorseless Time! • Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! What power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity! On, still on. He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The '•'condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven’s '•'unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane. And bathe his plumage in the thunder’ s*home. Furls his broad wing at night-fall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag ; but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness ; And Night’s deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinion. 5. '•■Revolutions sweep O’er earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their '•'mysterious caverns ; mountains rear To heaven their bold and blackened clifiTs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain; and empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries > 802 NEW SIXTH READER. And rush down, like the Alpine ^avalanche, Startling the nations; and the very stars, Yon bright and glorious '‘'blazonry of God, Glitter awhile in their eternal depths. And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void ; yet Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors. Upon that fearful ruin he hath wrought CXIX.— THE PASSIONS. From Collins. 1. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet, in early Greece, she sung. The '•'Passions, oft, to hear her shell, '•^Thronged around her magic cell; '•'Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting: By turns they felt the '•'glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, '•'refined; Till once, ’t is said, when all were fired. Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting '•'myrtles round, Thejr snatched her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard apart, Hweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own '•'expressive power. 2 First Fear, his hand, its skill to try. Amid the chords '•'bewildered laid ; 4nd ba^k re3oiled, he knew not why, E’en at the sound himself had made. 3. Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. ECLECTIC SERIES. 303 4. With '•'wo fill measures, wan Despair Low, sullen sounds, his grief ^beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; ’T was sad by fits; by starts ’t was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure. And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain '^'prolong ; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. She called on Echo still, through all her song; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft, "^responsive voice Avas heard at every close: And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 6. And longer had she sung, but, with a frown. Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down; And, with a withering look. The war-denouncing trumpet took. And blew a blast so loud and dread. Were ne’er "‘'prophetic sounds so full of woe, And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though, sometimes, each dreary pause beUveen, Dejected Pity, at his side. Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien; While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head 7. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed. Sad proof of thy distressful state ; Of differing "•'themes the veering song was mixed ; And now it courted Love; noAv, raving, called on Hate. 8 With eyes upraised, as one inspired. Pale Melancholy sat retired; And from her wild '•'sequestered seat. In notes by distance made more sweet. Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around. Bubbling runnels joined the sound : Through '•'glades and glooms the mingled measures stole; 304 NEW SIXTH READER. Or, o’er some '^'hauijted stream, with fond delay. Round a holy calm '•'diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. 9. But, oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. Her how across her shoulder flung, Her '•'buskins '•'gemmed with morning dew. Blew an '•'inspiring air, that '•'dale and thicket rung, The hunter’s call to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen. Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green : Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear. And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear 10. Last, came Joy’s tecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing. First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. Whose sweet '•'entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain. They saw, in Tempe’s vale, her native maids, Amid the '•‘festal-sounding shades. To some unwearied '•'minstrel dancing. While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay '•'fantastic round; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amid his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay. Shook thousand '•'odors from his dewy wings. CXX.— DISCONTENT.— AN ALLEGORY. From Addison. 1. It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the most unhappy, would prefer the share they are already possessed of, before that which would fall to them by such a division. Horace has carried this thought a good deal further, and supposes that ECLECTIC SERIES. 305 the hardships or misfortunes we lie under, are more easy to us, than those of any other person would be, in case we could change '‘'conditions with him. 2. As I was ruminating on these two remarks, and seated in my elbow-chair, I insensibly fell asleep ; when, on a sud- den, me thought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs and '‘'calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a large plain appointed for the purpose. I took my stand in the center of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. 3. There was a certain lady of a thin, airy shape, who was very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose, flowing robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and specters, that discovered themselves in a thousand '‘'chimerical shapes, as her garments hovered in the wind. There was something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after hav- ing very '‘'officiously assisted him in making up his pack, and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their '‘'respective burdens, and to consider that '‘'prodigious bulk of human ca- lamities which lay before me. 4. There were, however, several persons who gave me great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bring- ing in a pack, very carefully concealed under an old '‘'em- broidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, T discovered to be poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw down his baggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very '‘'whimsical burdens, composed of darts and flames ; but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the heap, when they came up to it; but, after a few faint efforts, shook their heads and marched away, as heavy laden as they came. 5. I saw multitudes of old women throw down their 306 NEW SIXTH READER. wrinkles^ and several young ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of the mountain made up of hodily ^deformities. Observing one advancing toward the heap with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a natural hump^ which he disposed of, with great joy of heart, among this collection of human miseries. 6. There were, likewise, "^distempers of all sorts, though I could not but observe, that there were many more imaginary than real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, which was a complication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people. This was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised me was, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap : at which I was very much astonished, having concluded within myself, that every one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his passions^ prejudices., and frailties. 7. I took notice in particular of a very '’'profiigate fellow, who, I did not question, came loaded with his crimes, but upon searching his bundle, I found, that instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance. 8. When the whole race of mankind had thus cast away their burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what had passed, ap- proached toward me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when, of a sudden, she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, than I was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared in its utmost +aggrava- tion. The '^'immoderate breadth of the features made me very much out of humor with my own countenance, upon which, I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very luckily, that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, which, it seems, was too long for him. It was, indeed, extended to a most shamefid length; I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had ECLECTIC SERIES. 307 both of us an opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the contributions being now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange his misfortunes for those of another person. 9. As we stood round the heap, and '^'surveyed the several materials of which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal in this vast multitude who did not discover what he thought 'pleasures and hlessings of life ; and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as hurdens and griev- ances. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamities, Jupiter issued a second proclamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as he should select. Upon this. Fancy began to bestir herself, and parceling out the whole heap with incredible '‘'activity, recommended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be expressed. Some observations, which I made at the time, I shall commu- nicate to the public. 10. A venerable gray-headed man, who had laid down the colic, and who, I found, wanted an heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son, that had been thrown into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the beard, and had liked to have knocked his brains out; so that, the true father coming toward him with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; but they were '‘'inca- pable, either of them, to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley-slave, who had thrown down his chains., took up the gout in their stead, but made such wry" faces, that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. 11. The female world* were very busy among themselves in ^bartering for features; one was '‘'trucking a lock of gray hairs for a '‘'carbuncle ; and another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders; but on all these occasions there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession, much more dis- agreeable than the old one. 12. I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that as 308 NEW SIXTH READER. I looked upon him, I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done. On the other side, 1 myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Beside, as my nose was exceedingly "^prom- inent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it. 13. I saw two other gentlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish swap be- tween a couple of thick bandy legs, and two long trap-sticks that had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up in the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it, while the other made such awkward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon his new support- ers. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of a fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I would lay a bottle of wine, that he did not march up to it on a straight line, in a quarter of an hour. 14. The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled with '^'murmurs and complaints, groans and '’'lamen- tations. Jupiter at length taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own again. They dis- charged themselves with a great deal of pleasure; after which, the phantom, who had led them into such gross delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was* sent in her stead, a god- dess of quite a different figure : her motions were steady and composed, and her '’'aspect serious, but cheerful. She, every now and then, cast her eyes toward heaven, and fixed them on Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, than, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree that it did not appear a third so big as before. She afterward returned every man his own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most "’'commodious manner, ECLECTIC SERIES. 309 he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice, as to the kind of evil which fell to his lot. 15. Beside the several pieces of morality to be drawn from this vision, I learnt from it, never to repine at my own misfort- unes, or to envy the happiness of another; since it is impossi- ble for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbor’s sufferings; for which reason also, I am determined never to think too lightly of another’s complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and compassion. CXXI.— RESOLUTION OF RUTH. ^^And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave ^hee, or to return from follow- ing after thee : for whither thou goest, I will go : and where thou lodgest, I will lodge : thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God : where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried : the Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. 1. Farewell? 0 no ! it may not be; My firm resolve is heard on high : I will not breathe farewell to thee, Save only in my dying sigh. I know not, that I now could bear Forever from thy side to part, And live without a friend to share The treasured sadness of my heart. 2. T did not love, in former years, To leave thee "^solitary; now, When sorrow dims thine eyes with tears. And shades the beauty of thy brow, I’ll share the trial and the pain; And strong the furnace fires must be, To melt away the willing chain That binds a daughter’s heart to thee 3. I will not boast a '^'martyr’s might. To leave my home without a sigh; The dwelling of my past delight. The shelter wdiere 1 hoped to die. in such a duty, such an hour. The weak are strong, the timid, brave, For love puts on an angel’s power. And faith grows mightier than the graie. 26 3J0 NEW SIXTH READER, 4. It was not so, ere he we loved, And vainly strove with heaven to save, Heard the low call of death, and moved With holy calmness to the grave, Just at that brightest hour of youth, When life spread out before us lay. And charmed us with its tones of truth, And colors, '^'radiant as the day. 5. When morning’s tears of joy were shed. Or nature’s evening '•'incense rose, We thought upon the grave with dread, And '•'shuddered at its dark repose. But all is altered now: of death The morning '•'echoes sweetly speak, And like my loved one’s dying breath. The evening '•'breezes fan my cheek. 6. For rays of heaven, '•'serenely bright, Have gilt the caverns of the tomb; And I can '•'ponder with delight, On all its gathering thoughts of gloom. Then, mother, let us haste away To that blessed land to Israel given, Where faith, '•'unsaddened by decay, Dwells nearest to its native heaven. 7. We ’ll stand within the temple’s bound, In courts by kings and '•'prophets trod; We ’ll bless, with tears, the sacred ground, And there be earnest with our God, Where peace and praise forever reign, And glorious '•'anthems duly flow, Till '•'seraphs learn to catch the strain Of heaven’s devotions, here below. But where thou goest, I will go; With thine my earthly lot is cast; In pain and pleasure, joy and woe, Will I attend thee to the last. That hour shall find me by thy side; And where thy grave is, mine shall be D(‘ath can but for a time divide My firm and faithful heart from thee. ECLECTIC SERIES. 311 CXXII.— FAMILY OF MARCO BOZZARIS. From Stevens. Stevens was a celebrated American traveler, who visited the family of Marco Bozzaris, which he describes in this extract. Marco Bozzaris was a leader of the Greeks in their revolution. He was killed in battle at Missolonghi, a Greek town, in 1823. His last words were, “ To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain.” Mustapha Pacha was leader of the Turkish troops. 1. Moving on beyond the range of ruined houses, though still within the line of crumbling walls, we came to a spot, perhaps as interesting as any that Grreece, in her best days, could show. It was the tomb of Marco Bozzaris ! No '‘'mon- umental marble '‘'emblazoned his deeds and fame ; a few round stones, piled over his head, which, but for our guide, we should have passed without noticing, were all that marked his grave. 2. I would not disturb a proper '‘'reverence for the past. Time covers, with its dim and twilight glories, both distant scenes and the men who acted in them ; but to my mind, Miltiades was not more of a hero at Marathon, or Leonidas at Thermopylae, than Marco Bozzaris at Missolonghi. When they went out against the hosts of Persia, Athens and Sparta were great and free, and they had the prospect of glory and the praise of men, — to the Greeks always dearer than life. But when the Suliote chief drew his sword, his country lay bleeding at the feet of a giant, and all Europe condemned the Greek revolution as fool-hardy and desperate. 3. For two months, with but a few hundred men, protected only by a ditch, and a slight '‘'parapet of earth, he defended the town, where his body now rests, against the whole Egyp- tian army. In stormy weather, living upon bad and unwhole- some bread, with no covering but his cloak, he passed his days and nights in constant '‘'vigil ; in every assault his sword cut down the foremost assailant; and his voice, rising above the din of battle, struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. In the struggle which ended with his life, with two thousand men, he proposed to attack the whole army of Mus- tapha Pacha, and called upon all who were willing to die for their country, to stand forward. 312 NEW SIXTH READER. 4. The whole band advanced, to a man. Unwilling to sacrifice so many brave men in a death-struggle, he chose three hundred, the sacred number of the Spartan band, his true and trusty Suliotes. At midnight, he placed himself at their head, directing that not a shot should be fired, till he sounded his bugle ; and his last command was, “ If you lose sight of me, seek me in the '^pacha’s tent.” In the moment of victory, and while ordering the pacha to be seized, he received a ball in the loins ; his voice still rose above the din of battle, cheering his men, until he was struck by another ball in the head, and borne dead from the field of his glory. 5. But the most interesting part of our day at Missolon- ghi was to come. Beturning from a ramble round the walls, we noticed a large, square house, which our guide told us was the residence of Constantine, the brother of Marco Boz- zaris. We were all interested in this intelligence; and our interest was in no small degree increased, when he added, that the widow and two of the children of the Suliote chief were living with his brother. The house was surrounded by a high stone-wall, a large gate stood invitingly open, and we turned toward it in the hope of catching a glimpse of the inhabitants; but before we reached the gate our interest had increased to such a point, that, after consulting with our guide, we requested him to say, that if it would not be con- sidered an '^'intrusion, three travelers, two of them Americans, would feel honored in being permitted to pay their respects to the widow and children of Marco Bozzaris. 6. We were invited in, and shown into a large room on the right, where three Greeks were sitting cross-legged on a '•'divan, smoking the long Turkish pipe. Soon after, the brother entered, a man about fifty, of middling height, spare built, and wearing a Bavarian uniform, as holding a Colonel’s ■•'commission in the service of king Otho. In the dress of the dashing Suliote, he would have better looked the brother of Marco Bozzaris, and I might then more easily have recog- nized the daring warrior, who, on the field of battle, in a moment of extremity, was deemed, by universal '•'acclamation, worthy of succeeding the fallen hero. Now, the straight, military frock-coat, buttoned tight across the breast, the stock, ECLECTIC SERIES. 313 tight pantaloons, boots, and straps, seemed to repress the free ■•'energies of the mountain warrior ; and I could not but think how awkward it must be, for one who had spent his whole life in a dress which hardly touched him, at fifty, to put on a stock, and straps to his boots. Our guide introduced us, with an '•'apology for our intrusion. The colonel received us with great kindness, thanked us for the honor done his brother’s widow, and requested us to be seated, ordering coffee and pipes. 7. And here, on the very first day of our arrival in Greece, and from a source which made us proud, we had the first evi- dence of what afterward met me at every step, the warm feeling existing in Greece toward America; for almost the first thing that the brother of Marco Bozzaris said, was to express his gratitude as a Greek, for the- services rendered his country by our own; and after referring to the provisions sent out for his famishing countrymen, his eye sparkled and his cheek flushed, as he told us, that when the Greek '•'revolutionary flag first sailed into the port of Napoli di Romania, among hundreds of vessels of all nations, an American captain was the first to recognize and salute it. 8. In a few moments, the widow of Marco Bozzaris entered. I have often been disappointed in my '•'preconceived notions of personal appearance, but it was not so with the lady who now stood before me. She looked the widow of a hero ; as one worthy of those Grecian mothers, who gave their hair for bow-strings, and their girdles for sword-belts, and while their heart-strings were cracking, sent their young lovers from their arms, to fight and perish for their country. Perhaps it was she that led Marco Bozzaria into the path of ■•'immortality, that roused him from the wild 'fguerrilla war- fare in which he had passed his early life, and fired him with the high and holy ambition of freeing his country. Of one thing I am certain : no man could look her in the face, with- out finding his wavering purposes fixed, without treading more firmly in the path of high and honorable enterprise. She was under forty, tall and stately in person, and habited in deep black, fit emblem of her widowed condition. We all rose as she entered the room; and, though living ^secluded, and seldom seeing the face of a stranger, she received our 314 NEW SIXTH READER. compliments and returned them with far less '’'embarrassment, than we both felt and exhibited. 9. But our embarrassment — at least, I speak for myself — was induced by an unexpected circumstance. Much as 1 was interested in her appearance, I was not insensible to the fact, that she was accompanied by two young and beautiful girls, who were introduced to us as her daughters. This some- what ■’'bewildered me ; for, while waiting for their appearance, and talking v/ith Constantine Bozzaris, I had, in some way, conceived the idea that the daughters were mere children, and had fully made up my mind to take them both on my knee and kiss them ; but the appearance of the stately mother recalled me to the grave of Bozzaris ; and the daugh- ters would probably have thought that I was taking liberties, upon so short an acquaintance, if I had followed up my be- nevolent purpose in regard to them ; so, with the long pipe in my hand, which at that time, I did not know how to manage well, I can not flatter myself that I exhibited any of the advantages of '’'continental travel. 10. The elder was about sixteen, and even in the opinion of my friend, Dr. W., a cool judge in these matters, a beauti- ful girl, possessing all the elements of Grecian beauty; a dark, clear complexion ; dark hair, set ofi* by a little red cap, embroidered with gold thread, and a long blue tassel hanging down behind ; and large black eyes expressing a melancholy quiet, but which might be excited to shoot forth glances of fire more terrible than her father’s sword. Happily too, for us, she talked French, having learned it from a French mar- quis, who had served in Greece, and been '•'domesticated with them ; but young, and modest, and unused to the company of strangers, she felt the '’'embarrassment common to young- ladies, when attempting to speak a foreign language. And we could not talk to her on common themes. Our lips were sealed, of course, upon the subject which had brought us to her house. We could not sound for her the praises of her gallant father. 11. At parting, however, I told them that the name of Marco Bozzaris was as familiar in America, as that of a hero of our own revolution ; and that it had been hallowed by the '^‘inspiration of an American poet ; and I aaaed, that if it ECLECTIC SERIES. 315 would not be unacceptable, on my return to my native coun - try, I would send the '•'tribute referred to, as an evidence of the feeling existing in America toward the memory of Marco Boz- zaris. My offer was gratefully accepted ; and afterward, while in the act of mounting my horse to leave Missolonghi, our guide, who had remained behind, came to me with a message from the widow and her daughters, reminding me of my promise. 12. I make no apology for introducing to the public, the widow and daughters of Marco Bozzaris. True, I was re- ceived by them in private, without any expectation, either on their part or mine, that all the particulars of the '•'interview would be noted and laid before the eyes of all who choose to read. I hope it will not be considered '•'invading the '*'sanc- tity of private life ; but, at all events, I make no apology ; the widow and children of Marco Bozzaris are the property of the world. CXXIIL— MARCO BOZZARIS. From Halleck. 1. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk lay dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in +suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The '•'trophies of a '•'conqueror; In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch’s '•'signet-ring; Then pressed that monarch’s throne, a king;. As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. As Eden’s garden bird. 2. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There, had the Persian’s thousands stood, There, had the glad earth drunk their blood, In old Plataea’s day: And now, there breathed that haunted air, The sons of sires who conquered there, With arms to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they, 816 NEW SIXTH READER. 3. An hour passed on; the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last: He woke, to Lear his "^sentries shriek, “To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!” He woke, to die mid flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and saber-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings, from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band; ^‘Strike — till the last armed foe expires; Strike — for your altars and your fires; Strike — for the green graves of your sires; God — and your native land ! ” 4. They fought, like brave men, long and well ; They piled the ground with Moslem slain; They conquered, but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few ■’'surviving '’’comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurra. And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close. Calmly, as to a night’s repose. Like flowers at set of sun. 5. Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! Come to the mother, when she feels. For the first time, her first-born’s breath; Come, when the blessed seals Which close the '’'pestilence are broke. And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come, in consumption’s ghastly form. The earthquake’s shock, the ocean storm, Come, when the heart beats high and warm, With "tbanquet-song, and dance, and wine. And thou art terrible; the tear, The groan, the '’'knell, the '’’pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of ■’’agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free. Thy voice sounds like a prophet’s word And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be ECLECTIC SERIES. 317 6. Bozzaris! with the '•'storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory’s time, Rest thee; there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh, For thou art Freedom’s now, and Fames One of the few, the "^immortal names, That were not born to die. CXXIV.— SONG OF THE GREEK BARD. From Byrox. George Gordon Byron, one of the most distinguished of English poets, was born in London, in 1788. His poems are numerous, and display astonishing skill in versification, a wonderful perception of the sublime and beautiful, and an intellectual power, perhaps never surpassed. Un- fortunately, however, his great genius was exerted too much against all that is good, if not in favor of all that is evil. He embarked in the cause of the Greek revolution, and died at Missolonghi, in 1824. A modern Greek is here supposed to compare the present ■’’degeneracy of his country with its ancient glory, and to utter his lamentations in the words of the song. The king referred to in the 4th stanza is Xeroxes, king of Persia. 1. The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece! Where burning '•'Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace. Where '•'Delos rose, and '•'Phoebus sprung! '•'Eternal summer gilds them yet. But all, except their sun, is set. 2. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute 'I'o sounds that echo further west. Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.” 3. The mountains look on '•'Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians’ grave, 1 could not deem myself a slave. 27 318 NEW SIXTH READER. 4. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o’er sea-born '‘'Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations, — all were his ! He counted them at break of day. And when the sun set, where were they ? 5. And where are they ? And where art thoUj My country ? On thy voiceless shore The "^heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy Hyre, so long divine, ■tDegenerate into hands like mine ? 6. Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must loe but blush ? Our fathers hied. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred, grant but three, To make a new '•'Thermopylae ! 7. What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah ! no ! the voices of the dead Sound like a distant '•'torrent’s fall. And answer, ^‘Let one living head, But one arise, — we come, we come!” ’T is but the living who are dumb. 8. In vain — in vain! — strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine 1 Leave battles to the Turkish '•'hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine ! Hark! rising to the '•'ignoble call. How answers each bold '•'Bacchanal ! 9. You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. Where is the Pyrrhic '•'phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave ; Think you he meant them for a slave ? 10. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these I it made '•'Anacreon’s song divine ; He served, but served Polycrates, A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. ECLECTIC SERIES. 319 11. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was Freedom’s best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades ! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another '^'despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. 12. Fill high the boAvl Avith Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade; 1 see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, IMy own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must pillow slaves. 13. Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep. Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die; A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine; Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! CXXV.— ON THE REMOVAL OF THE BRITISH TROOPS. Extract from Lord Chatham’s speech, in favor of .the removal of the British troops from Boston, delivered in the House of Lords, January 20, 1775. 1. My Lords; when I urge this measure of recalling the troops from Boston, I urge it on the pressing principle, that it is necessarily preparatory to the restoration of your peace, and the establishment of your prosperity. It will then appear, that you are disposed to treat '•'amicably and '•'equitably ; and to consider, revise, and repeal those violent acts and declarations which have '•'disseminated confusion throughout your empire. 2. Resistance to your acts was necessary, as it was just; And your vain declarations of the '•'omnipotence of parliament, and your imperious doctrines of the necessity of submission, will be found equally impotent to convince, or to enslave your fellow-subjects in America, who feel, that tyranny, whether exercised by an individual part of the '•'legislature, or by the bodies which compose it, is equally '•'intolerable to British subjects. I therefore urge and conjure your lordships, imme- diately, to adopt this '•'conciliatiog measure. I will pledge 320 NEW SIXTH READER. myself for its immediately producing conciliating effects, by its being thus well-timed; but, if you delay till your vain hope shall be accomplished of triumphantly '♦'dictating terms of '♦'reconciliation, you delay forever. 3. But admitting that this hope (which, in truth, is des- perate,) should be accomplished, what do you gain by the interposition of your victorious '♦'amity? You will be un- trusted and unthanked. Adopt this measure, then, and allay the '♦'ferment prevailing in America, by removing the cause; a cause, '♦'obnoxious and unserviceable ; for the merit of our army can only be in action. Its force would be most '^dispro- portionately exerted against a brave, generous, and united people, with arms in their hands, and courage in their hearts ; three millions of people, the genuine descendants of a valiant and pious ancestry, driven to those deserts by the narrow '♦'maxims of a superstitious tyranny. 4. And is the spirit of persecution never to be appeased? Are the brave sons of those brave forefathers to inherit their sufferings as they have inherited their virtues? Are they to sustain the infliction of the most oppressive and unexampled '♦'severity, and Anally, because it is the wish of the ministry, be condemned unheard? My lords, the Americans have been condemned, unheard. The indiscriminate hand of vengeance has lumped together innocent and guilty; and, with all the formalities of hostility has blocked up the town of Boston, and reduced to beggary and famine, its thirty thousand inhabitants. 5. But, ministers say, that the union in America can not last. Ministers have more eyes than I have, and should have more ears ; but, with all the information I have been able to procure, I can pronounce it a union, solid, permanent, and effectual. It is based upon an unconquerable spirit of inde- pendence, which is not new among them. It is, and has ever been, their established principle, their confirmed '♦'persuasion ; it is their nature and their doctrine. 6. I remember, some years ago, when the repeal of the stamp act was in agitation, conversing, in a friendly confidence, with a person of undoubted respect and '♦'authenticity on that subject; and he assured me, with a certainty which his judg- ment ai»d opportunity gave him, that these were the '♦'prevalent ECLECTIC SERIES. 321 and steady principles of America; that you might destroy their towns, and cut them off from the "^superffuities, perhaps, the conveniences of life; but that they were prepared to de- spise your power, and would not lament their loss, while they have — what, my lords? their woods and their liberty I 7. When your lordships look at the papers '•'transmitted us from America ; when you consider their decency, firmness, and wisdom, you can not but respect their cause, and wish to make it your own. For myself, I must declare and avow, that, in all my reading and observation, and it has been my fiivorite study, — I have read '•'Thucydides, and have studied and admired the master states of the world — that, for solid- ity of reasoning, force of '•'sagacity, and wisdom of conclu- sion, under such a '•'complication of difficult circumstances, no nation or body of men, can stand in preference to the general Congress at Philadelphia. 8. I trust it is obvious to your lordships, that all attempts to impose '•'servitude upon such men; to establish '•'despot- ism over such a mighty '•'continental nation, must be vain ; must be fatal. We shall be forced '•'ultimately to retract; let us retract while we can, not when we must. I say we must necessarily undo these violent, oppressive acts; they must be repealed; you will repeal them; I pledge myself for it, that you will, in the end, repeal them; I stake my reputation on it; I will consent to be taken for an idiot, if they are not finally repealed. Avoid, then, this humiliating, this dis- graceful necessity. With a dignity becoming your exalted situation, make the first advances to concord, to peace, and happiness; for that is your true dignity, to act with prudence and justice. 9. Every motive, therefore, of justice and of '•'policy, of dignity and of prudence, urges you to allay the '•'ferment in America, by a removal of your troops from Boston ; by a repeal of your acts of parliament, and by a '•'demonstration of your amicable disposition toward your colonies. On the other hand, every danger and every hazard '•'impend, to deter you from perseverance in your present ruinous measures. Foreign war is hanging over your heads by a slight and brittle thread, and France and Spain are watching your conduct, and waiting for the maturity of your errors. 322 NEW SIXTH READER 10. To conclude, my lords, if the ministers thus perse- vere in misadvising and misleading the king, I will not say that they can '^alienate the affections of his subjects from his crown ; but I will affirm, that they will make the crown not worth his to earing ! I will not say, that the king is betrayed; but I will pronounce that the Idngdoin is undone! CXXVL— BATTLE OF BEAU AN DUINE. From Walter Scott. Beal* an Duine, an abbreviation for Beallach an Duine, is the name of a pass or +defile between two eminences, where the battle described in this extract is supposed to have taken place. The parties in this bat- tle were the forces of James V. of Scotland, on one side, and those of Roderick Dhu, a rebel subject of the king, on the other. Roderick him- self had been previously taken prisoner, and was now confined. The minstrel who describes the battle is admitted to see his captive master, Roderick, and at his command ^portrays, in this wild burst of poetry, the engagement and utter defeat of the rebel troops. Trosach was the name of the region in which lay the glen of Beal’ an Duine. Moray and Mar were the chiefs at the head of the king’s forces. Clan -Alpine was the name of Roderick’s clan, and the forces of this })arty lay concealed in the glen, intending to surprise their enemies as they approached, but were themselves entirely defeated, as described in t.bis sketch. Tin'chell ; a circle of hunters closing round the game. Erne ; kerchiefs were pulled out ; smelling-bottles were handed round; '•'hysterical sobs and screams were heard, and some were even carried out in fits. 7. At length, the orator concluded. Raising his voice, till the old arches of Irish oak resounded — “ Therefore,’’ said he, “hath it in all confidence been ordered by the Commons of Grreat Britain, that I '•'impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honor he has sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every rank, I im- peach the common enemy and oppressor of all.” CXLVIII.— THE MURDER OF PRINCE ARTHUR. From Shakspeare. King John. Come hither, Hubert. O, my gentle Hubert, We owe thee much! within this wall of fiesh There is a soul counts thee her '•'creditor, And with advantage means to pay thy love: And, my good friend, thy '•'voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, But I will fit it with some better time. In truth, good Hubert, I am almost ashamed To say what great respect I have for thee. Hyhert. I am much bounden to your majesty. K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, But thou shall have ; and, creep time, ne’er so slow. Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say, — but let it go: The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day. Attended with the pleasures of the world. Is all too wanton, and too full of '•'gauds. To give me '’“audience. If the midnight bell Did. with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, ECLECTIC SERIES. 373 Sound on into the drowsy race of night, If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs : Or if that surly spirit, melancholy. Had baked thy blood and made it heavy — thick; (Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes. And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes:) Or if that thou couldst see me w'ithout eyes. Hear me without thine ears, and make reply Without a tongue, using '•'conceit alone. Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words; Then, in "^despite of '•'brooded, watchful day, I would into this bosom pour my thoughts : But, ah, I will not! Yet I love thee well; And, by my '*'troth, I think thou lovest me well. Huh. So well, that what you bid me undertake. Though that my death were '•'adjunct to my act, I’d do it. K. John. Ho I not know thou wouldst ? Good Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy. I ’ll tell thee what, my friend. He is a very serpent in my way ; And, wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread. He lies before me. Dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. Huh. And I’ll keep him so. That he shall not offend your majesty. K. John. Death. Huh. My lord ? K. John. A grave. Huh. He shall not live. K. John. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee; Well, 1 ’ll not say what I intend for thee: Remember. CXLIX.— THE REMORSE OF KING JOHN. From Shakspeare. Huhert. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night' Four fixed; and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wonderous motion. 374 NEW SIXTH READER. King John. Five moons ? Huh. Old men and '•'beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously : Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths; And when they talk of him, they shake their heads. And whisper one another in the ear ; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, While he that hears makes fearful action, With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus. The while his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of many thousand warlike French, That were '•'embattled and ranked in Kent ; Another lean, unwashed '•'artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death. K John. Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death ? Thy hand hath murdered him : I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. Hub. Had none, my lord? Why, did you not provoke me? K John. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humors for a '•'warrant To break within the bloody house of life. And on the winking of authority. To understand a law, to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns More upon humor than advised '•'respect. Huh. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. K. John. 0, when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against us to damnation ! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Makes ill deeds done ! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature marked, ■•'Quoted and signed to do a deed of shame. This murder had not come into my mind: But, taking note of thy '•'abhorrM '•'aspect. Finding thee fit for bloody '•'villainy. Apt, '•'liable to be employed in danger, 1 faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death; ECLECTIC SERIES. 375 And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. Hub. My Lord, — K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause, When I spoke darkly of what I purposed; Or turned an eye of doubt upon my face, And bid me tell my tale in express words, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me*. But thou didst understand me by my signs. And didst in signs again '•'parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent. And, consequently, thy rude hand to act The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more ! My nobles leave me; and my state is braved. Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers; Nay, in the body of this fleshly land. This kingdom, this '•'confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reign Between my conscience and my cousin s death. Huh. Arm you against your other enemies, I T1 make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand. Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never entered yet The dreadful notion of a murderous thought; And you have slandered nature in my form. Which, howsoever rude '•'exteriorly. Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than to be butcher of an innocent child. K. John. Doth Arthur live? haste thee to the peers, Throw this report on their LincensM rage. And make them tame to their obedience ! Forgive the '•'comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind. And foul, '•'imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more '•'hideous than thou art. O, answer not, but to my closet bring The angry lords, with all expedient haste ; I '•'conjure^ thee but slowly; run more fast. 376 NEW SIXTH READER. CL.— THE WILL. Characters . — SwiPES, a brewer; Currie, a saddler; Frank Millington, and Squire Drawl. Swipes. A sober occasion, this, brother Currie. Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end? Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes; and those who live the longest, outlive the most. Swipes. True, true; but since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed? Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me she read every word of the will aloud, and never signed her name better. Swipes. Had you any hint from the Squire, what '^disposi- tion she made of her property ? Cur. Not a whisper; the Squire is as close as an under- ground tomb : but one of the witnesses hinted to me, that she had cut off her "^graceless nephew, Frank, without a shilling. Swipes. Has she, good soul, has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife. Cur. And I in my own right; and this is no doubt the rea- son why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your beer-barrels. But here comes the young '^reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. \_Enter Frank Millington.] Your servant, young gentleman. So your benefactress has left you at last. Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington. Frank. It is so, sir ; but I could bear her loss, better, had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value. Cur. It is too late to repent. Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread. Swipes. Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better peo- ple are obliged, to. You would make a fine brewer’s boy, if you were not too old. Cur. Ay, or a saddler’s '•'lackey, if held with a tight rein. ECLECTIC SERIES. 377 Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly^ as I shall mine mhmissively . I shall retire. \^Going : he meets Squire Drawl.] Squire. Stop, stop, young man. We must have your presence. Good morning, gentlemen; you are early on the ground. Cur. I hope the Squire is well to-day. Squire. Pretty comfortable, for an invalid. Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs again. Squire. No, I believe not. But since the heirs at law are all '^'convened, I shall now proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law. Swipes. [ While the Squire is breaking the seal.^ It is a trying thing, to leave all one’s possessions. Squire, in this manner. Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy, when I look around and see every thing but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say, ^‘all is vanity.” Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. \^He puts on his spectacles^ and begins to read slowly. '^Imprimis; whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and ^bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt-Street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly-Court, saddler.” [TTie Squire takes off his spectacles.^ to wipe them.^ Swipes. Generous creature ! Kind soul ! I always loved her. Cur. She was good, she was kind ; — and, brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I ’ll take the mansion-house. Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie. My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it. Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes. And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did I not lend her a new chaise, every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence — 378 NEW SIXTH READER. Swipes. Am I not named first in her will? and did L not furnish her with my best small beer, for more than six months? and who knows — Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you. \_Going.'\ Squire. \_Piitting on his spectacles very deliberately.^ Pi*3;y, gentlemen, keep your seats, I have not done yet. Let me see; where was I? Ay, “All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes of Malt-Street, brewer,” — Swipes. Yes! Squire. “And Christopher Currie, of Fly-Court, saddler,”. Gur. Yes ! Squire. “ To have and to hold, IN trust, for the sole and '^'exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years, by which time, I hope he will have so far '•'reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fort- une which I hereby '•'bequeath to him.” Swipes. What is all this? You don’t mean that we are humbugged? In trust! How does that appear? Where is it? Squire. There; in two words of as good old English as I ever penned. Cur. Pretty well too, Mr. Squire, if we must be sent for, to be made a laughing stock of. She shall pay for every ride she has had out of my chaise, I promise you. Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here, to be made the sport of a graceless '•'profiigate. But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie; we will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with. Cur. That we will. Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen; for the '•'instrument is dated three years ago ; and the young gentleman must be already of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis? Frank. It is, your worship. Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the break- ing of the seal, according to law, you are released from any further trouble about the business. ECLECTIC SERIES. 379 CLL— THE NATURAL AND MORAL WORLDS. From Grimke. 1. Man, the noblest work of Grod, in this lower world, walks abroad through its '‘'labyrinths of grandeur and beauty, amid countless manifestations of creative power and provi- dential wisdom. He acknowledges, in all that he beholds, the might that called them into being; the skill which per- fected the harmony of the parts, and the benevolence which ■‘'consecrated all to the glory of Grod and the welfare of his fellow-creatures. He stands entranced on the peak of '‘'^tna, or ■‘'Teneriffe, or '‘'Montserrat, and looks down upon the far distant ocean, silent to his ear, and tranquil to his eye, amid the rushing of tempestuous winds, and the fierce confiict of stormy billows. He sits '‘'enraptured on the mountain sum- mit, and beholds, as far as the eye can reach, a forest robe, flowing in all the varieties of graceful '‘'undulations, over declivity after declivity, as though the '‘'fabulous river of the skies were pouring its azure waves over all the landscape. 2. He hangs over the precipice, and gazes with awful de light on the savage glen, rent open as it were, by the earth- quake, and black with lightning-shattered rocks; its only music the echoing thunder, the scream of the lonely eagle, and the ‘'tumultuous waters of the mountain torrent. He reclines, in pensive mood, on the hill-top, and sees around and beneath him, all the '‘'luxuriant beauties of field and meadow, of olive-yard and vineyard, of wandering stream and grove-encircled lake. 3. He descends to the plain, and amid waving harvests, ver- dant ■‘'avenues, and luxuriant orchards, sees between garden and grass plat, the farm-house, embosomed in '‘'copse-wood, or tall ■‘'ancestral trees.” He walks through the valley, fenced in by barrier cliffs, to contemplate, with mild enthusiasm, its scenes of pastoral beauty; the cottage and its blossomed ar- bor, the shepherd and his flock, the clumps of oaks, or the solitary willow. He enters the caverns buried far beneath the surface, and is struck with amazement at the grandeur and magnificence of a '‘'subterranean palace, hewn out as it were, by the power of the '‘'Grenii, and '‘'decorated by the taste of Armida, or of the Queen of the Fairies. 4. Such is the natural world; and such, for the most part. 380 NEAV SIXTH READER. has it ever been since men began to subdue the wilderness, to scatter the ornaments of civilization amid the rural scenery of nature, and to plant the lily on the margin of the deep, the village on the hill-side, and '^'martial '^battlements in the ’^'defiles of the mountains. Such has been the natural world, whether beheld by the eye of savage or barbarian, of the civilized or the refined. Such has it been, for the most part, whether contemplated by the harpers of Glreece, the bards of Northern Europe, or the '^'voluptuous minstrels of the Trou- badour age. Such it was, when its beauties, like scattered stars, beamed on the page of classic "^lore ; and such, when its “sunshine of picture” poured a flood of meridian splendor on modern literature. Such is the natural world to the ancient and the modern, the pagan and the Christian. 5. Admirable as the natural world is for its sublimity and beauty, who would c()mpare it, even for an instant, with the sublimity and beauty of the moral world? Is not the soul, with its glorious destiny, and its capacities for eternal hap- piness, more awful and majestic than the boundless Pacific or the '’'interminable Andes? Is not the mind, with its thoughts that wander through eternity, and its wealth of intellectual power, an object of more intense interest, than forest, or '’’cat- aract, or precipice ? And the heart, so eloquent in the depth, purity, and '’'pathos of its affections, can the richest scenery of hill and dale, can the melody of breeze, and brook, and bird, rival it in loveliness? 6. The same God is the author of the invisible and visible world. The moral grandeur and beauty of the world of man, are 'equally the production of his wisdom and goodness, with the fair, the sublime, the wonderful in the physical creation. What, indeed, are these, but the outward manifestations of his might, skill, and benevolence? What are they but a glo- rious volume, forever speaking to the eye and ear of man, in the language of sight and sound, the praises of its author? And what are those but images, faint and imperfect as they are, of his own '‘'incomprehensible '’'attributes? What are they, the soul, the mind, the heart of an immortal being, but the temple of the Holy Spirit; the dwelling-place of him whom the Heaven of Heavens can not contain, who inhabiteth eternity? How then can we compare, even for a moment, the world of nature with the world of man? ECLECTIC SERIES. 381 CLIL— THE PLEASANT RAIN. From Miller. 1. The pleasant rain ! the pleasant rain ! By fits it plashing falls On '•'twangling leaf and dimpling '•'pool; How sweet its warning calls ! '^i'hey know it, all the blooming vales, High slopes and verdant "^meads ; The queenly elms and princely oaks Bow dovvui their grateful heads. 2. The withering grass, and fading flowers, And drooping shrubs look gay; The bubbling brook, with gladlier song, 'Hies on its endless way ; All things of earth, the grateful things. Put on their robes of cheer; They hear the sound of the warning burst, And know the rain is near. 3. It comes ! it comes ! the pleasant rain ! I drink its cooler breath; It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers, And roses’ ^fragrant death; It hath kissed the tomb of the lily pale, The beds where violets die ; And it bears their life on its living wing, I feel it wandering by. 4. And yet it comes! The lightning’s flash Hath torn the lowering cloud I With a distant roar and a nearer crash, Out bursts the thunder loud. It comes, with the rush of a god’s descent. On the hushed and trembling earth, To visit the ‘''shrines of the hallowed grovew- Where a poet’s soul had birth. 5. With a rush, as of a thousand steeds. Is its swift and glad descent; Beneath the weight of its passing tread. The '*;conscious groves are bent; Its heavy tread, it is lighter now, And yet, it passeth on; And now it is up, with a sudden liftj^ The pleasant rain hath gone^ 32 NEW SIXTH READER. G. The pleasant rain! the pleasant rain! It hath passed above the earth: 1 see the smile of the opening cloud, Like the parted lips of mirth. The golden joy is spreading wide Along the blushing west, And the happy earth gives back her smilee, Like the flow of a grateful breast. 7. As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, That knoweth all its need. So came the good of the pleasant rain, O’er hill and verdant "tmead. It shall breathe this truth on the human ear, In hall and '^'cotter’s home. That to bring the gift of a bounteous heaven, The pleasant rain hath come. CLIII.— THE SNOW-FLAKE. FroiM Miss Gould. Hannah F, Gould was born in Lancaster, Vermont, in 1792. Hei poems are full of beauty and sprightliness, and are always instructive. Iris ; the rainbow. I. “Now if I fall, will it be my lot To be cast in some low and cruel spot. To melt or sink unseen or forgot? And then will my course be ended?” 'Twas thus a feathery Snow-flake said. As down through the '^measureless space it strayed, Or, as half by '^dalliance, half afraid. It seemed in mid air suspended. 2 “O no,”said the Earth, “thou shalt not lie, Neglected and lone, on my lap to die, Thou fine and delicate child of the sky: For thou wilt be safe in my keeping. But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form; Thou ’It not be a part of the wintry storm. But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, And the flowers from my bosom are peeping. 3. “And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be Restored in the lily that decks the ‘'lea, ECLECTIC SERIES. 383 In the ^jessamine bloom, the ^anemone, Or aught of thy spotless whiteness: To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead. With the pearls that night scatters o’er the mead, In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed. Regaining thy dazzling brightness : 4. ‘‘To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, Where Viola’s mild blue eye shall weep. In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath, The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath. To go and be wove in the silvery wreath, ■‘'Encircling the brow of the mountain. 5. “Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, To shine in the Iris, I ’ll let thee arise. And appear in the many and glorious dyes, A pencil of sunbeams is blending. But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, I ’ll give thee a new and '‘'vernal birth. When thou shalt recover thy '‘'primal worthy And never regret descending!” 6. “Then I will drop,” said the trusting Flake; “ But, bear in mind that the choice I make. Is not in the flowers or the dew to wake, Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning: For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me. They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free. To the regions above returning. 7. “And if true to thy word, and just thou art. Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, ■‘'Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart. And return to my native heaven; For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, From time to time in thy sight to glow. So thou may’st remember the Flake of Snow, By the promise that God hath given!” 384 NEW SIXTH READER. CLIV. -THE TEACHER AND SICK SCHOLAR. From Dickens. 1. Shortly after the school-master had arranged the forms and taken his seat behind his desk, a small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door, and stopping there to make a '•'rustic bow, came in and took his seat upon one of the forms. He then put an open book, astonishingly “^dog’s-eared, upon his knees, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, began counting the marbles with which they were tilled ; displaying, in the expression of his face, a re- markable '' capacity of totally '•'abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his eyes were fixed. 2. Soon afterward, another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him, a red-headed lad, and then, one with a flaxen '•'poll, until the forms were occupied by a dozen boys, or thereabouts, with heads of every color but gray, and '•'ranging in their ages from four years old to fourteen years or more ; for the legs of the youngest were a long way from the fioor, when he sat upon the form ; and the eldest was a heavy, good-tempered fellow, about half a head taller than the school-master. 3. At the top of the first form — the post of honor in the school — was the vacant place of the little sick scholar; and, at the head of the row of pegs, on which those who wore hats or caps were wont to hang them, one was empty. No boy at- tempted to violate the '•'sanctity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the empty spaces to the school-master, and whis- pered to his idle neighbor, behind his hand. 4. Then began the hum of '•'conning over lessons and getting them by heart, the whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl of school ; and in the midst of the din, sat the poor school-master, vainly attempting to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little sick friend. But the '•'tedium of his ofiice reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were ■•'rambling from his pupils — it was plain. 5. None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with '•'impunity, waxed louder and more daring; play.. ECLECTIC SERIES. 385 ing ‘‘odd or even” under the master’s eye; eating apples openly and without rebuke; pinching each other in sport or '^'malice, without the least reserve ; and cutting their "^initials in the very legs of his desk. The puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson “off the book,” looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to the mas- ter’s elbow, and boldly cast his eye upon the page; the wag of the little troop squinted and made "^grimaces (at the small- est boy, of course), holding no book before his face, and his approving companions knew no constraint in their delight. If' the master did chance to rouse himself, and seem alive to what was going on, the noise subsided for a moment, and no eye met his, but wore a studious and deeply humble look; but the instant he '^'relapsed again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before. 6. Oh ! how some of those idle fellows longed to be out- side, and how they looked at the open door and window, as if they half '^'meditated rushing violently out, plunging into the woods, and being wild boys and savages from that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool river, and some shady bathing-place, beneath willow trees with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who, with his shirt-collar unbuttoned, and flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning his flushed face with a spelling- book, wishing himself a whale, or a minnow, or a fly, or any thing but a boy at school, on that hot, broiling day. 7. Heat! ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the door, gave him '♦'opportunities of gliding out into the garden, and driving his companions to madness, by dipping his face into the bucket of the well, and then rolling on the grass, — ask him if there was ever such a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into the cups of the flowers, and stopping there, as if they had made up their minds* to retire from business, and be manufacturers of honey no more. The day was made for laziness, and lying on one’s back in green places, and staring at the sky, till its bright- ness forced the gazer to shut his eyes and go to sleep. And was this a time to be '‘'poring over musty books in a dark room, slighted by the very sun itself? Monstrous! 8. The lessons over, writing time began. This was a more 386 NEW SIXTH READER quiet time; for the master would come and look over the writer s shoulder, and mildly tell him to observe how such a letter was turned up, in such a copy on ^he wall, which had been written by their sick companion, and bid him take it as a ■^model. Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had said last night, and how he had longed to be among them once again ; and such was the poor school- master’s gentle and affectionate manner, that the boys seemed quite '♦'remorseful that they had worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, cutting no names, and making no '♦'grimaces for full two minutes afterward. 9. think, boys,” said the school-master, when the clock struck twelve, “ that I shall give you an extra half-holiday this afternoon.” At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy, raised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in token of his wish that they should be silent, they were '♦'considerate enough to leave off, as soon as the longest-winded among them were quite out of breath. “You must promise me, first,” said the school-master, “ that you ’ll not be noisy, or at least, if you are, that you ’ll go away first, out of the village, I mean. I ’m sure you would n’t disturb your old playmate and companion.” ^ 10. There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for they were but boys), in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as any of them, called those about him to witness, that he had only shouted in a whisper. “ Then pray do n’t forget, there ’s my dear scholars,” said the school-master, “what I have asked you, and do it as a favor to me. Be as happy as you can, and do n’t be unmindful that you are blessed with health. Good<> by, all.” 11. “ Thank ’ee, sir,” and “ Good-by, sir,” were said a great many times in a great variety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But there was the sun shining, and there were birds singing, as the sun only shines, and the birds only sing, on holidays and half-holidays ; there were the trees waving to all free boys to climb, and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay, entreating them to ECLECTIC SERIES. 387 come and scatter it to the pure air; the green corn, gently beckoning toward wood and stream; the smooth ground, rendered smoother still by '^'blending lights and shadows, inviting to runs and leaps, and long walks, nobody knows whither. It was more than boy could bear, and with a joy- ous whoop, the whole cluster took to their heels, and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went. “ ’T is natural, thank Heaven!” said the poor school-master, look- ing after them: “I am very glad they didn’t mind me.” 12. Toward night, the school-master walked over to the cottage where his little friend lay sick. Knocking gently at the cottage door, it was opened without loss of time. He entered a room where a group of women were gathered about one who was wringing her hands and crying bitterly. “ O dame!” said the school-master, drawing near her chair, “is it so bad as this?” Without replying, she pointed to another room, which the school-master immediately entered ; and there lay his little friend, half-dressed, stretched upon a bed. 13. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not of earth. The school-master took a seat beside him, and stooping over thg pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying, that he was his dear, kind friend. “1 hope I always was. I meant to be, Grod knows,” said the poor school-master. “You remember my garden, Henry?” whispered the old man, anxious to rouse him, for a dull- ness seemed gathering upon the child, “ and how pleasant it used to be in the evening-time? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, very soon now, won’t you?” 14. The boy smiled faintly — so very, very faintly — and put his hand upon his friend’s gray head. He moved his lips too, but no voice came from them, no, not a sound. In the silence that '^'ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window. “What’s that?” said the sick child, opening his eyes. “The 388 NEW SIXTH READER. boys at play, upon the green.” He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. “Shall I do it?” said the school-master. “Please wave it at the window,” was the faint reply. “ Tie it to the '^'lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they ’ll think of me, and look this way.” 15. He raised his head and glanced from the "^fluttering ■^'signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate, and book, and other boyish property, upon the table in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more ; and again clasped his little arms around the old man’s neck. The two old friends and companions — for such they were, though they were man and child — held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face to the wall and fell asleep. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 16. The poor school-master sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down. CLV.— THE WIDOW AND HER SON. From Edwards. 1. She said she was alone within the world; How could she but be sad ? She whispered something of a lad, With eyes of blue, and light hair sweetly curled; But the grave had the child! And yet his voice she heard, When at the ^lattice, calm and mild, The mother in the twilight saw the vine-leaves stirred “Mother,” it seemed to say, “I love thee; When thou dost by the side of thy lone pillow pray, My spirit whites the words above thee ; Mother, I watch o’er thee ; I love thee! ” 2. Where was the husband of the widowed thing, That Iseraph’s earthly sire? ECLECTIC SERIES. 389 A soldier dares a soldier s fire; The murderous ball brought death upon its wuig; Beneath a foreign sky He fell, in sunny Spain ; The wife, in silence, saw him die. But the fond boy s blue eyes gave drops like sunny t-ain. ‘‘Mother!” the poor lad cried, “He’s dying! We are close by thee, father, at thy bleeding side, Dost thou not hear thy Arthur crying ? Mother! his lips arc closed; he’s dying!” 3. It was a stormy time, where the man fell, And the youth shrunk and '•'pined ; '•'Consumption’s worm his pulse '•'entwined; ^‘'Prepare his shroud!^' rang out the convent bell, Yet through his pain he smiled, To soothe a parent’s grief; Sad soul ! she could not be '•'beguiled ; She saw the bud would leave the guardian leaf! “Mother! ” he faintly said, “ Come near me ; Kiss me, and let me in my father’s grave be laid; I’ve prayed that I might still be near thee; Mother! I’ll come again and cheer thee.” CLVI.— THE LITTLE BROOK AND THE STAR. 1. Once upon a time, in the leafy '•'covert of a wild, woody '•'dingle, there lived (for it was indeed a thing of life,) a cer- tain little Brook, that might have been the happiest creature in the world, if it had but known when it was well off, and been content with the station assigned to it by an unerring Providence. But in that knowledge and that content, con- sists the true secret of happiness; and the silly little Brook never found out the mystery, until it was too late to profit by it. 2. I can not say, positively, from what source the little Brook came; but it appeared to '•'well out from beneath the hollow root of an old thorn; and, collecting together its '•'pel- lucid waters, so as to form a small pool within that knotty ‘•'reservoir, it swelled '•'imperceptibly over its irregular '•'margin, 33 390 NEW SIXTH READER. and slipped away, unheard, — almost unseen, — among mossy stones and entangling branches. No '^emerald was ever so green ; never was velvet so soft, as the beautiful moss which encircled that tiny lake ; and it was gemmed and embroid- ered, too, by all bowers that love the shade; pale primroses and nodding violets; '^anemones, with their fair, downcast heads; and starry clusters of forget-me-nots, looking lovingly, with their pale, tender eyes, into the bosom of their native rill. 3. The hawthorn’s branches were '’'interwoven above, with those of a holly; and a woodbine, climbing up the stem of one tree, flung across to the other its '’'flexible arms, knotting together the mingled foliage, with its rich clusters and elegant '’'festoons, like a fair sister, growing up under the guardianship of two beloved brothers, and, by her endearing witchery, drawing together, in closer union, their already united hearts. Never was little Brook so delightfully situ- ated ; for its existence, though '’'secluded, was neither monot- onous nor solitary. A thousand trifling incidents (trifling, but not uninteresting), were perpetually varying the scene; and innumerable -living creatures, the gentlest and loveliest of the '’'sylvan tribes, familiarly haunted its retreat. 4. Beautiful, there, was every season with its changes ! In the year’s fresh morning, delicious May or ripening June, if a light breeze but stirred in the hawthorn tops, down on the dimpling water came a shower of milky blossoms, loading the air with fragrance as they fell. Then, came the squirrel with his mirthful antics. Then, rustling through fern and brush-wood, stole the timid hare, half startled, as she slaked her thirst at the still fountain, by the liquid reflection of her own large, '’'lustrous eyes. There was no lack of music round about. A song-thrush had his '‘'domicile hard by ; and, even at night, his mellow voice was heard, contending with a night- ingale, in scarce unequal rivalry. And other vocalists, innu- merable, awoke those woodland echoes. Sweetest of all, the low, ’'tremulous call of the ring-dove floated, at intervals, through the shivering '’'foliage, the very soul of sound and tenderness. 5. In winter, the glossy green and '‘'coral clusters of the holly, flung down their rich reflections on the little pool, then ECLECTIC SERIES. 391 visited through the leafless boughs with a gleam of more perfect daylight; and a redbreast, which had built its nest, and reared its young among the twisted roots of that old tree, still hovered about his summer bower, still quenched his thirst at the little Brook, still sought his food on its mossy banks ; and, tuning his small pipe, when every other feath- ered throat, but his own, was mute, took up the eternal hymn of gratitude, which began with the birthday of Nature, and shall only cease with her expiring breath. So, every season brought but changes of j^leasantness to that happy little Brook: and happier still it was, — or might have been, — in one sweet and tender companionship, to which passing time and revolving seasons brought no change. 6. True it was, no '‘'unintercepted sunshine ever glittered- on its shaded waters; but, just above the spot where they were gathered into that fairy fount, a small opening in the '•'overarching foliage admitted, by day, a glimpse of the blue sky ; and, by night, the mild, pale ray of a bright flxed Star, which looked down into the stilly water, with such tender '•'radiance as beams from the eyes we love best, when they rest upon us with an earnest gaze of serious tenderness. Forever, and forever, when night came, the beautiful Star still gazed on its earthborn love, which seemed, if a wandering air but skimmed its surface, to stir, as if with life, in '•'responsive intercourse with its bright visitant. 7. Some malicious whispers went abroad, indeed, that the ■•'enamored gaze of that radiant eye was not always exclusively fixed on the little Brook ; that it had its '•'oblique glances for other favorites. But I take it, those rumors were altogether ■•'libelous, mere rural '•'gossip, scandalous tittle-tattle, got up, between two old, gray, '•'mousing owls, who w^ent prowling about and prying into their neighbors’ concerns, when they ought to have been in their beds, at home. However that may be — though I warrant the kind creatures were too con- scientious to leave the little Brook in ignorance of their candid '•'conjectures — it did not care one fig about the matter, utterly disregarding every syllable they said. This would have been highly creditable to the little Brook, if its light mode of dismissing the subject had not been partly owing to the '•'engrossing influence of certain ’•’new-fangled notions and 392 NEW SIXTH READER. desires, which, in an unhappy hour, had '^insinuated theiii’ selves into its hitherto untroubled bosom. 8. Alas ! that '^elementary ? as well as human natures, should be liable to '‘'moral '^infirmity! But that they are, was strongly exemplified in the instance of our luckless lit- tle Brook. You must know, that, notwithstanding the leafy recess, in which it was so snugly located, was, to all inward appearance, '‘'sequestered as in the heart of a vast forest, in point of fact, it only skirted the edge of an extensive plain, in one part of which lay a large pond, to which herds of kine and oxen came down to drink, morning and evening, and wherein they might be seen standing motionless for hours together, during the sultry summer noon ; when the waveless water, glowing like a fiery mirror under the meridian blaze, reflected, with '‘'magical effect, the huge forms and varied coloring of the '‘'congregated cattle, as well as those of a flock of stately, milk-white geese, accustomed to swim upon its bosom. 9. Now, it so chanced, that from the nook of which we have spoken, encircled as it was by leafy walls, there opened, precisely in the direction of the plain and the pond, a cunning little peep-hole, which must have been '‘'perforated- by the demon of mischief, and which no eye would ever have spied out, save that of a '‘'lynx or an idle person. Alas ! our little Brook was an idle person; she had nothing in the world to do from morning to night, and that is the root of all evil ; so, though she might have found useful occupation, (every body can, if they seek it in right earnest,) she spent her whole time in peering and prying about, till, one unlucky day, what should she hit upon, but that identical peep-hole, through which, as through a '‘'telescope, she discovered with unspeak- able amazement the great pond, all glowing in the noonday sun ; the herds of cattle and the flocks of geese, so brilliantly redoubled on its broad mirror. 10. My stars ! ” ejaculated the little brook, (little thoughfi she at that moment, of the one faithful Star.) “ My stars 1 what can all this be? It looks something like me, only a thousand times as big. What can be shining so upon it? and what can those great creatures be? Not hares, surely, though they have legs and tails; but such tails! And those other ECLECTIC SERIES. 393 white things, that float about, they can not be birds, for they have no legs, and yet they seem to liave feathers and wings. What a life of ignorance have I led, huddled up in this poor, little, dull place, visited only by a few, mean, "^humdrum creatures, and never suspecting that the world contained finer things and grander company.” 11. Till this unfortunate discovery, the little Brook had been well enough satisfied with her condition; contented with the society of the beautiful and gentle creatures which fre- quented her retreat, and with the tender admiration of her own “bright unchanging Star.” But now, there was an end to all content, and no end to 'garrulous discontent and end- less curiosity. The latter, she soon found means to satisfy, for the sky-lark brought her flaming accounts of the sun, at whose court he pretended to be a frequent visitor ; and the water-wagtail was dispatched to ascertain the precise nature of those other mysterious objects, so bewildering to the lim- ited ''faculties of the curious little Brook. 12. Back came the little messenger, mopping * and mow- ing,* and wagging his tail with the most '''fantastic airs of conceited importance. “Well, what is it?” quoth my lady Brook. “Water, upon my veracity,” quoth Master Wagtail, “monstrous piece of water, five hundred thousand million times as big as your ladyship.” “And what makes it so bright and glowing, instead of my dull color?” quoth my lady. “ The sun, that shines full upon it,” rejoins the '''envoy. “ Oh ! that glorious globe, the sky-lark talks of. How de- lightful it must be to enjoy his notice! But what are those fine creatures with legs, and those others with wings and no legs?” “Oh! those are cows, and oxen, and geese; but you can not possibly '''comprehend their natures, never having seen any thing larger than a hare or wood-pigeon.” “ How now. Master Malapert?” quoth my lady, nettled to the quick at his '''impertinence ; — but her curiosity was not half '''sa- tiated : so she was fain to gulp down her oWn insulted dig- nity, and went on questioning and cross-questioning, till she was ready to bubble over with spite and envy at Master Wag- tail’s wonderful relations. Poor thing! she did not know what allowance to make for travelers’ stories. Making wry faces. Sd4 NEW SIXTH READER. CLVI[.— THE BROOK AND STAR— CONCLUDED. 1. Thenceforward, the little Brook ''perfectly ''loathed her own peaceful, ‘'unobtrusive lot. She would have shrunk away, had it been possible, from the poor, innocent creatures, who had so long enlivened her pleasant solitude. And, worst of all, most unpardonable of all, she sickened at the sight of her '‘'benignant Star, which continued to look down upon her as fondly and kindly as ever, still happily unconscious of her heartless '‘'estrangement. Well, she went on fretting and re- pining from day to day, till dame Nature, fairly tired out with her wayward humor, resolved to punish her, as she de- served, by granting her heart’s desire. One summer morn- ing, came two sturdy woodmen, armed with saws, axes, and bill-hook ; to work they went, lopping, hewing, and clearing, and before night-fall, there lay the little Brook, exposed to the broad '‘'canopy of heaven, revealed in all its littleness, and effectually relieved from the '‘'intrusion of those insignifi- cant creatures, which had been scared from their old familiar ■‘'haunt, by that day’s '‘'ruthless execution. 2. Well ! ” quoth the little Brook, “ this is something like life. What a fine world this is. A little chilly, though, and I feel, I don’t know how, quite dazzled and confounded. But to-morrow, when that great red orb comes overhead again, I shall be warm and comfortable enough, no doubt; and then, I dare say, some of those fine, great creatures will come and visit me; and who knows but I may grow as big as that great pond, in time, now that I enjoy the same ad- vantages.” Down went the sun; up rose the moon; out shone innumerable hosts of sparkling orbs, and among them, that “bright particular Star” looked out, '‘'pre-eminent in luster, Doubtless, its pure and '‘'radiant eye dwelt, with tender sor- row, on the altered condition of its beloved little Brook. But that '‘'volatile and inconstant creature, quite intoxicated with her change of fortune, and with the fancied admiration of the twinkling myriads she beheld, danced and dimpled, in the true spirit of '‘'fiirtation, with every glittering spark, till she was quite bewildered among the multitude of her adorers, and welcomed the gray hour of dawn, without having '‘'vouch* ECLECTIC SERIES. 396 safed so much as one glance of '^'recognition at her old, '‘'un- alienated friend. 3. Down went the moon and stars; up rose the sun, and higher and higher he mounted in the cloudless heaven, and keener ‘‘'waxed the impatience of the ambitious little Brook. Never did court beauty so eagerly '‘'anticipate her first pre- sentation to the eye of majesty ! And, at last, arrived the hour of '‘'fruition. Bright overhead '‘'careered the radiant orb ; down darted his fervid, fiery beams '‘ vertically upon the center of the little Brook, penetrating its shallow waters to the very pebbles beneath. At first, it was so awed and agitated, and overpowered by the condescending notice of majesty, fancy- ing, (as small folks are apt to fancy,) that it had attracted peculiar observation, that it was hardly sensible of the un- usual degree of warmth, which began to '‘'pervade its ele- mentary system : but presently, when the '‘'fermentation of its wits had a little subsided, it began to wonder how much hotter it should grow, still assuring itself that the sensation, though very novel, was exceedingly delightful. 4. But at length, such an '‘'accession of fever came on, that the self-delusion was no longer '‘'practicable, and it began to hiss, as if set over a great furnace. Oh, what would the lit- tle Brook have given now for only one bough of the holly or the hawthorn, to '‘'intercept those '‘'intolerable rays ! or for the gentle winnowing of the blackbird’s wing, or even the poor robin’s, to fan its glowing bosom. But those protecting boughs lay scattered around ; those small, shy creatures had sought out a distant refuge, and my lady Brook had nothing left but to endure what she could not alter. “ And, after all,” quoth she, “’tis only for a little while; by and by, when his majesty only looks sidewise at me, I shall be less overcome with his royal favor, and in time, no doubt, be able to sustain his full gaze, without any of these unbecoming ^fiutters, all owing to my rustic education, and the confined life I have hitherto led.” 5. Well, “his majesty” withdrew westward a?i usual, and my lady Brook began to subside into a comfortable degree of temperature, and to gaze about her again, with restored ■‘'complacency. What was her exultation, when she beheld the whole train of geese waddling toward her from the great 396 NEW SIXTH READER pond, taking that way homeward out of sheer curiosity, as 1 suppose. As the goodly company drew nearer and nearer, our Brook admired the stateliness of their carriage, and per- suaded herself, it was eminently graceful, ‘>for undoubtedly, they are persons of distinguished rank,” quoth she, “and how much finer voices they must have, than those little, vulgar fowls, whose twittering used to make me so nervous.” Just then, the whole flock sat up such a gabbling and screeching, as they passed close by, that the little Brook well nigh leaped^ out of her reservoir, with horror and amazement; and to com- plete her "^consternation, one fat, old, dowager goose, strug- gling awkwardly out of the line of march, plumped right down into the middle of the pool, flouncing and flounder- ing about at a terrible rate, filling its whole circumference with her ungainly person, and scrambling out again with an unfeeling '^'precipitation, which cruelly disordered the un- happy victim of her "tbarbarous '^'outrage. 6. Hardly were they out of sight, those awkward and un- mannerly creatures, — hardly had the poor little Brook begun to breathe, after that terrible visitation, when all her powers of self-possession were called for, by the abrupt approach of another and more prodigious personage. A huge ox, goaded by the intolerable stinging of a gadfly, broke away from his fellows of the herd and from his cool station in the great pond, and came galloping down, in his blind agony, lashing the air with his tail, and making the vale echo with his furious bel- lowing. To the woods just beyond the new-cleared spot, he took his Hrantic course, and, the little Brook lying in his way, he splashed into it and out of it without ceremony, or probably so much as heeding the hapless object, subjected to his ruffian treatment. That one splash pretty nearly ■^an- nihilated the miserable little Brook. The huge fore-hoofs forced themselves into its mossy bank ; the hind ones, with a single '^'extricating plunge, pounded bank and Brook together into a muddy hole ; and the tail, with one insolent whisk, spat- tered half the black mass over the surrounding herbage. 7. And now, what was wanting to complete the ruin and degradation of the unhappy little Brook ? A thick, black pud- dle was all that remained of the once pellucid pooL Poor lit- tle Brook ! if it had erred greatly, was it not greatly ECLECTIC SERIES. 397 Night came again; but darkness was on the face of the un- happy Brook, and well for it, that it was total darkness ; for in that state of conscious "^degradation, how could it have sustained the seauehing gaze of its pure, forsaken Star? Long, dark, and companionless was the first night of misery, and when morning dawned, though the "‘'turbid water had regained a degree of "‘'transparency, it had shrunk away to a tenth part of its former “ fair proportions,” so much had it lost by "‘'evap- oration in that fierce solar "‘'alembic ; so much from "‘'absorp- tion in the loosened and choking soil of its once firm and beautiful margin ; and so much by "‘'dispersion, from the wasteful "‘'havoc of its destructive invaders. 8. Again, the great sun looked down upon it; again, the vertical beams drank fiercely of its shrunken water; and when evening came, no more remained of the poor little Brook, than just so many drops as filled the hollow of one of those large pebbles which had paved its unsullied basin, in the day of its brightness and beauty. But never, in the season of its brightest "‘'plenitude, was the water of the little Brook, so clear, so perfectly clear and pure, as that last por- tion, which lay, like a liquid gem, in the small concave of that polished stone. It had been "‘'filtered from every grosser par- ticle, refined by rough discipline, purified by adversity, even from those lees of vanity and light-mindedness, which had "‘'adulterated its sparkling waters in their prosperous state. Just as the last sunbeam was withdrawing its amber light from that small pool, the old, familiar robin hopped on the edge of the hollow pebble, and dipping his beak once and again in the diminished "‘'fount, which had slaked his thirst so often and so long, drooped his "‘'russet wings with a slight quivering motion, and broke forth into a short, sweet gush of parting song, before he winged his way forever from his expiring benefactress. 9. Twilight had melted into night, dark liight, for neither moon nor stars were visible through the dark clouds that "‘'canopied the earth. In darkness and silence lay the little Brook ; forgotten it seemed, even by its benignant Star, as though its last drops were exhaled into nothingness, its lan- guishing existence already struck out of the list of created things. Time had been, when such apparent neglect would 398 NEW SIXTH READER. have excited its highest indignation ; but now^ it submitted humbly and resignedly to the deserved infliction. And, after a little while, looking flxedly upward, it almost fancied that the /orm, if not the radiance of the beloved Star was faintly ‘^'perceptible through the '^'intervening darkness. 10. The little Brook was not deceived ; cloud after cloud rolled away from the central heaven, till at last, the unchang- ing Star was plainly '^'discernible through the fleecy vapor which yet obscured its perfect luster. But, through that silvery veil, the beautiful Star looked intently on its repent- ant love; and there was more of tenderness, of pity, and re- conciliation in that dim, trembling gaze, than if the pure, heavenly dweller had shone out in perfect brightness on the frail, humbled creature below. Just then, a few large drops fell heavily from the disparting cloud ; and one, trembling for a moment with starry light, fell, like a forgiving tear, into the bosom of the little pool. 11. Long, long and undisturbed, (for no other eye looked out from heaven that night,) Was the last mysterious '*'com- munion of the reconciled friends. No doubt, that voiceless ■^intercourse was yet eloquent of hope and futurity ; for though all that remained of the pure little Brook was sure to be ex- hausted by the next day’s fiery trial, it would but change its visible form, to become an imperishable '^'essence : and who can tell whether the elementary nature, so purged from earthly '‘'impurities, may not have been received up into the sphere of its heavenly friend, and '‘'indissolubly united with the '‘'ce- lestial substance. CLVIII.— SONG OF THE SHIRT. From Hood. 1. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, '‘'Plying her needle and thread; Stitch! stitch! stitoh! In poverty, hunger, and dirt. And still with a voice of '‘'dolorous pitch. She sang the “Song of the Shirt! ” ECLECTIC SERIES. 399 2. “ W ork ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work! work! work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It is oh! to be a slave Along with the 'tbarbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work ! 3. “Work! work! work! Till the brain begins to swim; Work! work! work! Till the eyes are heavy and dim! '*'Seam, and '^'gusset, and "tband, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! 4. “O men, with sisters dear ! 0 men, with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you ’re wearing out, But human creatures’ lives ! Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt. Sewing at once, with a double thread, A '^'shroud as well as a shirt. 5. “ But why do I talk of Death ? That 'tPhantom of grisly 'tbone, I hardly fear his terrible shape. It seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; O God ! that bread should be so dear. And flesh and blood so cheap ! “ Work ! work ! work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, and rags. That shattered roof, and this naked floor, A table, a broken chair. And a wall so '•'blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there. 400 NEW SIXTH READER. 7. “ W ork ! work ! work ! From weary '*'chime to chime ! Work ! work! Avork ! As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band. Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed As well as the weary hand. 8. “Work! work! work! In the dull December light, And work ! work ! work ! When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves ^ The brooding swallows cling. As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me Avith the spring. 9. “ Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and '^'primrose sweet 1 With the sky above my head. And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal; 10. .^‘Oh! but for one short hour! A "^respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! ’A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.” 11. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread t Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt. And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich! She sang this “Song of the Shirt” ECLECTIC SERIES. 401 CLIX.— CHATHAM ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 1. I CAN NOT, my lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is a '^perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a time for "^adulation : the smoothness of flattery can not save us, in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the '‘'delusion and darkness which '‘'envelop it; and display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the ruin which is brought to our doors. 2. Can Parliament be so dead to its true dignity and duty, as to give its support to measures thus '‘'obtruded and forced upon them? Measures, my lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt ! “ But yesterday, and Britain might have stood against the world ; now, none so poor to do her '‘'reverence.” The people whom we first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as ene- mies, are '‘'abetted against us, supplied with every military store, have their interest consulted, and their embassadors entertained by our '‘'inveterate enemy ; and ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with dignity or etfect. 3. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems or honors the British troops, than I do. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can '‘'achieve any thing but impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of British America is an impossibility. You can not, my lords, you can not conquer America. What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; but we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing, and suffered much. You may swell every expense, '‘'accumulate every as- sistance, and extend your traffic to the '‘'shambles of every Ger- man despot: your attempts will be forever '‘'impotent ; doubly so, indeed, from this '‘'mercenary aid on which you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your '‘'adver- saries, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the '‘'rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an Eng- lishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms; — never — never — never! 402 NEW SIXTH READER,. 4. But, my lords, who is the man, that, in addition to the disgraces and mischief of the war, has dared to authorize and associate to our arms, the tomo^hawk and scalping -knife of the savage? to call into civilized '’'alliance, the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods? to delegate to the merciless Indian the defense of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren? My lords, these '’'enor- mities cry aloud for redress and punishment. But, my lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on those of mor- ality: “for it is perfectly allowable,” says Lord Suffolk, “to use all the means which Giod and Nature have put into our hands.” I am astonished, L am shocked, to hear such prin- ciples confessed; to hear them avowed in this house, or in this country. 5. My lords, I did not intend to '•'encroach so much on your attention, but I can not repress my indignation : I feel myself '•'impelled to speak. My lords, we are called upon, as members of this house, as men, as Christians^ to protest against such horrible barbarity. “ That God and Nature have put into our hands! ” What ideas of God and Nature that noble lord may entertain, I know not; but I know, that such detestable* principles are equally '•'abhorrent to religion and humanity. What I to attribute the sacred sanction of God and Nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife I to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering^ devouring, DRINKING THE BLOOD 'of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honor. These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most de- cisive '•'indignation. 6. I call upon that right reverend, and this most learned bench, to vindicate the religion of their God, to support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops, to inter- pose their '•'unsullied '•'sanctity; upon the judges, to interpose the purity of their '•'ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honor of your lordships, to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country, to vindicate the national character. I invoke the Genius of the Constity. ECLECTIC SERIES. 403 tion. From the '‘'tapestry that adorns these walls, the immor- tal ancestor of this noble lord frowns with indignation, at the disgrace of his country. In vain did he defend the liberty, and establish the religion of Britain, against the tyranny of Borne, if these worse than popish cruelties, and '‘'inquisitorial practices, are endured among us. To send forth the merciless ■‘'cannibal, thirsting for blood! Against whom? Your prot- estant brethren ! — to lay waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and '‘'extirpate their race and name, by the aid and '‘'instrumentality of these horrible hounds of war. 7. Spain can no longer boast '‘'pre-eminence in barbar- ity. She armed herself with blood-hounds, to '‘'extirpate the wretched natives of Mexico; we, more '‘'ruthless, loose the dogs of war against our countrymen in America, endeared to us by every tie that can '‘'sanctify humanity. I solemnly call upon your lordships, and upon every order of men in the state, to stamp upon this '‘'infamous '•'procedure, the '•'indeli- ble '•'stigma of the public abhorrence. More particularly, I call upon the holy '‘'prelates of our religion, to do away this iniquity; let them perform a '•'lustration, to purify the coun- try from this deep and deadly sin. My lords, I am old and weak, and unable to say more ; but my feelings and indigna- tion were too strong to have said less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor even reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my eternal '•'abhorrence of such enormous and '•'preposterous principles. CLX.— SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS. From Webster. Mr. Webster, in a speech upon the life and character of John Adams, imagines some one opposed to the Declaration of Independ- ence, to have stated his fears and objections before Congress, while deliberating on that subject. He then supposes Mr. Adams to have replied, in the following language. 1. 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 is a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England 404 NEW SIXTH READEJl. has driven us to arms; and blinded to her own interest, 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 liber- ties, or security to his own life and his own honor ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair,* is not he, our venerable ‘^'colleague, near you,f are you not both already the '’'pro- scribed and '’'predestined objects of punishment and of '’'vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal '’'clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of Eng- land remains, but outlaw?,^ 2. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up the war? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know 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 honor to Washington, when, putting 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 extren^ity 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 months ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised for the de- fense of American liberty; may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. 3. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. Nations will then treat with us, which they never can do, while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain ^ John Hancock. t Samuef Adams. ECLECTIC SERIES. 405 that England herself, will sooner treat for peace with us, on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things, which now "’'predestinates 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, do we not 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 the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory. 4. 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 navie-s. 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 re- sistance to British "’'aggression, is deep and settled in their hearts, and can not be "•'eradicated. Sir, the Declaration of Independence will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of priv- ileges, for "’'redress of grievances, for "•'chartered '•'immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious ob- ject of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the spirit of life. 5. Bead this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn, and the solemn vow uttered to main- tain it, or perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious lib- erty will cling around it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it there ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Con- cord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. 6. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to see the time this declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, '•'ignominiously, and on the scaffold. Be it so : 34 406 NEW SIXTH READER. be it so. ,If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, 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. 7. But whatever may be our fate, be assured — be assured mat this declaration wdll stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly '*'com- pensate 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 honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and '*'illu- minations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copi- ous, gushing tears; not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of '^'exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. 8. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judg- ment approves the 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 began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the decla- ration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment; independence and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER. CLXI.— THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS. From Walter Scott. In the poem, from which this extract is taken, Marmion is represented as an embassador, sent by Henry YIII, king of England, to James IV, king of Scotland, who were at war with each other. Having finished his mission to James, Marmion was intrusted to the protection and hospital- ity of Douglas, one of the Scottish nobles. Douglas entertains him, treats him with the respect due to his office and ic the honor of his sovereign, yeth© despises his private character. Marmion perceives this, and takes +umbrage at it, though he attempts to repress his resentment, and desires to part in peace. Under these circumstances, the scene, as described in this sketch, takes place. Tantallon is the name of Douglas’ castle. 1. Not far advanced was mox-ning day. When Marmion did his troop +array, To Surrey’s camp to ride; ECLECTIC SERIES. 407 He had safe ^conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide, 2. The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : “Though something I might plain,” he said, “Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by the king’s "^behest, While in Tantallon’s towers I staid; Part we in friendship from your land. And, noble Earl, receive my hand'' But Douglas round him drew his cloak. Folded his arms, and thus he sp(A:e : “My '^manors, halls, and towers shall still Be open, at my sovereign’s will, To each one whom he ‘'lists, howe’er Unmeet to be the owner’s peer. My castles are my king’s alone. From turret to '^foundation stone ; The hand of Douglas is his own ; And never shall, in frienaly grasp. The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” 3 Burned Marmion’ s "tswarthy cheek like fire. And shook his very frame for "^ire ; And ^^This to mef he said, “An ’twere not for thy hoary beard. Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared To cleave the Douglas’ head ! And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer. He, who does England' s message here, Although the meanest in her state. May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more^ I tell thee here, Even in thy ''‘pitch of pride, Here^ in thy hold^ thy '•'vassals near, I tell thee, thou'rt defied I And if thou said’st, I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here. Lowland or Highland, far or near. Lord Angus, thou — hast — lied I" 4, On the Earl’s cheek, the flush of rage O’er came the ashen hue of age; 408 NEW SIXTH READER. Fierce he broke forth; “And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den^ The Douglas in his halD And hopest thou thence "^unscathed to go? No^ by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up draw-bridge, grooms, — what, warder, hoi Let the ^portcullis fall.” Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, — And dashed the rowels in his steed. Like arrow through the archway sprung; The '•'ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room. The bars, descending, grazed his plume. ♦ 5. The steed along the draw-bridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise : Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake’s level brim; And when lord Marmion reached his band He halts, and turns with clinched hand. And shout of loud '•'defiance pours. And shook his '•'gauntlet at the towers. Horse! horse!'' the Douglas cried, “and chase But soon he reined his fury’s pace : “A royal messenger he came. Though most unworthy of the name. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! Old age ne’er cools the Douglas’ blood; I thought to slay him where he stood. ’Tis pity of him, too.” he cried ; “ Bold he can speak, and fairly ride I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his '•'mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls. CLXII.— THE GRAVE. From Irving. 1. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal ; every other affliction, to forget; but this wound, we consider it a duty to keep open. This affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother, who would willingly ECLECTIC SERIES. 409 forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of '*'agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? 2. No, the love which "^survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden "^anguish and the '^convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may, sometimes, throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet, who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of '^revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. 3. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, cov- ers every, defect, '^extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom, spring none but fond regrets and tender rec- ollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a '^compunctious "^throb, that he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies '^'molder- ing before him? But the grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation ! There it is, that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments ‘‘'lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily ‘‘'intercourse of intimacy j there it is, that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of Ihe parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful '‘'assiduities! the last testimonies of expiring love ! the feeble, fluttering, thrill- ing, — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand! the last fond look of the glazing eye turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence ! the faint, faltering accents, strug- gling in death to give one more assurance of affection !. 4. Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past 410 NEW SIXTH READER. benefit "^unrequited; every past endearment unregarded, of* that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy '•'contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a hus- band, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that, generously confided in thee ; if thou hast given one un- merited pang to that true heart, which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking '•'dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the '•'unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 5. Then weave thy '•'chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet '•'futile '•'tributes of re- gret; but take warning by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth, be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. CLXIII.—THE PEARL-DIVER. From Mrs. Hemans. 1. Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, Thou hast fought with '•'eddying waves ; Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, Thou searcher of ocean’s caves ! 2. Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old, And wrecks where the brave have '•'striven! The deep is a strong and fearful hold, . But thou its bar hast riven! « 3. A wild and weary life is thine, A wasting task and lone ; 'J'hough ■•'treasure grots for thee may shine, To all besides unknown! ECLECTIC SERIES. 411 4. A weary life ! but a swift decay Soon, soon shall set thee free! Thou’rt passing fast from thy toils away, Thou "^wrestler with the sea! 6. In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, Well are the death-signs read ; Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek, Ere hope and power be fled. 6. And bright in beauty’s '’'coronal That glistening gem shall be; A star to all the '’'festive hall — But who shall think on thee‘^ 7. None! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one, ’mid throngs, will say, ^‘A life hath been, like a rain-drop, shed For that pale, and quivering ray.” 8. Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought! And are not those like thee. Who win for earth the gems of thought ? O wrestler with the sea I 9. Down to the gulfs of the soul they go. Where the passion-fountains burn. Gathering the jewels far below. From many a buried urn : 10. Wringing from '’'lava-veins the fire That o’er bright words is poured; Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre A spirit in each chord 11. But O, the price of bitter tears, Paid for the lonely power, That throws at last, o’er desert years, A darkly glorious dower! 12. Like flower-seeds by the wild wind spread, So '‘'radiant thoughts are strewed; The soul whence those high gifts are shed. May faint in ’'solitude ! 13. And who will think, when the strain is sung, Till a thousand hearts are stirred, What life-drops from the '’'minstrel wrung. Have gushed with every word? 412 NEW SIXTH READER. 14. None, none! — his treasures live like thine, He strives and dies like thee; Thou that hast been to the pearl’s dark shrine, O wrestler with the seal CLXIV.— ANECDOTE OF THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE. A LAUGHABLE story was circulated during the administration of the old Duke of Newcastle, and “tretailed to the public in various forms. This nobleman, with many good points, was remarkable for being tpro- fuse of his promises on all occasions, and valued himself particularly, on being able to ‘’'anticipate the words or the wants of the various persons who attended his levees, before they uttered a word. This sometimes led him into ridiculous ‘’‘embarrassments; and it was this proneness to lavish promises, which gave occasion for the following anecdote. 1. At the election of a certain '^borough in Cornwall, where the opposite interests were almost equally '^'poised, a single vote "was of the highest importance. This object, the Duke by well applied argument and personal application, at length attained; and the gentleman he recommended, gained the election. In the warmth of gratitude, his grace poured forth acknowledgments and promises without ceasing, on the fortunate pussessor of the casting vote; called him his best and dearest friend ; protested, that he should consider him- self as forever indebted to him; that he would ^serve him by night or by day. 2. The Cornish voter, who was an honest fellow, and would not have thought himself entitled to any reward^ but for such a '‘'torrent of acknowledgments, thanked the Duke for his kind- ness, and told him, The '‘'supervisor of ‘'excise was old and infirm, and if he would have the goodness to recommend his son-in-law to the commissioners, in case of the old man’^ death, he should think himself and his family bound to ren < der his grace every assistance in his power, on any future oc- casion.” My dear friend, why do you ask for such a trifling employment?” exclaimed his grace ; your relative shall have it, the moment the place is vacant, if you will but call my attention to it.” “But how shall I get. admitted to you, my lord? for in London, I understand, it is a very difficult busi- ness to get a sight of you great folks, though you so kind ECLECTIC SERIES. 413 and '‘'complaisant to us in the country.” “The instant the man dies,” replied the Duke, “set out post-haste for Lon- don ; drive directly to my house, and he it by night or by day, thunder at the door ; I will leave word with my porter, to show you up stairs directly; and the employment shall be disposed of according to your wishes.” 3. The parties separated ; the Duke drove to a friend’s house in the neighborhood, without a wish or desire to see his new acquaintance till that day seven years ; but the memory of a Cornish elector, not being burdened with such a variety of objects, was more '‘'retentive. The supervisor died a few months after, and the Duke’s humble friend, relying on the word of a peer, was conveyed to London post-haste, and ascended with alacrity the steps of that nobleman’s palace. 4. The reader should be informed, that just at this time, no less a person than the king of Spain was expected hourly to depart ; an event in which the minister of Great Britain was particularly concerned ; and the Duke of Newcastle, on the very night that the proprietor of the decisive vote arrived at his door, had sat up anxiously expecting '‘'dispatches from Madrid. Wearied by official business and agitated spirits, he retired to rest, having previously given particular instructions to his porter not to go to bed, as he expected, every minute, a messenger with advices of the greatest importance, and desired he might be shown up stairs, the moment of his arrival. 5. His grace was sound asleep ; and the '‘'porter, settled for the night, in his arm-chair, had already commenced a ■‘'sonorous nap, when the vigorous arm of the Cornish voter roused him from his slumbers. To his first question, “ Is the Duke at home?” the porter replied, “Yes, and in bed; but has left particular orders, that come when you will, you are to go up to him directly.” “Bless him, for a worthy and honest gentleman,” cried our applicant for the vax^ant post, smiling and nodding with '‘'approbation, at the prime minister’s kindness, “how punctual his grace is; I knew he would not deceive me; let me hear no more of lords and dukes not keeping their words ; I verily believe they are as honest, and mean as well as any other folks.” Having ascended the stairs as he was speaking, he was ushered into the Duke’s bed-chamber. 35 414 NEW SIXTH READER. 6. “Is he dead?” exclaimed his grace, rubbing his eye^, and scarcely awakened from dreaming of the king of Spain, “Is he dead?” “ Yes, my lord,” replied the eager expectant, delighted to find the election promise, with ail its circum- stances, so fresh in the nobleman’s memory. “ When did he die?” “The day before yesterday, exactly at half past one o’clock, after being confined three weeks to his bed, and tak- ing a power of doctor s stuff; and I hope your grace will be as good as your word, and let my son-in-law succeed him.” 7. The Duke, by this time perfeetly awake, was staggered at the impossibility of receiving intelligence from Madrid in so short a space of time ; and perplexed at the ’'absurdity of a king’s messenger applying for his son-in-law to succeed the king of Spain: “Is the man drunk, or mad? Where are your '♦'dispatches! ” exclaimed his grace, hastily drawing back his curtain; where, instead of a royal courier, his eager eye recognized at the bedside, the well-known countenance of his friend from Cornwall, making low bow^s, with hat in hand, and “hoping my lord would not forget the gracious promise he was so good as to make, in favor of his son-in-law, at the last election.” 8. Vexed at so untimely a disturbance, and disappointed of news from Spain, the Duke frowned for a moment; but '♦'chagrin soon gave way to mirth, at so singular and ridicu- lous a '♦'combination of circumstances, and yielding to the impulse, he sunk upon the bed in a violent fit of laughter, which was communicated in a moment to the attendants. 9. The relater of this little narrative, concludes, with ob- serving, “ Although the Duke of Newcastle could not place the relative of his old acquaintance on the throne of His Catholic Majesty, he advanced him to a post not less honor- ahle ^ — he made him an '•'exciseman.” CLXV.— LOCHINVAR. From Scott. 1. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone ! ECLECTIC SERIES. 415 So faithful in love, and so '’’dauntless in war, There never was knight like young Lochinvar ! 2. He staid not for '' brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where '’’ford there was none ; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late*. For a '’’laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar ’ 3. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among brides-men, and kinsmen, and brothers^ and all ! Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword-- For the poor ’’’craven bridegroom said never a word — - ^‘0 come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. Or to dance at our ’’’bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?’“ 4. long ’’’wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but '’’ebbs like its tide! And now, am I come, with this lost love of mine. To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far. That would gladly be bride to young Lochinvar.” 5. The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up^ He quaffed off the w'ne, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could '’’bar, “Now tread we a measure! ” said young Lochinvar. 6. So stately his form, and so lovely her face. That never a hall such a ’’’galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plnme; And the bride-maidens whispered, “’T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.” T. One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached the hall door, and the '’’charger stood nea»; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and ’’’scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar, 8. There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby ’’’clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; 416 NEW SIXTH READER. There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? CLXVI.—SPEECH ON THE TRIAL OF A MURDERER. From Webster. 1. Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I can not have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indif- ferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the '^'opprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious con- cern, that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in execut- ing this deed of midnight '‘'assassination, may be brought to answer for their '‘'enormous crime at the bar of public justice. 2. This is a most '‘'extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a '‘'precedent anywhere ; certainly none in our New England history. This bloody '‘'drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The actors in it were not sur- prised by any lion-like temptation upon their virtue, over- coming it before resistance could begin. Nor did they do the deed to '’'glut savage vengeance, or '‘'satiate long-settled and deadly hate. It was a cool, calculating, money-making murder. It was all “hire and salary, and not revenge.” It was the weighing of money against life • the counting out of so many pieces of silver against so many ounces of blood. ■ 3. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of butch- erly murder for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the por- trait of murder, if he will show it, as it has been exhibited in an example, where such example was least to have been looked for, in the very bosom of our New England society, let him not give it the '‘'grim '‘'visage of '‘'Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face black with settled hate, and the blood-shot eye '‘'emitting '‘'livid fires of malice ; let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless '‘'demon ; a picture in repose, rather than in action ; not so much an example of ECLECTIC SERIES. 417 iiuman nature in its depravity and in its '♦'paroxysm of crime, as an '♦'infernal nature, a fiend in the ordinary display and ♦'development of his character. 4. The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the ^destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet ; the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace. The '♦'assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half-lighted by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges ; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given ! and the victim passes without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death ! 5. It is the assassin’s purpose to make sure work ; and he yet '♦'plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the '♦'bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart; and replaces it again over the wounas of the '♦'poniard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist Tor the pulse ! He feels it, and ascertains that it beats no longer ! It is accom- plished. The deed is done. He retreats^ retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe I 6. Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds every thing as m the splendor of noon ; such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that “ murder 418 NEW SIXTH READER. will out.” True it is, that Providence hath so '’’ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of Heaven, by shedding men’s blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand ex- cited minds '’ intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle, at the slightest circumstance, into a blaze of discovery. 7. Meantime, the guilty soul can not keep its own secret. It is false to itself or rather it feels an '’’irresistible '’’impulse to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it does not acknowled^g^e to Grod nor man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy nor assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses, soon comes to possess him ; and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding '’’disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discre- tion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to '’’embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It be confessed, it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is confession. CLXVIL— FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. From Shakspeare. Wolsey. Farewell ! long farewell, to all my greatness This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; ECLECTIC SERIES. 419 The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good, easy man, full surely Hio greatness is a ripening, '*'nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. Like little, Avanton hoys that swim on bladders. These many summers in a sea of glory. But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. V^ain +pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new opened. 0, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ ^favors ! There are betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That "taspect sweet of princes, and their ruin. More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like ^Lucifer, Never to hope again. Enter Cromwell amazedly. Why, how now, Cromwell ! Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. Wol What, "tamazed At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder, A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep, I am fallen indeed. Crom. How does your grace ? Wbl Why, well ; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly '^'dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy, — too much honor : O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden. Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven! Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, Out of a ^fortitude of soul I feel. To endure more miseries, and greater far. Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad ? Grom. The heaviest, and the worst. Is your displeasure* with the king. Here used for 429 NEW SIXTH HEADER. Wol. God bless him ! Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosea Lord Chancellor in your place. Wol. That’s somewhat sudden: But he ’s a learned man. May he continue Long in his highness’ favor, and do justice For truth’s sake, and his conscience; that his bones, When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em! What more ? Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome, installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That’s news indeed! Orom. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, This day was viewed in public as his queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her '•'coronation . Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down . O Cromwell, The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories In that one woman I have lost forever: No sun shall ever '•'usher forth mine honors, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the king; That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him What and how true thou art; he will advance thee; Some little memory of me will stir him — I know his noble nature — not to let Thy hopeful service perish, too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety. Crom. 0 my lord. Must I, then, leave you ? Must I needs forego So good, so noble, and so true a master ? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The king shall have my service, but my prayers Forever and forever shall be yours. Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me. Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be. ECLECTIC SERIES. 421 And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory. And sounded all the depths and ^shoals of honor, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it, Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee', ■tCorruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right-hand carry gentle peace. To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not; Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s. Thy God’s, and truth’s; then, if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; And, — prithee, lead me in . There, take an ^inventory of all I have. To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe. And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call my own. 0 Cromwell, Cromwell I Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my King, He wouldnot, in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Crom. Good sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. CLXVIII.--^OBSERVANCE OP THE SABBATH. From Hr. Spring. 1. The Sabbath lies at the foundation of all true morality ’^Morality flows from principle. Let the principles of moral ■^obligation become "^relaxed, and the practice of morality will not long survive the overthrow. No man can preserve his own morals, no parent can preserve the morals of his children, with- out the impressions of religious obligation. 2. If you can induce a '‘'community to doubt the genuine- ness and '•'authenticity of the Scriptures ; to question the re- ality and obligations of religion ; to hesitate, undeciding, 422 NEW SIXTH READER. whether there be any such thing as virtue or vice; whether there be an eternal state of retribution beyond the grave; or whether there exists any such being as Grod, you have broken down the '^'barriers of moral virtue, and hoisted the flood- gates of immorality and crime. I need not say, that when a people have once done this, they can no longer exist as a tranquil and happy people. Every bond that holds society together would be ruptured ; fraud and treachery would take the place of confidence between man and man ; the "^tribunals of justice would be scenes of bribery and injustice; avarice, '•'perjury, ambition, and revenge would walk through the land, and render it more like the dwelling of savage beasts, than the tranquil abode of civilized and christianized men. 3. If there is an institution which opposes itself to this progress of human '•'degeneracy, and throws a shield before the interests of moral virtue in our thoughtless and wayward world, it is the Sabbath. In the fearful struggle between vir- tue and vice, notwithstanding the powerful auxiliaries which wickedness finds in the bosoms of men, and in the '•'seduc- tions and influence of popular example, wherever the Sab- bath has been suffered to live, the trembling interests of moral virtue have always been revered and sustained. One of the principal occupations of this day, is to illustrate and enforce the* great principles of sound morality. Where this sacred trust is preserved '•'inviolate, you behold a nation '•'con- vened one day in seven, for the purpose of acquainting them- selves with the best moral principles and precepts ; and it can not be otherwise, than that the authority of moral virtue, under such auspices, should be acknowledged and felt. 4. We may not, at once, perceive the effects which this weekly observance produces. Like most moral causes, it op- erates slowly; but it operates surely, and gradually weakens the power, and breaks the yoke of profligacy and sin. No villain regards the Sabbath. No vicious family regards the Sabbath. No immoral community regards the Sabbath. The holy rest of this ever-memorable day, is a barrier which is always broken down, before men become giants in sin. Black- stone, in his Commentaries on the Laws of England, remarks, that “ a corruption of morals usually follows a profanation of the Sabbath.” It is an observation of Lord Chief Justice ECLECTIC SERIES. 423 Hale, that of all the persons who were convicted of cap- ital crimes, while he was on the bench, he found a few only, who would not confess that they began their "^career of wick- edness by a neglect of the duties of the Sabbath, and vicious conduct on that day.” 5. The prisons in our own land could probably tell us, that they have scarcely a solitary tenant, who had not broken over the restraints of the Sabbath, before he was abandoned to crime. You may '^'enact laws for the suppression of immor- ality; but the secret and silent power of the Sabbath consti- tutes a stronger shield to the vital interest of the community, than any code of '*'penal statutes that ever was enacted. The Sabbath is the key-stone of the arch which sustains the tem- ple of virtue, which, however "^defaced, will survive many a rude shock, so long as the foundation remains firm. 6. The observance of the Sabbath is, also, most influential in securing national prosperity. The Grod of Heaven has said, “Them that honor me, will I honor.” You will not often find a notorious Sabbath-breaker a permanently pros- perous man ; and a Sabbath-breaking community is never a happy or prosperous community. There are a multitude of unobserved iofluences, which the Sabbath e;xerts upon the temporal welfare of men. It promotes the spirit of good order and harmony; it elevates the poor from want; it '^'transforms squalid wretchedness; it imparts self-respect and elevation of character; it promotes softness and civility of manners; it brings together the rich and the poor, upon one common level, in the house of prayer; it purifies and strengthens the social affections, and makes the family circle the center of '^'allurement, and the source of instruction, com- fort, and happiness. Like its own divine religion, “ it has the promise of the life that now is, and that which is to come,” for men can not put themselves beyond the reach of hope and heaven, so long as they treasure up this one command, “Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy.” 424 NEW SIXTH READER. CLXIX.— GOD’S GOODNESS TO SUCH AS FEAR HIM. 1. Fret not thyself because of evil-doers, Neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity ; For they shall be cut down like the grass, And wither as thd green herb. Trust in the Lord and do good ; So shalt thou dwell in the land, and "^verily thou shalt be fed. Delight thyself, also, in the Lord, And He shall give thee the desires of thy heart. Commit thy way unto the Lord ; Trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass. And He snail bring forth thy righteousness as the light, And thy judgment as the noonday. Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him. 2. Fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, Because of the man who bringeth wicked "^devices to pass. Cease from anger and forsake wrath; Fret not thyself, in any wise, to do evil. For evil-doers shall be cut off ; But those that wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth. ' For yet a little while, and the wdcked shall not be; Yea, thou shalt diligently consider his place, and it shall not be. But the meek shall inherit the earth, And shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. 3. A little, that a righteous man hath. Is better than the riches of many wicked ; For the arms of the wicked shall be broken, But the Lord upholdeth the righteous. The Lord knoweth the days of the upright. And their inheritance shall be forever; They shall not be ashamed in the evil time; And in the days of famine they shall be satisfied. 4. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, And he delighteth in his way ; Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down. For the Lord upholdeth him with his hand. -But the wicked shall perish, And the enemies of the Lord shall be as the fat of lambs, They shall consume; into smoke shall they consume away. The wicked borroweth and payeth not again ; But the righteous sheweth mercy and giveth. For such as are blessed of him shall inherit the earth. ECLECTIC SERIES. 425 5. I have been young, and now am old, Yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, Nor his seed begging bread. He is ever merciful and lendeth. And his seed is blessed. 6. Depart from evil and do good, And dwell for evermore; For the Lord loveth judgment. And fo^saketh not his saints : They are preserved forever : But the seed of the wicked shall be cut off. The righteous shall inherit the land, And dwell therein forever. The mouth of the righteous speaketh wisdom, And his tongue talketh of judgment; The law of his God is in his heart; None of his steps shall slide. The wicked watcheth the righteous. And seeketh to slay him. The Lord will not leave him in his hand, Nor condemn him Avhen he is judged. %. Wait on the Lord and keep his way, And He shall exalt thee to inherit the land ; When the wicked are cut off, thou shalt see it. I have seen the wicked in great power. And spreading himself like a green "^bay-tree; Yet he passed a^vay, and lo, he was not; Yea, I sought him, but he could not be found. CLXX.— CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS. From Irving. 1. Columbus was a man of great and '^'inventive genius. The operations of his mind were "^energetic, but irregular', bursting forth, at times, with that irresistible force which characterizes intellect of such an order. His ambition was lofty and noble, inspiring him with high thoughts, and an anxiety to distinguish himself by great '^'achievements. He aimed at dignity and wealth in the same elevated spirit with which he sought renown; they were to rise from the terri- tories he should discover, and be commensurate in importance. 426 NEW SIXTH READER. 2. H is conduct was characterized by the grandeur of his views, and the '^magnanimity of his spirit. Instead of ravag- ing the newly found countries, like many of his cotemporary discoverers, who were intent only on immediate gain, he regarded them with the eyes of a legislator ; he sought to colonize and cultivate them, to civilize the natives, to build cities, introduce the useful arts, subject every thing to the control of law, order, and religion, and thus to found regular *and prosperous empires. That he failed in this, was the fault of the dissolute '^'rabble which it was his misfortune to com- mand, with whom all law was tyranny, and all order op- pression. 3. He was naturally '^'irascible and ^impetuous, and keenly sensible to injury and injustice; yet the quickness of his temper was counteracted by the generosity and benevolence of his heart. The magnanimity of his nature shone forth through all the troubles of his stormy career. Though con- tinually outraged in his dignity, braved in his authority, folied in his plans, and endangered in his person, by the ■^‘seditions of turbulent and worthless men, and that, too, at times when suffering under anguish of body and anxiety of mind, enough to '^exasperate the most patient, yet he re- strained his valiant and indignant spirit, and brought him- self to forbear, and reason, and even to supplicate. Nor can the reader of the story of his eventful life, fail to notice how free he was from all feeling of revenge, how ready to forgive and forget, on the least sign of repentance and atonement. He has been exalted for his skill in '^controlling others, but far greater praise is due to him for the firmness he displayed in governing himself. 4. His piety was genuine and fervent. Religion mingled with the whole course of his thoughts and actions, and shone forth in his most private and unstudied writings. Whenever he made any great discovery, he devoutly returned thanks to God. The voice of prayer and the melody of praise, rose from his ships on discovering the new world, and his first action on landing was, to prostrate himself upon the earth, and offer up thanksgiving. All his great enterprises were undertaken in the name of the Holy Trinity, and he partook of the holy sacrament previous to '•'embarkation. He observed the festi^ ECLECTIC SERIES. 427 vals of the Church in the wildest situations. The Sabbath was to him a day of sacred rest, on which he would never sail from a port, unless in case of extreme necessity. The religion thus deeply seated in his soul, '‘'diffused a sober dignity and a benign composure, over his whole '‘'deportment; his very language was pure and guarded, and free from all gross or irreverent expressions. 5. A peculiar trait in his rich and varied character remains to be noticed; namely, that ardent and enthusiastic imagina- tion, which threw a magnificence over his whole course of thought. A poetical '‘'temperament is discernible throughout all his writings, and in all his actions. We see it in all his descriptions of the beauties of the wild land he was discover- ing, in the enthusiasm with which he extolled the '‘'blandness of the temperature, the purity of the atmosphere, the fra- grance of the air, “full of dew and sweetness,” the verdure of the forests, the grandeur of the mountains, and the crys- tal purity of the running streams. It spread a glorious and golden world around him, and tinged every thing with its own ■‘'gorgeous colors. 6. With all the visionary ‘fervor of his imagination, its fondest dreams fell short of the reality. He died in ignorance of the real grandeur of his discovery. Until his last breath, he entertained the idea that he had merely opened a new way to the old resorts of '‘'opulent commerce, and had discovered some of the wild regions of the East. What visions of glory would have broken upon his mind, could he have known that he had indeed discovered a new continent, equal to the old world in magnitude, and separated by two vast oceans, from all the earth hitherto known by civilized man ! How would his magnanimous spirit have been consoled amid the afflictions of age and the cares of '‘ penury, the neglect of a fickle public and the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have antici- pated the splendid empires which would arise in the beautiful world he had discovered ; and the nations, and tongues, and languages, which were to fill its land with his renown, and to revere and bless his name to the latest posterity. 428 NEW SIXTH READER. CLXXI.— SURRENDER OF GRENADA. From Bulwer. 1. Day dawned upon Grrenada, and the beams of the win- ter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played *^cheerily upon the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro. Alone, upon a "^balcony, commanding a view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boabdil, the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had so ardently cultivated. 2. “What are we,” said the musing prince, “that we should fill the earth with ourselves — we kings? Earth re- sounds with the crash of my falling throne; on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But what have I lost? Nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my re pose: nothing save the source of all my wretchedness, the Marah of my life! Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth, or thought and action, or man’s more material luxuries of food and sleep — the common and cheap desires of all? At the worst, I sink but to a level with chiefs and princes : I am but leveled with those whom the multitude admire and envy. . . . But it is time to depart.” So saying, he descended to the court, flung himself on his barb, and, with a small and sad- dened train, passed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy; thence, amid gardens, now appertaining to the convent of the '♦'victor faith, he took his mournful and un- noticed way. 3. When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him, as the '♦'detachment sent to occupy the palace, marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence. At the head of the '♦'van-guard, rode, upon a snow-white ■♦'palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addressed an '♦'infidel and inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not the pride of the '♦'ecclesiastic. “Go, Christian,” said he mildly, “^he gates of the Alhambra ECLECTIC SERIES. 429 are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king; may his virtues atone the faults of Boab- dil ! ” So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on, with- out looking to the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their way. 4. The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole ^armament ©f Spain ; and, at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms, was heard distinctly, the solemn chant of Te Deum^ which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent, heard the groans and '^'acclaraa- tions of his train ; he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watch-tower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe ; while beside that badge of the holy war, waved the gay and '^’flaunting flag of St. Jago, the "^canonized Mars of the chiv- alry of Spain. At that sight, the King’s voice died within him; he gave the rein to his barb, impatien' to close the fatal '^ceremonial, and slackened not his speed, till almost within bowshot of the first rank of the army. 5. Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect. Far as the eye could reach, extended the glittering and '^gorgeous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sun-lighted spears and blazoned banners; while beside, murmured, and glowed, and danced, the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small '^mosque, halted the flower of the army. Surrounded by the arch-priests of that mighty '’'hierarchy, the peers and princes of a court that '’'rivaled the Boland of Charlemagne, was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the high-born dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail. Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to con- ceal his soul, and a little in advance of his scanty train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror. 36 430 NEW SIXTH READER. 6. At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touch- ing by youth, a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival, — their new subject; and as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder. “ Brother and prince,’' said he, “ forget thy sorrows ; and may our friendship here- after console thee for reverses against which thou hast con- tended as a hero and a king; resisting man, but resigned at length to Grod.” 7. Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter, but unin- tentional mockery of compliment. He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent ; then, motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver '•'buckler, the keys of the city. ^‘0 king!” then said Boabdil, ^‘accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain ! The empire of the '•'Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Grrenada; yielding to thy '•'prowess, they yet '•'confide in thy mercy.” “They do well,” said the king; “ our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish '•'cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Grenada be surrendered.” 8. Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her com- passionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresisti- bly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break. 9. “ Fair queen,” said he, with mournful and pathetic dig- nity, “thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues ; this is thy last, but not least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell.” “ Farewell, my brother,” replied Ferdinand, “and may fair fortune go with you I For- get the past!” Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal ECLECTIC SERIES. 431 pair witli profound respect and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below, as he ascended the path that led to his new '^'principality, beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish '^cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslem. 10. Boabdil spurred on, at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife. Amine, (sent on before,) awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence, which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the riv- ers, the spires, and the towers of Grenada, broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted '‘'mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of '^baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of father-land, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye. 11. Suddenlyj the distant boom of artillery broke from the ‘'citadel, and rolled along the sun-lighted valley and crystal river. An universal wail burst from the exiles ; it smote, it overpowered the heart of the '^'ill-starred king, in vain seek- ing to wrap himself in the eastern pride, or '^'stoical philoso- phy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he '‘'covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary '‘'defiles ; and that place, where the king wept at the last view of his lost empire, is still called The Last Sigh OF THE Moor. CLXXII.— THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. From Miss Jewsbury. The Spaniards gave this name The Last Sigh of the Moor,” to the eminence from which, after their expulsion, the Moorish king and his followers took their farewell view of Grenada. 1. Winding along, at break of day, And armed with helm and spearg, Along the "‘'martyr’s rocky way, A king comes, with his peers, 432 NEW SIXTH READER. Unto the eye a splendid sight, Making the air all richly bright, Seen flashing through the trees; But, to the heart, a scene of blight, Sadder than death were these. 2. For brightly fall the morning rays Upon a conquered king ; The breeze that with his '^'banner plays, Plays with an '^'abject thing. Banner and king no more will know Their rightful place mid friend and foe: Proud "^clarion, cease thy blast! Or, changing to the wail of woe. Breathe dirges for the past. 3. Along, along, by rock and tower, That they have failed to keep, By wood and vale, their fathers’ dower, The exiled warriors sweep : The chevroned * steed, no more "delate. As if he knew his rider’s fate. Steps ^languidly and slow, As if he knew Grenada’s gate. Now open to the foe. 4. Along, along, till all is past. That once they called their own. Till bows the pride of strength at last. And knights, like women, "^moan. Pausing upon the green hill-side, That soon their city’s towers will hide. They lean upon their spears; And hands, that late with blood were dyed, Are now washed white with tears. 5. Another look, from brimming eyes. Along the glorious plain; Elsewhere may spread as lovely skies, Elsewhere their monarch reign; But nevermore in that bright land, With all his chivalry at hand! Now dead or far departed! And from the hill-side moves the band, The bravest, broken-hearted. *A chevron is a certain mark used in heraldry. ECLECTIC SERIES. 433 CLXXIII.— THE MOON AND STARS— A FABLE. From Montgomery. James Montgomery, an English poet, is one of the most amiable and pathetic of modern writers. Though he can not be ranked in the first class of poets, he merits the praise of never having written a line that did not tend to the honor of God and the good of man. 1. On the fourth day of creation, when the sun, after a glorious, but solitary course, went down in the evening, and darkness began to gather over the face of the uninhabited globe, already '^'arrayed in the '^'exuberance of vegetation, and prepared by the diversity of land and water, for the abode of uncreated animals and man, — a star, single and beautiful, stepped forth into the '•'firmament. Trembling with wonder and delight in new-found existence, she looked abroad, and beheld nothing in heaven or on earth resembling herself. But she was not long alone; now one, then another, here a third, and there a fourth resplendent companion had joined her, till light after light stealing through the gloom, in the lapse of an hour the whole hemisphere was brilliantly '•'be- spangled. 2. The planets and stars, with a '•'superb comet flaming in the '•'zenith, for awhile contemplated themselves and each other; and every one from the largest to the least, was so perfectly well pleased with himself, that he imagined the rest only partakers of his felicity; he being the central '•'luminary of his own universe, and all the hosts of heaven beside, dis- played around him, in '•'graduated splendor. Nor were any undeceived in regard to themselves^ though all saw their as- sociates in their real situations and relative proportions: — self-knowledge being the last knowledge acquired either in the sky or below it; — till bending over the ocean in their turns, they discovered what they supposed at first to be a new heaven, peopled with beings of their own species. But when they perceived further, that no sooner had any one of their company touched the horizon than he instantly disappeared ; they then recognized themselves in their individual forms^ reflected beneath according to their places and '•'configura- tions above, from seeing others, whom they previously knew, reflected in like manner. 434 NEW SIXTH READER. 3. By an attentive but mournful self-examination in that mirror, they slowly learned humility ; but every one learned it only for himself, none believing what others '‘'insinuated respecting their own inferiority, till they reached the west- ern slope, from whence they could '‘'identify their true visages in the ’‘'nether element. Nor was this very surprising; stars being only visible points, without any distinction of limbs, each was all eye; and though he could see others most cor- rectly, he could neither see himself nor any part of himself, till he came to '‘'reflection. The comet, however, having a long train of brightness, streaming sun-ward, could review that, and did review it with '‘'ineifable self-complacency. In- deed, after all pretensions to precedence, he was at length acknowledged king of the ''hemisphere, if not by the uni- versal assent, by the silent envy of all his rivals. 4. But the object which attracted most attention, and astonishment too, was a slender thread of light that scarcely could be discerned through the blush of evening, and vanished soon after night-fall, as if ashamed to appear in so scanty a form, like an unfinished work of creation. It was the moon; the first new moon. Timidly, she looked around upon the glittering multitude that crowded the dark '•'serenity of space, and filled it with life and beauty. Minute indeed they seemed to her, but perfect in '‘'symmetry, and formed to shine forever while she was unshapen, incomplete, and '•'evanescent. In her humility, she was glad to hide herself from their keen glances in the friendly bosom of the ocean, wishing for immediate '•'ex- tinction. 5. When she was gone, the stars looked one at another with inquisitive surprise, as much as to say, “ What a figure ! ” It was so evident that they all thought alike, and thought con- temptuously of the '•'apparition, (though at first they almost doubted whether they should not be frightened,) that they soon began to talk freely concerning her; of course not with audible accents, but in the language of intelligent sparkles, in which stars are accustomed to converse with telegraphic '•'pre- cision from one end of heaven to the other, and which no '•'dialect on earth so nearly resembles, as the language of the eyes ; the only one, probably, that has survived in its purity, not only the confusion of Babel, but the revolutions of all ECLECTIC SERIES. 435 ages. Her crooked form and her shyness, were ridiculed and censured from pole to pole. For what purpose such a mon- ster could have been created, not the wisest could conjecture; yet, to tell the truth, every one, though glad to be counte- nanced in the affectation of scorn by the rest, had secret misgivings concerning the stranger, and envied the delicate ^brilliancy of her light. 6. All the gay company, however, quickly returned to the admiration of themselves, and the "^inspection of each other. Thus, the first night passed away. But, when the east began to dawn, '‘'consternation seized the whole army of '‘'celestials, each feeling himself fainting into invisibility, and, as he feared, into nothingness, while his neighbors were, one after another, totally disappearing. At length, the sun arose, and filled the heavens, and clothed the earth with his glory. How he spent that day, belongs not to this history ; but it is elsewhere re- corded, that, for the first time from eternity, the lark, on the wings of the morning, sprang up to salute him ; the eagle, at noon, looked undazzled on his splendor; and when he went down beyond the deep, the leviathan was sporting amid the multitude of waves. CLXXIV.— THE MOON AND STARS— CONCLUDED. 1. In the evening, the vanished '‘'constellations again grad- ually awoke; and, on opening their eyes, were so rejoiced at meeting together, — not one being wanting of last night’s levee, — that they were in the highest good humor with them- selves and one another. Decked in all their beams, and darting their '‘'benignest infiuence, they exchanged smiles and endearments, and made vows of affection, eternal and unchangeable; while, from this nether orb, the song of the nightingale arose out of darkness, and charmed even the stars in their courses, being the first sound, except the roar of the ocean, that they had ever heard. “ The music of the spheres” may be traced to the rapture of that hour. 2. The little, gleaming horn was again discerned, leaning backward over the western hills. This companionless '‘lumi- 436 NEW SIXTH HEADER. nary, they thought — but they must be mistaken — it could not be — and yet they were afraid that it was so — appeared some- what larger than on the former occasion. But the moon, still only venturing to glance at this scene of '^'magnificence, es- caped beneath the horizon, leaving the comet in proud pos- session of the sky. 3. On the third evening, the moon was so obviously in- creased in size and splendor, and stood so much higher in the firmament than at first, though she still hastened out of sight, that she was the sole suoject of conversation on both sides of the '^'galaxy, till the breeze, that awakened newly-created man from his first slumber in Paradise, warned the stars to retire ; and the sun, with a pomp never witnessed in our degenerate days, "^ushered in the great Sabbath of creation, when “ the heaven and the earth were finished, and all the hosts of them.” 4. The following night, the moon took her station still higher, and looked brighter than before. Still, however, she preserved her humility and shamefacedness, till her "^crescent had exceeded the first quarter. Hitherto, she had only grown lovelier, but now she grew prouder at every step of her '^'pre- ferment. Her rays, too, became so intolerably dazzling, that fewer and fewer of the stars could endure her presence, but shrouded themselves in her light as behind a veil. When she verged to "^maturity, the heavens seemed too small for her ambition. She ‘-rose in clouded majesty,” but the clouds melted at her approach, or spread their rich and rainbow- tinted garments in her path. 5. She had crossed the comet in her course, and left him as wan as a vapor behind her. On the night of her fullness, she triumphed gloriously in mid-heaven, smiled on the earth, and arrayed it in a softer day; for she had repeatedly seen the sun, and though she could not rival him when he was above the horizon, she fondly hoped to make his absence forgotten. Over the ocean she hung, '^'enamored of her own beauty re- flected in the abyss. The few stars that still could stand amid her overpowering '’effulgence '’'converged their rays, and shrunk into bluer depths of '’'ether, to gaze at a safe distance upon her. “What more can she be?” thought these scattered survivors of myriads of extinguished sparklers: “as hitherto she has increased every evening, to-morrow she will do the ECLECTIC SERIES. 437 same; and we must be lost, like our brethren, in her all- conquering ■‘'resplendence. ” 6. The moon herself was not a little puzzled to imagine what might become of her ; but vanity readily suggested, that although she had reached her full form, she had not reached her full size; consequently, by a regular nightly expansion of circumference, she would finally cover the whole ‘‘'convexity of the sky, not only to the exclusion of stars, but of the sun himself, since he occupied a superior region of space, and cer- tainly could not shine through her ; till man and his beau- tiful companion woman, looking upward from the bowers of Eden, would see all moon above them, and walk in the light of her countenance forever. 7. In the midst of this pleasing self-illusion, a '‘'film crept upon her, which spread from her utmost verge, athwart her center, till it had completely '‘'eclipsed her visage, and made her a blot on the tablet of the heavens. In the progress of this disaster, the stars, which were hid in her pomp, stole forth to witness her humiliation. But their transport and her shame, lasted not long; the shadow retired as gradually as it had advanced, leaving her fairer by contrast than be- fore. Soon afterward, the day broke, and she withdrew, marveling what would next befall her. 8. Never had the stars been more impatient to resume their places, nor the moon more impatient to rise, than on the following evening. With trembling hope and fear, the planets that came out first after sunset, espied her disk, broad and dark red, emerging from a gulf of clouds in the east. At the first glance, their keen, celestial sight discov- ered that her western limb was a little, contracted, and her orb no longer perfect. She herself was too much elated to suspect any failing, and fondly imagined that she had con* tinned to increase all around, till she had got above the Pa- cific ; but even then, she was only chagrined to perceive, that her image was no larger than it had been last night. There was not a star in the ‘‘'horoscope — no, not the comet him- self— durst tell her she was less. 9. Another day went, and another night came. She rose as usual, a little later. Even while she traveled above the land, she was haunted with the idea, that her luster was rather 37 438 NEW SIXTH READER. feebler than it had been ; but when she beheld her face in the sea, she could no longer overlook the unwelcome defect. The season was boisterous ; the wind rose suddenly, and the waves burst into foam ; perhaps the tide, for the first time, was then affected by sympathy with the moon ; and what had never hap- pened before, an universal tempest mingled heaven and earth in rain, and lightning, and darkness. She plunged among the thickest of the thunder-clouds, and in the confusion that hid her disgrace, her "^exulting rivals were all likewise put out of countenance. 10. On the next evening, and every evening afterward, the moon came forth later, and less, and dimmer; while on each occasion, more and more of the minor stars, which had for- merly vanished from her eye, re-appeared to witness her fading honors and disfigured form. Prosperity had made her vain; adversity brought her to her mind again, and humility soon ’•'compensated the loss of glaring distinction, with softer charms, which won the regard which haughtiness had repelled ; for when she had worn off her uncouth '•'gibbous aspect, and through the last quarter, her profile '•'waned into a hollow shell, she appeared more graceful than ever in the eyes of all heaven. 11. When she was originally seen among them, the stars contemned her ; afterward, as she grew in beauty, they envied, feared, hated, and finally fled from her. As she '•'relapsed into insignificance, they first rejoiced in her decay, and then endured her superiority, because it could not last long; but when they marked how she had wasted away every time they met, compassion succeeded, and, on the last three nights, (like a human fair one, in the latest stages of decline, growing love- lier and dearer to her friends till the close,) she disarmed hos- tility, '•'conciliated kindness, and secured affection. She was admired, beloved, and unenvied by all. 12. At length there came a night when there was no moon. There was silence in heaven all that night. In serene medi- tation on the changes of the month, the stars pursued their journey from sunset to day-break. The comet had, likewise, departed into unknown regions. His fading luster had been attributed, at first, to the bolder radiance of the moon in her '•'meridian; but, during the wane, while inferior lumi- naries were brightening around her, he was growing faintar Eclectic series. 439 iind smaller every evening, and now, he was no more. Of the rest, planets and stars, all were unimpaired in their light, and the former only slightly varied in their positions. The whole miiltitude, wiser by experience, and better for their knowledge. Were humble, contented, and grateful, each for his lot.^ whether splendid or obscure. 13. Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of all, tho moon, with a new crescent, was descried in the west; and instantly, from every quarter of the heavens, she was congrat' ulated on her happy resurrection. Just as she went down, while her bow was yet '’'recumbent in the dark purple '’'horizon, it is said that an angel appeared, standing between her horns. Turning his head, his eye glanced rapidly over the universe; the sun far sunk behind him, the moon under his feet, the earth spread in prospect before him, and the firmament all glittering with constellations above. He paused a moment, and then in that tongue, wherein, at the '’'accomplishment of creation, “ the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy,” he thus brake forth: “Great and marvelous are thy works. Lord God Almighty ! In wisdom hast thou made them all. Who would not fear thee, 0 Lord, and glorify Ahy name, for thou only art holy!” He ceased; and from that hour there has been harmony in heaven. CLXXV.— THUNDER-STORM ON THE ALPS. From Byron. 1. Clear, placid Leman! thy '•'contrasted lake, With the wide world I dwell in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from '•'distraction; once I loved Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet, as if a sister’s voice reproved, That I with stern delight should e’er have been so moved 2. All heaven and earth are still; though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: 440 NEW SIXTH READER. All heaven and earth are still : from the high host Of stars, to the '•'lulled lake and mountain-coast, All is '•'concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defense. The sky is changed ! and such a change ! 0 night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling '•'crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue. And Jura answers, from her '•'misty shroud. Back to the joyous Alps, which call to her aloud! 4. And this is in the night. — Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let mo be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight ; A portion of the tempest and of thee • How the lit lake shines, — a '•'phosphoric sea! And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again, ’tis black; and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth. 5. Now, where the swift '•'Rhone '•'cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose '•'mining depths so '•'intervene. That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other '•'thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage. Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then — departed! Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years, all Avinters, war within themselves to wage. 6. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms has ta’en his stand! For here, not one, but many make their play. And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around ! Of all the band. The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings — as if he did understand, That in such gaps as '•'desolation worked. There, the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. ECLECTIC SERIES. 441 CLXXVL— THE MANIAC. From Lewis. It is said, that a gentleman in England, in order to gain possession of his wife’s property, eonfined her in a rnad-house, under pretense of insanity, until she became really a maniac. 1. Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! She is not mad who kneels to thee ; For what I ’m now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I ’ll rave no more in proud despair; My language shall be mild, though sad ; But yet I ’ll firmly, truly swear, I am not mad; I am not mad. 2. My tyrant husband forged the tale, Which chains me in this dismal cell; My fate unknown my friends bewail; 0 jailer, haste that fate to tell; 0! haste my father’s heart to cheer-, His heart at once ’twill grieve and glad To know, though kept a captive here, 1 am not mad; I am not mad. 3. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp, still, still I see: ’T is gone, and all is gloom again : Cold ! bitter cold ! no warmth, no light ! Life, all thy comforts once I had; Yet here I’m chained, this freezing night. Although not mad; no, no, not mad. 4 . ’Tis sure some dream, some vision vain; What! I, — ^the child of rank and wealth? Am I the wretch who clanks this chain. Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled. Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head; But ’t is not inad; no, ’tis not mad. 5. Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother’s face, a mother’s tongue? She’ll ne’er forget your parting kiss. Nor round her neck how fast you clung; NEW SIXTH READER. Nor how with me you sued to stay; Nor how that suit your sire forbade; Nor how — I’ll drive such thoughts away; They’ll make me mad;, they’ll make me mad, 6. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild, blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone ? And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? I will be free ! unbar the door ! 1 am not mad; I am not mad. 7. Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes! I see his glaring eyes; Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes! Help! help! He’s gone! Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain, — I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be. 8. Yes, soon; — for, lo you! — while I speak, Mark how yon Demon’s eyeballs glare! He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror! — the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; Your task is done ! — F m mad! F m mad I CLXXVIL --IMPORTANCE OF THE UNION. From Webster. 1. Mr. President: I am conscious of having detained you and the senate much too long. I was drawn into the de- bate with no previous '^'deliben .on, such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and important a subject. But it is a subject of which my heart is full, and I have not been willing to suppress the utterance of its '^spontaneous sentiments. I can not, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, without expressing once more, ray deep conviction, that, since it ECLECTIC SERIES. 443 respects nothing less than the union of the states, it is of mosf^vital and '•'essential importance to the public happiness. 2. I profess, sir, in my '•'career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole coun- try, and the preservation of our federal union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union, that we are chiefly in- debted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered '•'finance, '•'prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its '•'benign infiuences, these great in- terests immediately awoke as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proof of its utility and its blessings ; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our pop- ulation spread further and further, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. 3. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark '•'recess be- hind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the prec- ipice of '•'disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the abyss below; n^^r could I regard him as a safe '•'counselor in the affairs of the government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the union might best be preserved, but how tolerable might be the con- dition of the people, when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 4. While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratify- ing prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant, that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant, that on my vision never may be opened what lies be- hind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union ; on states '•'dissevered, '•'discordant, '•'belligerent; our land rent with civil '•'feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. 444 NEW SIXTH READER. 5. Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather be^ hold the '’'gorgeous '’'ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe '^'erased or polluted, not a single star obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as. What is all this worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly. Lib- erty firsts and Union afterward ; but every-where, spread all over, in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea, and over the land, and on every wind, and under the whole heavens, that other senti- ment, dear to every true American heart — Liberty and Union^ now and forever: one and inseparable! CLXXVIII.— CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON, From J. Sparks. 1. The person of Washington was commanding, graceful, and fltly proportioned ; his '’'stature six feet, his chest broad and full, his limbs long and somewhat slender, but well shaped and muscular. His features were regular and sym- metrical, his eyes of a light blue color, and his whole counte- nance, in its quiet state, was grave, placid, and '’'benignant. When alone, or not engaged in conversation, he appeared sedate and thoughtful; but when his attention was excited, his eye kindled quickly, and his face beamed with animation and intelligence. 2. He was not '’'fluent in speech, but what he said was ■’'apposite, and listened to with the more interest as being known to come from the heart. He seldom attempted '’'sal- lies of wit or humor, but no man received more pleasure from an exhibition of them by others; and, although contented in ‘’'seclusion, he sought his chief happiness in society, and par- ticipated with delight in all its '’'rational and innocent amuse- ments. Without ■’’austerity on the one hand, or an appearance of condescending familiarity on the other, he was '’'afiable courteous, and cheerful ; but it has often been remarked, that there was a dignity in his person and manner not easy ii) be '’'defined, which impresse