9. And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the Record, there

sometimes wanders a vague, shadowy fear, which will come,--that your own

name may soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not

fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who

presumed on your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know.

10. Yet your mother--how strange it is!--has no fears of such dark

fancies. Even now, as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in

the room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you

that she can not be long with you;--that the time is coming, when you must

be guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the

friends of your boyhood.

11. There is a little pride, and a great deal more of anxiety, in your

thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home blaze, while those

delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with the locks upon

your brow. To struggle with the world,--that is a proud thing; to struggle

alone,--there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of

boyhood the first anxious thought of youth.

12. The hands of the old clock upon the mantel that ticked off the hours

when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died, draw on toward midnight. The

shadows that the fireflame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. And thus it is,

that Home,--boy home, passes away forever,--like the swaying of a

pendulum,--like the fading of a shadow on the floor.

DEFINITIONS.--l. In-ex'or-a-ble, not to be changed. 4. Wont'ed,

accustomed. Ad-mo-ni'tion (pro. ad-mo'nish'un), counseling against fault

or error. 13. Pon'der-ous, very heavy. Quaint (pro. kwant), odd and

antique. 7. In-cred'i-ble, impossible to be believed. Dot'-ing, loving to

excess. 9. Vague (pro. vag), indefinite. Pre-sumed', pushed upon or

intruded in an impudent manner.

XCVIII. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Thomas Moore (b. 1779. d. 1852) was born in Dublin, Ireland, and he was

educated at Trinity College in that city. In 1799, he entered the Middle

Temple, London, as a student of law. Soon after the publication of his

first poetical productions, he was sent to Bermuda in an official

capacity. He subsequently visited the United States. Moore's most famous

works are: "Lalla Rookh," an Oriental romance, 1817; "The Loves of the

Angels," 1823; and "Irish Melodies," 1834; a "Life of Lord Byron," and

"The Epicurean, an Eastern Tale." "Moore's excellencies," says Dr. Angus,

"consist in the gracefulness of his thoughts, the wit and fancy of his

allusions and imagery, and the music and refinement of his versification."

1. Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

2. When I remember all

The friends so linked together

I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed.

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

XCIX. A CHASE IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL.

James Fenimore Cooper (b. 1789, d. 1851). This celebrated American

novelist was born in Burlington, N.J. His father removed to the state of

New York about 1790, and founded Cooperstown, on Otsego Lake. He studied

three years at Yale, and then entered the navy as a common sailor. He

became a midshipman in 1806, and was afterwards promoted to the rank of

lieutenant; but he left the service in 1811. His first novel,

"Precaution," was published in 1819; his best work, "The Spy," a tale of

the Revolutionary War, in 1821. The success of "The Spy" was almost

unprecedented, and its author at once took rank among the most popular

writers of the day. "The Pilot" and "The Red Rover" are considered his

best sea novels. "The Pioneers," "The Last of the Mohicans," "The

Prairie," "The Pathfinder," and "The Deerslayer" are among the best of his

tales of frontier life. The best of his novels have been translated into

nearly all of the European languages, and into some of those of Asia. "The

creations of his genius," says Bryant, "shall survive through centuries to

come, and only perish with our language." The following selection is from

"The Pilot."

1. The ship which the American frigate had now to oppose, was a vessel of

near her own size and equipage; and when Griffith looked at her again, he

perceived that she had made her preparations to assert her equality in

manful fight.

2. Her sails had been gradually reduced to the usual quantity, and, by

certain movements on her decks, the lieutenant and his constant attendant,

the Pilot, well understood that she only wanted to lessen the distance a

few hundred yards to begin the action.

"Now spread everything," whispered the stranger.

3. Griffith applied the trumpet to his mouth, and shouted, in a voice that

was carried even to his enemy, "Let fall--out with your booms--sheet

home--hoist away of everything!"

4. The inspiring cry was answered by a universal bustle. Fifty men flew

out on the dizzy heights of the different spars, while broad sheets of

canvas rose as suddenly along the masts, as if some mighty bird were

spreading its wings. The Englishman instantly perceived his mistake, and

he answered the artifice by a roar of artillery. Griffith watched the

effects of the broadside with an absorbing interest as the shot whistled

above his head; but when he perceived his masts untouched, and the few

unimportant ropes, only, that were cut, he replied to the uproar with a

burst of pleasure.

5. A few men were, however, seen clinging with wild frenzy to the cordage,

dropping from rope to rope, like wounded birds fluttering through a tree,

until they fell heavily into the ocean, the sullen ship sweeping by them

in a cold indifference. At the next instant, the spars and masts of their

enemy exhibited a display of men similar to their own, when Griffith again

placed the trumpet to his mouth, and shouted aloud, "Give it to them;

drive them from their yards, boys; scatter them with your grape; unreeve

their rigging!"

6. The crew of the American wanted but little encouragement to enter on

this experiment with hearty good will, and the close of his cheering words

was uttered amid the deafening roar of his own cannon. The Pilot had,

however, mistaken the skill and readiness of their foe; for,

notwithstanding the disadvantageous circumstances under which the

Englishman increased his sail, the duty was steadily and dexterously

performed.

7. The two ships were now running rapidly on parallel lines, hurling at

each other their instruments of destruction with furious industry, and

with severe and certain loss to both, though with no manifest advantage in

favor of either. Both Griffith and the Pilot witnessed, with deep concern,

this unexpected defeat of their hopes; for they could not conceal from

themselves that each moment lessened their velocity through the water, as

the shot of the enemy stripped the canvas from the yards, or dashed aside

the lighter spars in their terrible progress.

8. "We find our equal here," said Griffith to the stranger. "The ninety is

heaving up again like a mountain; and if we continue to shorten sail at

this rate, she will soon be down upon us!"

"You say true, sir," returned the Pilot, musing, "the man shows judgment

as well as spirit; but--"

9. He was interrupted by Merry, who rushed from the forward part of the

vessel, his whole face betokening the eagerness of his spirit and the

importance of his intelligence.--

"The breakers!" he cried, when nigh enough to be heard amid the din; "we

are running dead on a ripple, and the sea is white not two hundred yards

ahead."

10. The Pilot jumped on a gun, and, bending to catch a glimpse through the

smoke, he shouted, in those clear, piercing tones, that could be even

heard among the roaring of the cannon,--

"Port, port your helm! we are on the Devil's Grip! Pass up the trumpet,

sir; port your helm, fellow; give it to them, boys--give it to the proud

English dogs!"

11. Griffith unhesitatingly relinquished the symbol of his rank, fastening

his own firm look on the calm but quick eye of the Pilot, and gathering

assurance from the high confidence he read in the countenance of the

stranger. The seamen were too busy with their cannon and the rigging to

regard the new danger; and the frigate entered one of the dangerous passes

of the shoals, in the heat of a severely contested battle.

12. The wondering looks of a few of the older sailors glanced at the

sheets of foam that flew by them, in doubt whether the wild gambols of the

waves were occasioned by the shot of the enemy, when suddenly the noise of

cannon was succeeded by the sullen wash of the disturbed element, and

presently the vessel glided out of her smoky shroud, and was boldly

steering in the center of the narrow passages.

13. For ten breathless minutes longer the Pilot continued to hold an

uninterrupted sway, during which the vessel ran swiftly by ripples and

breakers, by streaks of foam and darker passages of deep water, when he

threw down his trumpet and exclaimed--

"What threatened to be our destruction has proved our salvation.--Keep

yonder hill crowned with wood one point open from the church tower at its

base, and steer east and by north; you will run through these shoals on

that course in an hour, and by so doing you will gain five leagues of your

enemy, who will have to double their trail."

14. Every officer in the ship, after the breathless suspense of

uncertainty had passed, rushed to those places where a view might be taken

of their enemies. The ninety was still steering boldly onward, and had

already approached the two-and-thirty, which lay a helpless wreck, rolling

on the unruly seas that were rudely tossing her on their wanton billows.

The frigate last engaged was running along the edge of the ripple, with

her torn sails flying loosely in the air, her ragged spars tottering in

the breeze, and everything above her hull exhibiting the confusion of a

sudden and unlooked-for check to her progress.

15. The exulting taunts and mirthful congratulations of the seamen, as

they gazed at the English ships, were, however, soon forgotten in the

attention that was required to their own vessel. The drums beat the

retreat, the guns were lashed, the wounded again removed, and every

individual able to keep the deck was required to lend his assistance in

repairing the damages to the frigate, and securing her masts.

16. The promised hour carried the ship safely through all the dangers,

which were much lessened by daylight; and by the time the sun had begun to

fall over the land, Griffith, who had not quitted the deck during the day,

beheld his vessel once more cleared of the confusion of the chase and

battle, and ready to meet another foe.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Frig'ate, a war vessel, usually carrying from

twenty-eight to forty-four guns, arranged in two tiers on each side.

Eq'ui-page (pro. ek'wi-paj), furniture, fitting out. 4. Ar'ti-fice.

skillful contrivance, trick. Broad'side, a discharge of all the guns on

one side of a ship, above and below, at the same time. 7. Man'i-fest,

visible to the eye, apparent. 11. As-sur'ance (pro. a-shur'ans), full

confidence, courage. 13. Sway, control, rule.

NOTES.--2. The Pilot, who appears in this story, under disguise, is John

Paul Jones, a celebrated American naval officer during the Revolution. He

was born in Scotland, in 1747, and was apprenticed when only twelve years

old as a sailor. He was familiar with the waters about the British

Islands, and during part of the war he hovered about their coasts in a

daring way, capturing many vessels, often against heavy odds, and causing

great terror to the enemy.

8. The ninety, refers to a large ninety-gun ship, part of a fleet which

was chasing the American vessel.

10. The Devil's Grip; the name of a dangerous reef in the English Channel.

13. One point open. Directions for steering, referring to the compass.

14. The two-and-thirty; i.e., another of the enemy's ships, carrying

thirty-two guns.

C. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Charles Wolfe (b. 1791, d. 1823), an Irish poet and clergyman, was born in

Dublin. He was educated in several schools, and graduated at the

university of his native city. He was ordained in 1817, and soon became

noted for his zeal and energy as a clergyman. His literary productions

were collected and published in 1825. "The Burial of Sir John Moore," one

of the finest poems of its kind in the English language, was written in

1817, and first appeared in the "Newry Telegraph," a newspaper, with the

author's initials, but without his knowledge. 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 to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we 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 short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

5. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe 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 gone

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on

In a grave where a Briton has laid him.

7. But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring

And we heard the distant random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory!

DEFINITIONS.--3. Mar'tial (pro. mar'shal), military. 6. Up-braid', to

charge with something wrong or disgraceful, to reproach. Reck, to take

heed, to care. 7. Ran'dom, without fixed aim or purpose, left to chance.

NOTE.--Sir John Moore (b. 1761, d. 1809) was a celebrated British general.

He was appointed commander of the British forces in Spain, in the war

against Napoleon, and fell at the battle of Corunna, by a cannon shot.

Marshal Soult, the opposing French commander, caused a monument to be

erected to his memory. The British government has also raised a monument

to him in St. Paul's Cathedral, while his native city, Glasgow, honors him

with a bronze statue.

CI. LITTLE VICTORIES.

1. "O Mother, now that I have lost my limb, I can never be a soldier or a

sailor; I can never go round the world!" And Hugh burst into tears, now

more really afflicted than he had ever been yet. His mother sat on the bed

beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as

well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on

going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in

future; and now this was the very thing he should never be able to do!

2. He had practiced climbing ever since he could remember, and now this

was of no use; he had practiced marching, and now he should never march

again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his

mother said,

"Hugh, you have heard of Huber?"

"The man who found out so lunch about bees?" said Hugh. "Bees and ants.

When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known about these, and

when he was sure that he could learn still more, and was more and more

anxious to peep into their tiny homes and curious ways, he became blind."

3. Hugh sighed, and his mother went on.

"Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical

composers that ever lived. His great, his sole delight was in music. It

was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given

to music, he suddenly became deaf, perfectly deaf; so that he never more

heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. While crowds were moved

and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him." Hugh said

nothing.

4. "Now do you think," asked his mother--and Hugh saw that a mild and

gentle smile beamed from her countenance--"do you think that these people

were without a Heavenly Parent?"

"O no! but were they patient?" asked Hugh.

"Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you suppose that they

were hardly treated? Or would you not rather suppose that their Father

gave them something better to do than they had planned for themselves?"

5. "He must know best, of course; but it does seem very hard that that

very thing should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded

being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man, being blind.

"No doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments;

but I fully believe that they very soon found God's will to be wiser than

their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was

work for their hearts to do far nobler than any the head could do through

the eye or the ear. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure which

none but the bitterly disappointed can feel."

"What is that?"

6. "The pleasure of rousing the soul to bear pain, and of agreeing with

God silently, when nobody knows what is in the breast. There is no

pleasure like that of exercising one's soul in bearing pain, and of

finding one's heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God."

"Shall I feel that pleasure?"

"Often and often, I have no doubt; every time you can willingly give up

your wish to be a soldier or a sailor, or anything else you have set your

mind upon, you will feel that pleasure. But I do not expect it of you yet.

I dare say it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of

people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it."

7. "But did he ever smile again?" asked Hugh.

"If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have

made him," replied his mother.

"I wonder, oh, I wonder, if I shall ever feel so!"

"We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask him now?" Hugh clasped his

hands. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed

that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends

might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.

8. Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes, such as

no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as

they deserved. On one occasion, when he had been quite merry for a while,

and his mother and his sister Agnes were chatting, they thought they heard

a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed

crying bitterly.

"What is it, my dear?" said his mother. "Agnes, have we said anything that

could hurt his feelings?"

"No, no," sobbed Hugh. "I will tell you, presently."

9. And, presently, he told them that he was so busy listening to what they

said that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had

gotten between two of his toes; unconsciously he put down his hand as if

his foot were there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his

toes; and then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so

terrible, it startled him so! It was a comfort to find that his mother

knew about this. She came, and kneeled by his sofa, and told him that many

persons who had lost a limb considered this the most painful thing they

had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return

occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful.

10. Hugh was very much dejected, and when he thought of the months and

years to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and

never be like other people, he almost wished that he were dead.

Agnes thought that he must be miserable indeed if he could venture to say

this to his mother. She glanced at her mother's face, but there was no

displeasure there. On the contrary, she said this feeling was very

natural. She had felt it herself under smaller misfortunes than Hugh's;

but she had found, though the prospect appeared all strewn with troubles,

that they came singly, and were not so hard to bear, after all.

11. She told Hugh that when she was a little girl she was very lazy, fond

of her bed, and not at all fond of dressing or washing.

"'Why, mother! you?" exclaimed Hugh.

"Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one

day, at the thought that I should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and

brush my hair, and put on every article of dress, every morning, as long

as I lived."

"Did you tell anybody?" asked Hugh.

12. "No, I was ashamed to do that; but I remember I cried. You see how it

turns out. When we have become accustomed to anything, we do it without

ever thinking of the trouble, and, as the old fable tells us, the clock

that has to tick so many millions of times, has exactly the same number of

seconds to do it in. So will you find that you can move about on each

separate occasion, as you wish, and practice will enable you to do it

without any trouble or thought."

"But this is not all, nor half what I mean," said Hugh.

13. "No, my dear, nor half what you will have to bear. You resolved to

bear it all patiently, I remember. But what is it you dread the most?"

"Oh! all manner of things. I can never do like other people."

"Some things," replied his mother. "You can never play cricket, as every

Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sister's

Christmas parties."

14. "O mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and with the thought

in her mind that it was cruel to talk so.

"Go on! Go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel, mother;

and you don't keep telling me, as others do, and even sister Agnes,

sometimes, that it will not signify much, and that I shall not care, and

all that; making out that it is no misfortune, hardly, when I know what it

is, and they don't. Now, then, go on, mother! What else?"

15. "There will be little checks and mortifications continually, when you

see little boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the

other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people

will pity you in a way you will not like: and some may even laugh at you."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.

"Well, and what else?" said Hugh.

16. "Sooner or later you will have to follow some way of life determined

by this accident instead of one that you would have liked better."

"Well, what else?"

"I must ask you, now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not

much else; for, indeed, I think here is quite enough for a boy, or anyone

else, to bear."

"I will bear it though; you will see."

17. "You will find great helps. These misfortunes of themselves strengthen

one's mind. They have some advantages too. You will be a better scholar

for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a

mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved by us all, and you

yourself will love God more for having given you something to bear for his

sake. God himself will help you to bear your trials. You will conquer your

troubles one by one, and by a succession of LITTLE VICTORIES will at last

completely triumph over all."

--Harriet Martineau.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Af-flict'ed, overwhelmed, dejected. Reck'-oned,

calculated, counted. 3. Com-pos'er, an author of a piece of music.

Or'ches-tra, a body of instrumental musicians. 7. Ap-prove', sanction,

allow. 10. De-ject'ed, discouraged, low-spirited.

NOTES.--2. Francois Huber (b. 1750, d. 1831) was a Swiss naturalist. He

became blind at the age of fifteen, but pursued his studies by the aid of

his wife and an attendant.

2. Ludwig van Beethoven (pro. ba'to-ven; b. 1770, d. 1827) was born at

Bonn, Prussia, but passed most of his life at Vienna.

CII. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

Sir Henry Wotton (b. 1568, d. 1639) was born at Bocton Hall, Kent,

England. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford. About 1598 he was taken

into the service of the Earl of Essex, as one of his secretaries. On the

Earl's committal to the Tower for treason, Wotton fled to France; but he

returned to England immediately after the death of Elizabeth, and received

the honor of knighthood. He was King James's favorite diplomatist, and, in

1623, was appointed provost of Eton College. Wotton wrote a number of

prose works; but his literary reputation rests mainly on some short poems,

which are distinguished by a dignity of thought and expression rarely

excelled.

1. How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will;

Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

2. Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath;

3. Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given by praise;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

4. Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great;

5. Who God doth late and early pray,

More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

6. This man is freed from servile bands,

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;

Lord of himself, though not of lands;

And having nothing, yet hath all.

CIII. THE ART OF DISCOURAGEMENT.

Arthur Helps (b. 1813, d. 1875) graduated at Cambridge, England, in 1835.

His best known works are: "Friends in Council, a Series of Readings and

Discourses," "Companions of my Solitude," and "Realmah," a tale of the

"lake dwellers" in southern Europe. He has also written a "History of the

Spanish Conquests in America," two historical dramas, and several other

works. Mr. Helps was a true thinker, and his writings are deservedly

popular with thoughtful readers. In 1859 he was appointed secretary of the

privy council.

1. Regarding, one day, in company with a humorous friend, a noble vessel

of a somewhat novel construction sailing slowly out of port, he observed,

"What a quantity of cold water somebody must have had down his back." In

my innocence, I supposed that he alluded to the wet work of the artisans

who had been building the vessel; but when I came to know him better, I

found that this was the form of comment he always indulged in when

contemplating any new and great work, and that his "somebody" was the

designer of the vessel.

2. My friend had carefully studied the art of discouragement, and there

was a class of men whom he designated simply as "cold-water pourers." It

was most amusing to hear him describe the lengthened sufferings of the man

who first designed a wheel; of him who first built a boat; of the

adventurous personage who first proposed the daring enterprise of using

buttons, instead of fish bones, to fasten the scanty raiment of some

savage tribe.

3. Warming with his theme, he would become quite eloquent in describing

the long career of discouragement which these rash men had brought upon

themselves, and which he said, to his knowledge, must have shortened their

lives. He invented imaginary dialogues between the unfortunate inventor,

say of the wheel, and his particular friend, some eminent cold-water

pourer. For, as he said, every man has some such friend, who fascinates

him by fear, and to whom he confides his enterprises in order to hear the

worst that can be said of them.

4. The sayings of the chilling friend, probably, as he observed, ran

thus:--"We seem to have gone on very well for thousands of years without

this rolling thing. Your father carried burdens on his back. The king is

content to be borne on men's shoulders. The high priest is not too proud

to do the same. Indeed, I question whether it is not irreligious to

attempt to shift from men's shoulders their natural burdens.

5. "Then, as to its succeeding,--for my part, I see no chance of that. How

can it go up hill? How often you have failed before in other fanciful

things of the same nature! Besides, you are losing your time; and the yams

about your hut are only half planted. You will be a beggar; and it is my

duty, as a friend, to tell you so plainly.

6. "There was Nang-chung: what became of him? We had found fire for ages,

in a proper way, taking a proper time about it, by rubbing two sticks

together. He must needs strike out fire at once, with iron and flint; and

did he die in his bed? Our sacred lords saw the impiety of that

proceeding, and very justly impaled the man who imitated heavenly powers.

And, even if you could succeed with this new and absurd rolling thing, the

state would be ruined. What would become of those who carry burdens on

their backs? Put aside the vain fancies of a childish mind, and finish the

planting of your yams."

7. It is really very curious to observe how, even in modern times, the

arts of discouragement prevail. There are men whose sole pretense to

wisdom consists in administering discouragement. They are never at a loss.

They are equally ready to prophesy, with wonderful ingenuity, all possible

varieties of misfortune to any enterprise that may be proposed; and when

the thing is produced, and has met with some success, to find a flaw in

it.

8. I once saw a work of art produced in the presence of an eminent

cold-water pourer. He did not deny that it was beautiful; but he instantly

fastened upon a small crack in it that nobody had observed; and upon that

crack he would dilate whenever the work was discussed in his presence.

Indeed, he did not see the work, but only the crack in it. That

flaw,--that little flaw,--was all in all to him.

9. The cold-water pourers are not all of one form of mind. Some are led to

indulge in this recreation from genuine timidity. They really do fear that

all new attempts will fail. Others are simply envious and ill-natured.

Then, again, there is a sense of power and wisdom in prophesying evil.

Moreover, it is the safest thing to prophesy, for hardly anything at first

succeeds exactly in the way that it was intended to succeed.

10. Again, there is the lack of imagination which gives rise to the

utterance of so much discouragement. For an ordinary man, it must have

been a great mental strain to grasp the ideas of the first projectors of

steam and gas, electric telegraphs, and pain-deadening chloroform. The

inventor is always, in the eyes of his fellow-men, somewhat of a madman;

and often they do their best to make him so.

11. Again, there is the want of sympathy; and that is, perhaps, the ruling

cause in most men's minds who have given themselves up to discourage. They

are not tender enough, or sympathetic enough, to appreciate all the pain

they are giving, when, in a dull plodding way, they lay out argument after

argument to show that the project which the poor inventor has set his

heart upon, and upon which, perhaps, he has staked his fortune, will not

succeed.

12. But what inventors suffer, is only a small part of what mankind in

general endure from thoughtless and unkind discouragement. Those

high-souled men belong to the suffering class, and must suffer; but it is

in daily life that the wear and tear of discouragement tells so much.

Propose a small party of pleasure to an apt discourager, and see what he

will make of it. It soon becomes sicklied over with doubt and despondency;

and, at last, the only hope of the proposer is, that his proposal, when

realized, will not be an ignominious failure. All hope of pleasure, at

least for the proposer, has long been out of the question.

DEFINITIONS.--2. Des'ig-nat-ed, called by a distinctive title, named. 5.

Yam, the root of a climbing plant, found in the tropics, which is used for

food. 6. Im-paled', put to death by being fixed on an upright, sharp

stake. 8. Di-late', to speak largely, to dwell in narration. 10. Rise

(pro. ris, not riz), source, origin. Pro-jec'tor, one who forms a scheme

or design.

CIV. THE MARINER'S DREAM.

William Dimond (b. 1780, d. 1837) was a dramatist and poet, living at

Bath, England, where he was born and received his education. He afterwards

studied for the bar in London. His literary productions are for the most

part dramas, but he has also written a number of poems, among them the

following:

1. In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;

But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

2. He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,

And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;

While Memory each scene gayly covered with flowers,

And restored every rose, but secreted 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 blesses his eyes.

4. The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch,

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

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 lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

6. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;

Joy quickens his pulses,--all his hardships seem o'er;

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,--

"O God! thou hast blest me,--I ask for no more."

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!

'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

8. He springs from his hammock,--he flies to the deck;

Amazement confronts him with images dire;

Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;

The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.

9. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!

10. O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss!

Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,--

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

11. O sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,

Full many a 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 of winter thy dirge.

13. On a bed of green sea flowers thy limbs shall be laid,--

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;

Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,

And every part suit to thy mansion below.

14. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,

And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye;

O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

DEFINITIONS.--1. Ham'mock, a hanging or swinging bed, usu-ally made of

netting or hempen cloth. 4. Trans'port, ecstasy, rapture. 5. Im-pearled'

(pro. im-perled'), decorated with pearls, or with things resembling

pearls. 7. 'Lar'ums (an abbreviation of alarums, for alarms), affrights,

terrifies. 12. Dirge, funeral music.

NOTES.--13. Coral is the solid part of a minute sea animal, corresponding

to the bones in other animals. It grows in many fantastic shapes, and is

of various colors.

Amber is a yellow resin, and is the fossilized gum of buried trees. It is

mined in several localities in Europe and America; it is also found along

the seacoast, washed up by the waves.

CV. THE PASSENGER PIGEON.

John James Audubon (b. 1780, d. 1851). This celebrated American

ornithologist was born in Louisiana. When quite young he was passionately

fond of birds, and took delight in studying their habits. In 1797 his

father, an admiral in the French navy, sent him to Paris to be educated.

On his return to America, he settled on a farm in eastern Pennsylvania,

but afterward removed to Henderson, Ky., where he resided several years,

supporting his family by trade, but devoting most of his time to the

pursuit of his favorite study. In 1826 he went to England, and commenced

the publication of the "Birds of America," which consists of ten

volumes--five of engravings of birds, natural size, and five of

letterpress. Cuvier declares this work to be "the most magnificent

monument that art has ever erected to ornithology." In 1830 Audubon

returned to America, and soon afterwards made excursions into nearly every

section of the United States and Canada. A popular edition of his great

work was published, in seven volumes, in 1844, and "The Quadrupeds of

America," in six volumes,--three of plates and three of letterpress, in

1846-50. He removed to the vicinity of New York about 1840, and resided

there until his death.

1. The multitudes of wild pigeons in our woods are astonishing. Indeed,

after having viewed them so often, and under so many circumstances, I even

now feel inclined to pause and assure myself that what I am going to

relate is a fact. Yet I have seen it all, and that, too, in the company of

persons who, like myself, were struck with amazement.

2. In the autumn of 1813 I left my house at Henderson, on the banks of the

Ohio, on my way to Louisville. In passing over the Barrens, a few miles

beyond Hardinsburgh, I observed the pigeons flying, from northeast to

southwest, in greater numbers than I thought I had ever seen them before,

and feeling an inclination to count the flocks that might pass within the

reach of my eye in one hour, I dismounted, seated myself on an eminence,

and began to mark with my pencil, making a dot for every flock that

passed.

3. In a short time, finding the task which I had undertaken impracticable,

as the birds poured in in countless multitudes, I rose, and, counting the

dots then put down, found that one hundred and sixty-three had been made

in twenty-one minutes. I traveled on, and still met more the farther I

proceeded. The air was literally filled with pigeons; the light of noonday

was obscured as by an eclipse; and the continued buzz of wings had a

tendency to lull my senses to repose.

4. Whilst waiting for dinner at Young's inn, at the confluence of Salt

River with the Ohio, I saw, at my leisure, immense legions still going by,

with a front reaching far beyond the Ohio on the west, and the beech wood

forests directly on the east of me. Not a single bird alighted, for not a

nut or acorn was that year to be seen in the neighborhood. They

consequently flew so high that different trials to reach them with a

capital rifle proved ineffectual; nor did the reports disturb them in the

least.

5. I can not describe to you the extreme beauty of their aerial evolutions

when a hawk chanced to press upon the rear of a flock. At once, like a

torrent, and with a noise like thunder, they rushed into a compact mass,

pressing upon each other towards the center. In these almost solid masses,

they darted forward in undulating and angular lines, descended and swept

close over the earth with inconceivable velocity, mounted perpendicularly

so as to resemble a vast column, and, when high, were seen wheeling and

twisting within their continued lines, which then resembled the coils of a

gigantic serpent.

6. As soon as the pigeons discover a sufficiency of food to entice them to

alight, they fly round in circles, reviewing the country below. During

their evolutions, on such occasions, the dense mass which they form

exhibits a beautiful appearance, as it changes its direction, now

displaying a glistening sheet of azure, when the backs of the birds come

simultaneously into view, and anon suddenly presenting a mass of rich,

deep purple.

7. They then pass lower, over the woods, and for a moment are lost among

the foliage, but again emerge, and are seen gliding aloft. They now

alight; but the next moment, as if suddenly alarmed, they take to wing,

producing by the flappings of their wings a noise like the roar of distant

thunder, and sweep through the forests to see if danger is near. Hunger,

however, soon brings them to the ground.

8. When alighted, they are seen industriously throwing up the withered

leaves in quest of the fallen mast. The rear ranks are continually rising,

passing over the main body, and alighting in front, in such rapid

succession, that the whole flock seems still on wing. The quantity of

ground thus swept is astonishing; and so completely has it been cleared

that the gleaner who might follow in their rear would find his labor

completely lost.

9. On such occasions, when the woods are filled with these pigeons, they

are killed in immense numbers, although no apparent diminution ensues.

About the middle of the day, after their repast is finished, they settle

on the trees to enjoy rest and digest their food. As the sun begins to

sink beneath the horizon; they depart en masse for the roosting place,

which not unfrequently is hundreds of miles distant, as has been

ascertained by persons who have kept an account of their arrivals and

departures.

10. Let us now inspect their place of nightly rendezvous. One of these

curious roosting places, on the banks of the Green River, in Kentucky, I

repeatedly visited. It was, as is always the case, in a portion of the

forest where the trees were of great magnitude, and where there was little

underwood. I rode through it upwards of forty miles, and, crossing it in

different parts, found its average breadth to be rather more than three

miles. My first view of it was about a fortnight subsequent to the period

when they had made choice of it, and I arrived there nearly two hours

before sunset.

11. Many trees, two feet in diameter, I observed, were broken off at no

great distance from the ground; and the branches of many of the largest

and tallest had given way, as if the forest had been swept by a tornado.

Everything proved to me that the number of birds resorting to this part of

the forest must be immense beyond conception.

12. As the period of their arrival approached, their foes anxiously

prepared to receive them. Some were furnished with iron pots containing

sulphur, others with torches of pine knots, many with poles, and the rest

with guns. The sun was lost to our view, yet not a pigeon had arrived.

Everything was ready, and all eyes were gazing on the clear sky, which

appeared in glimpses amidst the tall trees. Suddenly there burst forth the

general cry of, "Here they come!"

13. The noise which they made, though yet distant, reminded me of a hard

gale at sea passing through the rigging of a close-reefed vessel. As the

birds arrived and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised

me. Thousands were soon knocked down by the pole men. The birds continued

to pour in. The fires were lighted, and a magnificent as well as wonderful

and almost terrifying sight presented itself.

14. The pigeons, arriving by thousands, alighted everywhere, one above

another, until solid masses, as large as hogsheads, were formed on the

branches all round. Here and there the perches gave way under the weight

with a crash, and falling to the ground destroyed hundreds of the birds

beneath, forcing down the dense groups with which every stick was loaded.

It was a scene of uproar and confusion. I found it quite useless to speak

or even to shout to those persons who were nearest to me. Even the reports

of the guns were seldom heard, and I was made aware of the firing only by

seeing the shooters reloading.

15. The uproar continued the whole night; and as I was anxious to know to

what distance the sound reached, I sent off a man, accustomed to

perambulate the forest, who, returning two hours afterwards, informed me

he had heard it distinctly when three miles distant from the spot. Towards

the approach of day, the noise in some measure subsided; long before

objects were distinguishable, the pigeons began to move off in a direction

quite different from that in which they had arrived the evening before,

and at sunrise all that were able to fly had disappeared.

DEFINITIONS.--5. A-e'ri-al, belonging or pertaining to the air. 6. A-non',

in a short time, soon. 8. Mast, the fruit of oak and beech or other forest

trees. 10. Ren'dez-vous (pro. ren'de-voo), an appointed or customary

place of meeting. Sub'se-quent, following in time. 15. Per-am'bu-late, to

walk through.

NOTES.--The wild pigeon, in common with almost every variety of game, is

becoming more scarce throughout the country each year; and Audubon's

account, but for the position he holds, would in time, no doubt, be

considered ridiculous.

9. En masse (pro. aN mas), a French phrase meaning in a body.

[Transcriber's note: The last Passenger Pigeon died at the Cincinnati Zoo

on September 1, 1914. Population estimates ranged up to 5 billion,

comprising 40% of the total number of birds in North America in the 19th

century.]

CVI. THE COUNTRY LIFE.

Richard Henry Stoddard (b. 1825,--) was born at Hingham, Mass., but

removed to New York City while quite young. His first volume of poems,

"Foot-prints," appeared in 1849, and has been followed by many others. Of

these may be mentioned "Songs of Summer," "Town and Country," "The King's

Bell," "Abraham Lincoln" (an ode), and the "Book of the East," from the

last of which the following selection is abridged. Mr. Stoddard's verses

are full of genuine feeling, and some of them show great poetic power.

1. Not what we would, but what we must,

Makes up the sum of living:

Heaven is both more and less than just,

In taking and in giving.

Swords cleave to hands that sought the plow,

And laurels miss the soldier's brow.

2. Me, whom the city holds, whose feet

Have worn its stony highways,

Familiar with its loneliest street,--

Its ways were never my ways.

My cradle was beside the sea,

And there, I hope, my grave will be.

3. Old homestead! in that old gray town

Thy vane is seaward blowing;

Thy slip of garden stretches down

To where the tide is flowing;

Below they lie, their sails all furled,

The ships that go about the world.

4. Dearer that little country house,

Inland with pines beside it;

Some peach trees, with unfruitful boughs,

A well, with weeds to hide it:

No flowers, or only such as rise

Self-sown--poor things!--which all despise.

5. Dear country home! can I forget

The least of thy sweet trifles?

The window vines that clamber yet,

Whose blooms the bee still rifles?

The roadside blackberries, growing ripe,

And in the woods the Indian pipe?

6. Happy the man who tills his field,

Content with rustic labor;

Earth does to him her fullness yield,

Hap what may to his neighbor.

Well days, sound nights--oh, can there be

A life more rational and free?

NOTE.--5. The Indian pipe is a little, white plant, bearing a white,

bell-shaped flower.

CVII. THE VIRGINIANS.

William Makepeace Thackeray (b. 1811, d. 1863). This popular English

humorist, essayist, and novelist was born in Calcutta. He was educated at

the Charterhouse school in London, and at Cambridge, but he did not

complete a collegiate course of study. He began his literary career as a

contributor to "Fraser's Magazine," under the assumed name of Michael

Angelo Titmarsh, and afterwards contributed to the column of "Punch." The

first novel published under Thackeray's own name was "Vanity Fair," which

is regarded by many as his greatest work. He afterwards wrote a large

number of novels, tales, and poems, most of which were illustrated by

sketches drawn by himself. His course of "Lectures on the English

Humorists" was delivered in London in 1851, and the following year in

several cities in the United States. He revisited the United States in

1856, and delivered a course of lectures on "The Four Georges," which he

repeated in Great Britain soon after his return home. In 1860 he became

the editor of "The Cornhill Magazine," the most successful serial ever

published in England.

1. Mr. Esmond called his American house Castlewood, from the patrimonial

home in the old country. The whole usages of Virginia, indeed, were fondly

modeled after the English customs. It was a loyal colony. The Virginians

boasted that King Charles the Second had been king in Virginia before he

had been king in England. English king and English church were alike

faithfully honored there.

2. The resident gentry were allied to good English families. They held

their heads above the Dutch traders of New York, and the money-getting

Roundheads of Pennsylvania and New England. Never were people less

republican than those of the great province which was soon to be foremost

in the memorable revolt against the British Crown.

3. The gentry of Virginia dwelt on their great lands after a fashion

almost patriarchal. For its rough cultivation, each estate had a multitude

of hands--of purchased and assigned servants--who were subject to the

command of the master. The land yielded their food, live stock, and game.

4. The great rivers swarmed with fish for the taking. From their banks the

passage home was clear. Their ships took the tobacco off their private

wharves on the banks of the Potomac or the James River, and carried it to

London or Bristol,--bringing back English goods and articles of home

manufacture in return for the only produce which the Virginian gentry

chose to cultivate.

5. Their hospitality was boundless. No stranger was ever sent away from

their gates. The gentry received one another, and traveled to each other's

houses, in a state almost feudal. The question of slavery was not born at

the time of which we write. To be the proprietor of black servants shocked

the feelings of no Virginia gentleman; nor, in truth, was the despotism

exercised over the negro race generally a savage one. The food was plenty:

the poor black people lazy and not unhappy. You might have preached negro

emancipation to Madam Esmond of Castlewood as you might have told her to

let the horses run loose out of the stables; she had no doubt but that the

whip and the corn bag were good for both.

6. Her father may have thought otherwise, being of a skeptical turn on

very many points, but his doubts did not break forth in active denial, and

he was rather disaffected than rebellious, At one period, this gentleman

had taken a part in active life at home, and possibly might have been

eager to share its rewards; but in latter days he did not seem to care for

them. A something had occurred in his life, which had cast a tinge of

melancholy over all his existence.

7. He was not unhappy,--to those about him most kind,--most affectionate,

obsequious even to the women of his family, whom he scarce ever

contradicted; but there had been some bankruptcy of his heart, which his

spirit never recovered. He submitted to life, rather than enjoyed it, and

never was in better spirits than in his last hours when he was going to

lay it down.

8. When the boys' grandfather died, their mother, in great state,

proclaimed her eldest son George her successor and heir of the estate; and

Harry, George's younger brother by half an hour, was always enjoined to

respect his senior. All the household was equally instructed to pay him

honor; the negroes, of whom there was a large and happy family, and the

assigned servants from Europe, whose lot was made as bearable as it might

be under the government of the lady of Castlewood.

9. In the whole family there scarcely was a rebel save Mrs. Esmond's

faithful friend and companion, Madam Mountain, and Harry's foster mother,

a faithful negro woman, who never could be made to understand why her

child should not be first, who was handsomer, and stronger, and cleverer

than his brother, as she vowed; though, in truth, there was scarcely any

difference in the beauty, strength, or stature of the twins.

10. In disposition, they were in many points exceedingly unlike; but in

feature they resembled each other so closely, that, but for the color of

their hair, it had been difficult to distinguish them. In their beds, and

when their heads were covered with those vast, ribboned nightcaps, which

our great and little ancestors wore, it was scarcely possible for any but

a nurse or a mother to tell the one from the other child.

11. Howbeit, alike in form, we have said that they differed in temper. The

elder was peaceful, studious, and silent; the younger was warlike and

noisy. He was quick at learning when he began, but very slow at beginning.

No threats of the ferule would provoke Harry to learn in an idle fit, or

would prevent George from helping his brother in his lesson. Harry was of

a strong military turn, drilled the little negroes on the estate, and

caned them like a corporal, having many good boxing matches with them, and

never bearing malice if he was worsted;--whereas George was sparing of

blows, and gentle with all about him.

12. As the custom in all families was, each of the boys had a special

little servant assigned him: and it was a known fact that George, finding

his little wretch of a blackamoor asleep on his master's bed, sat down

beside it, and brushed the flies off the child with a feather fan, to the

horror of old Gumbo, the child's father, who found his young master so

engaged, and to the indignation of Madam Esmond, who ordered the young

negro off to the proper officer for a whipping. In vain George implored

and entreated--burst into passionate tears, and besought a remission of

the sentence. His mother was inflexible regarding the young rebel's

punishment, and the little negro went off beseeching his young master not

to cry.

13. On account of a certain apish drollery and humor which exhibited

itself in the lad, and a liking for some of the old man's pursuits, the

first of the twins was the grandfather's favorite and companion, and would

laugh and talk out all his infantine heart to the old gentleman, to whom

the younger had seldom a word to say.

14. George was a demure, studious boy, and his senses seemed to brighten

up in the library, where his brother was so gloomy. He knew the books

before he could well-nigh carry them, and read in them long before he

could understand them. Harry, on the other hand, was all alive in the

stables or in the wood, eager for all parties of hunting and fishing, and

promised to be a good sportsman from a very early age.

15. At length the time came when Mr. Esmond was to have done with the

affairs of this life, and he laid them down as if glad to be rid of their

burden. All who read and heard that discourse, wondered where Parson

Broadbent of James Town found the eloquence and the Latin which adorned

it. Perhaps Mr. Dempster knew, the boys' Scotch tutor, who corrected the

proofs of the oration, which was printed, by the desire of his Excellency

and many persons of honor, at Mr. Franklin's press in Philadelphia.

16. No such sumptuous funeral had ever bean seen in the country as that

which Madam Esmond Warrington ordained for her father, who would have been

the first to smile at that pompous grief.

17. The little lads of Castlewood, almost smothered in black trains and

hatbands, headed the procession and were followed by my Lord Fairfax, from

Greenway Court, by his Excellency the Governor of Virginia (with his

coach), by the Randolphs, the Careys, the Harrisons, the Washingtons, and

many others; for the whole country esteemed the departed gentleman, whose

goodness, whose high talents, whose benevolence and unobtrusive urbanity,

had earned for him the just respect of his neighbors. 18. When informed of

the event, the family of Colonel Esmond's stepson, the Lord Castlewood of

Hampshire in England, asked to be at the charges of the marble slab which

recorded the names and virtues of his lordship's mother and her husband;

and after due time of preparation, the monument was set up, exhibiting the

arms and coronet of the Esmonds, supported by a little, chubby group of

weeping cherubs, and reciting an epitaph which for once did not tell any

falsehoods.

DEFINTIONS.--1. Pat-ri-mo'ni-al, inherited from ancestors. 6.

Dis-af-fect'ed, discouraged. 7. Ob-se'qui-ous, compliant to excess. 12.

Black'a-moor, a negro. 17. Ur-ban'i-ty, civility or courtesy of manners,

refinement. 18. Ep'i-taph (pro. ep'i-taf), an inscription on a monument,

in honor or in memory of the dead.

NOTES.--2. Roundhead was the epithet applied to the Puritans by the

Cavaliers in the time of Charles I. It arose from the practice among the

Puritans of cropping their hair peculiarly.

3. Patriarchal. 5. Feudal. The Jewish patriarch, in olden times, and the

head of a noble family in Europe, during the Middle Ages, when the "Feudal

System," as it is called, existed, both held almost despotic sway, the one

over his great number of descendants and relations, and the other over a

vast body of subjects or retainers. Both patriarch and feudal lord were

less restricted than the modern king, and the feudal lord, especially,

lived in a state of great magnificence.

15. Proofs. When matter is to be printed, a rough impression of it is

taken as soon as the type is set up, and sent to the editor or some other

authority for correction. These first sheets are called proofs.

"His Excellency" was the title applied to the governor.

CVIII. MINOT'S LEDGE.

Fitz-James O'Brien (b. 1828, d. 1862) was of Irish birth, and came to

America in 1852. He has contributed a number of tales and poems to various

periodicals, but his writings have never been collected in book form. Mr.

O'Brien belonged to the New York Seventh Regiment, and died at Baltimore

of a wound received in a cavalry skirmish.

1. Like spectral hounds across the sky,

The white clouds scud before the storm;

And naked in the howling night

The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form.

The waves with slippery fingers clutch

The massive tower, and climb and fall,

And, muttering, growl with baffled rage

Their curses on the sturdy wall.

2. Up in the lonely tower he sits,

The keeper of the crimson light:

Silent and awe-struck does he hear

The imprecations of the night.

The white spray beats against the panes

Like some wet ghost that down the air

Is hunted by a troop of fiends,

And seeks a shelter anywhere.

3. He prays aloud, the lonely man,

For every soul that night at sea,

But more than all for that brave boy

Who used to gayly climb his knee,--

Young Charlie, with his chestnut hair,

And hazel eyes, and laughing lip.

"May Heaven look down," the old man cries.

"Upon my son, and on his ship!"

4. While thus with pious heart he prays,

Far in the distance sounds a boom:

He pauses; and again there rings

That sullen thunder through the room.

A ship upon the shoals to-night!

She cannot hold for one half hour;

But clear the ropes and grappling hooks,

And trust in the Almighty Power!

5. On the drenched gallery he stands,

Striving to pierce the solid night:

Across the sea the red eye throws

A steady crimson wake of light;

And, where it falls upon the waves,

He sees a human head float by,

With long drenched curls of chestnut hair,

And wild but fearless hazel eye.

6. Out with the hooks! One mighty fling!

Adown the wind the long rope curls.

Oh! will it catch? Ah, dread suspense!

While the wild ocean wilder whirls.

A steady pull; it tightens now:

Oh! his old heart will burst with joy,

As on the slippery rocks he pulls

The breathing body of his boy.

7. Still sweep the specters through the sky;

Still scud the clouds before the storm;

Still naked in the howling night

The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form.

Without, the world is wild with rage;

Unkenneled demons are abroad;

But with the father and the son

Within, there is the peace of God.

NOTE.--Minot's Ledge (also called the "Cohasset Rocks") is a dangerous

reef in Boston Harbor, eight miles southwest of Boston Light. It has a

fixed light of its own, sixty-six feet high.

CIX. HAMLET.

William Shakespeare (b. 1564, d. 1616), by many regarded as the greatest

poet the world has ever produced, was born at Stratford-upon-Avon,

England. He was married, when very young, to a woman eight years his

senior, went to London, was joint proprietor of Blackfriar's Theater in

1589, wrote poems and plays, was an actor, accumulated some property, and

retired to Stratford three or four years before his death. He was buried

in Stratford church, where a monument has been erected to his memory. This

is all that is known of him with any degree of certainty.

Shakespeare's works consist chiefly of plays and sonnets. They show a

wonderful knowledge of human nature, expressed in language remarkable for

its point and beauty.

(ACT I, SCENE II. HAMLET alone in a room, of the castle.

Enter HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO.)

Hor. Hail, to your lordship!

Ham. I am glad to see you well:

Horatio,--or I do forgot myself.

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?--

Macellus?

Mar. My good lord--

Ham. I am very glad to see you. [To Ber.] Good even, sir.

But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.

Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so,

Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,

To make it truster of your own report

Against yourself: I knew you are no truant.

But what is your affair in Elsinore?

We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.

Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, follow-student;

I think it was to see my mother's wedding.

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon.

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven

Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!

My father!--methinks I see my father.

Hor. Where, my lord?

Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Hor. I saw him once; he was a goodly king.

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again.

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Ham. Saw? who?

Hor. My lord, the king your father.

Ham. The king my father!

Hor. Season your admiration for a while

With an attent ear, till I may deliver,

Upon the witness of these gentlemen,

This marvel to you.

Ham. For God's love, let me hear.

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen,

Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch,

In the dead vast and middle of the night,

Been thus encounter'd. A figure like your father,

Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pie.

Appears before them, and with solemn march

Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd

By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes,

Within his trucheon's length; whilst they, distill'd

Almost to jelly with the act of fear,

Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me

In dreadful secrecy impart they did;

And I with them the third night kept the watch:

Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time,

Form of the thing, each word made true and good,

The apparition comes: I knew your father;

These hands are not more like.

Ham. But where was this?

Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.

Ham. Did you speak to it?

Hor. My lord, I did;

But answer made it none: yet once methought

It lifted up its head and did address

Itself to motion, like as it would speak;

But even then the morning cock crew loud,

And at the sound it shrunk in haste away,

And vanish'd from our sight.

Ham. 'T is very strange.

Hor. As I do live, my honor'd lord, 't is true;

And we did think it writ down in our duty

To let you know of it.

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me,

Hold you the watch to-night?

Mar. Ber. We do, my lord.

Ham. Arm'd, say you?

Mar. Ber. Arm'd, my lord.

Ham. From top to toe?

Mar. Ber. My lord, from head to foot.

Ham. Then saw you not his face?

Hor. Oh, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.

Ham. What, look'd he frowningly?

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Ham. Pale or red?

Hor. Nay, very pale.

Ham. And fix'd his eyes upon you?

Hor. Most constantly.

Ham. I would I had been there.

Hor. It would have much amazed you.

Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?

Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Mar. Ber. Longer, longer.

Hor. Not when I saw't.

Ham. His beard was grizzled,--no?

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life,

A sable silver'd.

Ham. I will watch to-night;

Perchance 't will walk again.

Hor. I warrant it will.

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person,

I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape

And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,

If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,

Let it be tenable in your silence still;

And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,

Give it an understanding, but no tongue:

I will requite your loves. So, fare you well:

Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,

I'll visit you.

DEFINITIONS.--Tru'ant, wandering from business, loitering. Trust'er, a

believer. At-tent', attentive, heedful. De-liv'er, to communicate, to

utter. Cap-a-pie' (from the French, pro. kap-a-pee'), from head to foot.

Trun'cheon (pro. trun'shun), a short staff, a baton. Bea'ver, a part of

the helmet covering the face, so constructed that the wearer could raise

or lower it. Ten'a-ble, capable of being held.

NOTES.--What make you from Wittenberg? i.e., what are you doing away from

Wittenberg?

Wittenberg is a university town in Saxony, where Hamlet and Horatio had

been schoolfellows.

Elsinore is a fortified town on one of the Danish islands, and was

formerly the seat of one of the royal castles. It is the scene of

Shakespeare's "Hamlet."

Hard upon; i.e., soon after.

Funeral baked meats. This has reference to the ancient custom of funeral

feasts.

My dearest foe; i.e., my greatest foe. A common use of the word "dearest"

in Shakespeare's time.

Or ever, i.e., before.

Season your admiration; i.e., restrain your wonder.

The dead vast; i.e., the dead void.

Armed at point; i.e., armed at all points.

Did address itself to motion; i.e., made a motion.

Give it an understanding, etc.; i.e., understand, but do not speak of it.

I will requite your loves, or, as we should say, I will repay your

friendship.

CX. DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG.

Charles Lamb (b. 1775, d. 1834) was born in London. He was educated at

Christ's Hospital, where he was a schoolfellow and intimate friend of

Coleridge. In 1792 he became a clerk in the India House, London, and in

1825 he retired from his clerkship on a pension of 441 Pounds. Lamb never

married, but devoted his life to the care of his sister Mary, who was at

times insane. He wrote "Tales founded on the Plays of Shakespeare," and

several other works of rare merit; but his literary fame rests principally

on the inimitable "Essays of Elia" (published originally in the "London

Magazine"), from one of which the following selection is adapted.

1. Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging

enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate

their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they

do in Abyssinia to this day.

2. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the

second chapter of his "Mundane Mutations," where he designates a kind of

golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The

manuscript goes on to say that the art of roasting, or rather broiling

(which I take to be the elder brother), was accidentally discovered in the

manner following:

3. The swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as

his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care

of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of playing

with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape

into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, spread the conflagration

over every part of their poor mansion till it was reduced to ashes.

4. Together with the cottage,--a sorry, antediluvian makeshift of a

building, you may think it,--what was of much more importance, a fine

litter of newborn pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs

have been esteemed a luxury all over the East from the remotest periods we

read of.

5. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much

for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build

up again with a few dry branches, and the labor of an hour or two, at any

time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should

say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one

of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nostrils unlike any

scent which he had before experienced.

6. What, could it proceed from? Not from the burnt cottage,--he had smelt

that smell before,--indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the

kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young

firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or

flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether

lip. He knew not what to think.

7. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life

in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby

fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come

away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's

life, indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted--crackling!

Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now;

still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit.

8. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding that it was the

pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and surrendering

himself up to the newborn pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls

of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his

throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking

rafters, armed with a retributory cudgel, and, finding how affairs stood,

began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders as thick as

hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies.

9. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig till he

had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his

situation, something like the following dialogue eusued:

"You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough

that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be

hanged to you! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what? What have

you got there, I say?"

"O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig

eats!"

10. The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he

cursed himself that he should ever have a son that should eat burnt pig.

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out

another pig, and, fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by

main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, "Eat, eat, eat the

burnt pig, father! only taste! Oh!" with such like barbarous ejaculations,

cramming all the while as if he would choke.

11. Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing,

wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young

monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his

son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of

its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretense, proved

not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here

is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and

never left off till they had dispatched all that remained of the litter.

12. Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the

neighbors would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable

wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had

sent them. Nevertheless strange stories got about. It was observed that

Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but

fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in

the night-time; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead

of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever.

13. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and

father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an

inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself

produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of

the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood

accused, might be handed into the box.

14. He handled it, and they all handled it; and burning their fingers, as

Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of

them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest

charge which the judge had ever given,--to the surprise of the whole

court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present,--without leaving

the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a

simultaneous verdict of "Not Guilty."

15. The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of

the decision; and when the court was dismissed, went privily, and bought

up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his

lordship's townhouse was observed to be on fire.

16. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fire in

every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district.

The insurance offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and

slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of

architecture would in no long time be lost to the world.

17. Thus this custom of firing houses continued till in process of time,

says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery

that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked

(burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of consuming a whole

house to dress it.

18. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string

or spit came in a century or two later; I forget in whose dynasty. By such

slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful, and seemingly

the most obvious, arts make their way among mankind.

19. Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must

be agreed that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as

setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in

favor of any culinary object that pretext and excuse might be found in

Roast Pig.

DEFINITIONS.--3. Youn'kers, young persons. 4. An-te-di-lu'-vi-an

(literally, existing before the flood), very ancient. Make'shlft, that

which answers a need with the best means at hand. 6. Pre-mon'i-to-ry,

giving previous warning. 8. Re-trib'u-to-ry, rewarding, retaliating. 12.

En-joined', ordered, commanded. l3. Ob-nox'-ious (pro. oh-nok'shus),

liable to censure, offensive. 18. Dy'nas-ty, sovereignty, reign. 19.

Im-plic'it, trusting without doubt. Cu'li-na-ry, relating to the kitchen.

NOTES.--1. Abyssinia is a country of eastern Africa.

2. Confucius (pro. Con-fu'she-us; the Chinese name is Kong-fu-tse', pro.

Kong-foot-sa') was a celebrated Chinese philosopher (b. 551 B.C.) who did

much for the moral improvement of his country.

The Golden Age was supposed to be that period in the various stages of

human civilization when the greatest simplicity existed; the fruits of the

earth sprang up without cultivation, and spring was the only season.

13. Pekin is the capital of China. An assize town is a town where the

assizes, or periodical sittings of a court, are held.

17. Locke (b. 1632, d. 1704) was one of the most illustrious of English

philosophers.

CXI. A PEN PICTURE.

William Black (b. 1841,---) is one of the leading modern novelist of

England. The scenes of his stories are for the most part laid in Scotland,

and he excels in the delineation of Scotch character. But his most

remarkable power is seen in those vivid, poetical descriptions of scenery,

of which the following selection, adapted from "The Princess of Thule," is

a good example. Mr. Black's most noted works, in addition to the one

named, are: "A Daughter of Heth," "The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton,"

"Kilmeny," and "McLeod of Dare."

1. Lavender had already transformed Sheila into a heroine during the half

hour of their stroll from the beach and around the house; and as they sat

at dinner on this still, brilliant evening in summer, he clothed her in

the garments of romance.

2. Her father, with his great, gray beard and heavy brow, became the King

of Thule, living in this solitary house overlooking the sea, and having

memories of a dear sweetheart. His daughter, the Princess, had the glamour

of a thousand legends dwelling in her beautiful eyes; and when she walked

by the shores of the Atlantic, that were now getting yellow under the

sunset, what strange and unutterable thoughts must appear in the wonder of

her face!

3. After dinner they went outside and sat down on a bench in the garden.

It was a cool and pleasant evening. The sun had gone down in red fire

behind the Atlantic, and there was still left a rich glow of crimson in

the west, while overhead, in the pale yellow of the sky, some filmy clouds

of rose color lay motionless. How calm was the sea out there, and the

whiter stretch of water coming into Loch Roag! The cool air of the

twilight was scented with sweetbrier. The wash of the ripples along the

coast could be heard in the stillness.

4. The girl put her hand on her father's head, and reminded him that she

had had her big greyhound, Bras, imprisoned all the afternoon, and that

she had to go down to Borvabost with a message for some people who were

leaving by the boat in the morning.

"But you can not go away down to Borvabost by yourself, Sheila," said

Ingram. "It will be dark before you return."

"It will not be darker than this all the night through," said the girl.

5. "But I hope you will let us go with you," said Lavender, rather

anxiously; and she assented with a gracious smile, and went to fetch the

great deerhound that was her constant companion. And lo! he found himself

walking with a Princess in this wonderland, through the magic twilight

that prevails in northern latitudes. Mackenzie and Ingram had gone to the

front. The large deerhound, after regarding him attentively, had gone to

its mistress's side, and remained closely there.

6. Even Sheila, when they had reached the loftiest part of their route,

and could see beneath them the island and the water surrounding it, was

struck by the exceeding beauty of the twilight; and as for her companion,

he remembered it many a time thereafter, as if it were a dream of the sea.

7. Before them lay the Atlantic--a pale line of blue, still, silent, and

remote. Overhead the sky was of a clear, thin gold, with heavy masses of

violet cloud stretched across from north to south, and thickening as they

got near the horizon. Down at their feet, near the shore, a dusky line of

huts and houses was scarcely visible; and over these lay a pale blue film

of peat smoke that did not move in the still air.

8. Then they saw the bay into which the White Water runs, and they could

trace the yellow glimmer of the river stretching into the island through a

level valley of bog and morass. Far away towards the east lay the bulk of

the island,--dark green undulations of moorland and pasture; and there, in

the darkness, the gable of one white house had caught the clear light of

the sky, and was gleaming westward like a star.

9. But all this was as nothing to the glory that began to shine in the

southeast, where the sky was of a pale violet over the peaks of

Mealasabhal and Suainabhal. There, into the beautiful dome, rose the

golden crescent of the moon, warm in color, as though it still retained

the last rays of the sunset. A line of quivering gold fell across Loch

Roag, and touched the black hull and spars of the boat in which Sheila had

been sailing in the morning.

10. That bay down there, with its white sands and massive rocks, its still

expanse of water, and its background of mountain peaks palely covered by

the yellow moonlight, seemed really a home for a magic princess who was

shut off from all the world. But here, in front of them, was another sort

of sea, and another sort of life,--a small fishing village hidden under a

cloud of pale peat smoke, and fronting the great waters of the Atlantic

itself, which lay under a gloom of violet clouds.

11. On the way home it was again Lavender's good fortune to walk with

Sheila across the moorland path they had traversed some little time

before. And now the moon was still higher in the heavens, and the yellow

lane of light that crossed the violet waters of Loch Roag quivered in a

deeper gold. The night air was scented with the Dutch clover growing down

by the shore. They could hear the curlew whistling and the plover calling

amid that monotonous plash of the waves that murmured all around the

coast.

12. When they returned to the house, the darker waters of the Atlantic and

the purple clouds of the west were shut out from sight; and before them

there was only the liquid plain of Loch Roag, with its pathway of yellow

fire, and far away on the other side the shoulders and peaks of the

southern mountains, that had grown gray and clear and sharp in the

beautiful twilight. And this was Sheila's home.

DEFINITIONS.--2. Gla'mour (pro. gla'moor), witchery, or a charm on the

eyes, making them see things differently from what they really are. 3.

Loch (pro. lok), a lake, a bay or arm of the sea. 7. Peat, a kind of turf

used for fuel. 11. Cur'lew (pro. kur'lu), an aquatic bird which takes its

name from its cry. Plov'er (pro. pluv'er), a game bird frequenting river

banks and the sea-shore.

NOTES.--Of the characters mentioned in this selection, Sheila is a young

Scotch girl living on the small island of Borva, which her father owns; it

lies just west of Lewis, one of the Hebrides. Ingram is an old friend and

frequent visitor, while Lavender, a friend of Ingram's, is on his first

visit to the island.

2. Thule (pro. Thu'le) is the name given by an ancient Greek navigator,

Pytheas, to the northernmost region of Europe. The exact locality of Thule

is a disputed point.

3. Loch Roag (pro. Rog') is all inlet of the sea, west of Lewis, in which

Borva is situated.

4. Borvabost, a little town at Borva. Bost means an inhabited place.

9. Mealasabhal and Suainabhal are mountains on the island of Lewis. Bhal

is Gaelic for mountain.

CXII. THE GREAT VOICES.

Charles T. Brooks (b. 1813, d. 1833)[1] was born at Salem, Mass., and was

the valedictorian of his class at Harvard College, where he graduated in

1832. He shortly afterwards entered the ministry, and had charge of a

congregation at Newport, R.I. He was a great student of German literature,

and began his own literary career by a translations of Schiller's "William

Tell." This was followed by numerous translations from the German, mainly

poetry, which have been published from time to time, in several volumes.

Of these translations, Goethe's "Faust," Richter's "Titan" and "Hesperus,"

and a humorous poem by Dr. Karl Arnold Kortum, "The Life, Opinions,

Actions, and Fate of Hieronimus Jobs, the Candidate," deserve especial

mention. Mr. Brooks also published a number of original poems, addresses,

etc.

[Transcriber's Note 1: The correct dates are June, 20 1813 to

June 14, 1883.]

1. A voice from the sea to the mountains,

From the mountains again to the sea;

A call from the deep to the fountains,--

"O spirit! be glad and be free."

2. A cry from the floods to the fountains;

And the torrents repeat the glad song

As they leap from the breast of the mountains,--

"O spirit! be free and be strong."

3. The pine forests thrill with emotion

Of praise, as the spirit sweeps by:

With a voice like the murmur of ocean

To the soul of the listener they cry.

4. Oh! sing, human heart, like the fountains,

With joy reverential and free,

Contented and calm as the mountains,

And deep as the woods and the sea.

CXIII. A PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE.

Samuel Johnson (b. 1709, d. 1784). This remarkable man was born in

Lichfield, Staffordshire, England. He was the son of a bookseller and

stationer. He entered Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1728; but his poverty

compelled him to leave at the end of three years. Soon after his marriage,

in 1736, he opened a private school, but obtained only three pupils, one

of whom was David Garrick, afterwards a celebrated actor. In 1737, he

removed to London, where he resided most of the rest of his life. The most

noted of his numerous literary works are his "Dictionary," the first one

of the English language worthy of mention, "The Vanity of Human Wishes," a

poem, "The Rambler," "Rasselas," "The Lives of the English Poets," and his

edition of Shakespeare. An annual pension of 300 pounds was granted him in

1762.

In person, Johnson was heavy and awkward; in manner, boorish and

overbearing; but his learning and his great powers caused his company to

be sought by many eminent men.

1. Obidah, the son of Abnesina, left the caravansary early in the morning,

and pursued his journey through the plains of Hindostan. He was fresh and

vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire;

he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually

rising before him.

2. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of

the bird of paradise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking

breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes

contemplated towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and

sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of

the spring; all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from

his heart.

3. Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridian, and the

increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him

for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that

seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and

found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however,

forget whither he was traveling, but found a narrow way, bordered with

flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and

was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite

pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence without

suffering its fatigues.

4. He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without the least

remission of his ardor, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by

the music of the birds, which the heat had assembled in the shade, and

sometimes amused himself with picking the flowers that covered the banks

on each side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At last, the

green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among the

hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls.

5. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it was

longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but, remembering that

the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty

and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to

make a few meanders, in compliance with the garieties of the ground, and

to end at last in the common road.

6. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he

suspected he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined

him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that

might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every

hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased

himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the

trees, and watered a large region, with innumerable circumvolutions.

7. In these amusements, the hours passed away uncounted; his deviations

had perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward what point to travel. He

stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong,

yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus

tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day

vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head.

8. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of

his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he

lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the

grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to

trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker and a clap of

thunder broke his meditation.

9. He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power; to tread back the

ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood

might open into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground, and

commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and

tranquillity, and pressed on with his saber in his hand; for the beasts of

the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls

of rage, and fear, and ravage, and expiration; all the horrors of darkness

and solitude surrounded him; the winds roared in the woods, and the

torrents tumbled from the hills.

10. Thus, forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild without

knowing whither he was going or whether he was every moment drawing nearer

to safety or to destruction. At length, not fear but labor began to

overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on

the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, when he beheld,

through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced toward the

light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he

called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before

him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed

with eagerness and gratitude.

11. When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the hermit, "by what chance

thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant

of this wilderness, in which I never saw a man before." Obidah then

related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or

palliation.

12. "Son," said the hermit, "let the errors and follies, the dangers and

escapes, of this day, sink deep into your heart. Remember, my son, that

human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full

of vigor, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope,

with gayety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the straight road

of piety toward the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervor,

and endeavor to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means

of obtaining the same end.

13. "We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified with

crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to

approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease,

and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and

vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance

can not be made, and whether we may not at least turn our eyes upon the

gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we

enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass

through them without losing the road of virtue, which we for a while keep

in our sight, and to which we propose to return.

14. "But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us

for another; we, in time, lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our

disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the

remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object

of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves

in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy till the

darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct

our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, and

with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not

forsaken the paths of virtue.

15. "Happy are they, my son, who shall learn, from thy example, not to

despair, but shall remember that though the day is past, and their

strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that

reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted; that

the wanderer may at length return after all his errors; and that he who

implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty

give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose: commit thyself to the

care of Omnipotence; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew

thy journey and thy life."

DEFINITIONS.--1. Car-a-van sa-ry, a kind of inn in the East, where

caravans (or large companies of traders) rest at night. 5. Me-an'ders,

windings, turnings. 6. Cir-cum-vo-lu'tions, windings or flowings around.

7. De-vi-a'tions, wanderins from one's course. 9. Ex-pi-ra'tion, death.

11. Pal-li-a'tion, concealment of the most blamable circumstances of an

offence. 12. Mit-i-ga'tion, abatement, the act of rendering less severe.

14. Ad'e-quate, fully sufficient. Lab'y-rinth, a place full of winding

passages.

CXIV. A SUMMER LONGING.

George Arnold (b. 1834, d. 1865) was born in New York, but removed with

his parents to Illinois while yet an infant. There he passed his boyhood,

being educated at home by his parents. In 1849 the family again removed to

Strawberry Farms, Monmouth County, N.J. When eighteen years old he began

to study painting, but soon gave up the art and devoted himself to

literature. He became a journalist of New York City, and his productions

include almost every variety of writings found in the literary magazines.

After his death, two volumes of his poems, "Drift: a Seashore Idyl," and

"Poems, Grave and Gay," were edited by Mr. William Winter.

1. I must away to the wooded hills and vales,

Where broad, slow streams flow cool and silently

And idle barges flap their listless sails.

For me the summer sunset glows and pales,

And green fields wait for me.

2. I long for shadowy founts, where the birds

Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree;

I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds;

And Nature's voices say in mystic words,

"The green fields wait for thee."

3. I dream of uplands, where the primrose shines

And waves her yellow lamps above the lea;

Of tangled copses, swung with trailing vines;

Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines,

Where green fields wait for me.

4. I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I

May lie and listen to the distant sea,

Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh,

Or insect voices chirping shrill and dry,

In fields that wait for me.

5. These dreams of summer come to bid me find

The forest's shade, the wild bird's melody,

While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined,

While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind,

And green fields wait for me.

CXV. FATE.

Francis Bret Harte (b. 1839,--) was born in Albany, N.Y. When seventeen

years old he went to California, where he engaged in various employments.

He was a teacher, was employed in government offices, worked in the gold

mines, and learned to be a compositor in a printing office. In 1868 he

started the "Overland Monthly," and his original and characteristic poems

and sketches soon made it a popular magazine. Mr. Harte has been a

contributor to some of the leading periodicals of the country, but

principally to the "Atlantic Monthly."

1. "The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare;

The spray of the tempest is white in air;

The winds are out with the waves at play,

And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.

2. "The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,

The panther clings to the arching limb;

And the lion's whelps are abroad at play,

And I shall not join in the chase to-day."

3. But the ship sailed safely over the sea,

And the hunters came from the chase in glee;

And the town that was builded upon a rock

Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock.

CXVI. THE BIBLE THE BEST OF CLASSICS.

Thomas S. Grimke (b. 1786, d. 1834). This eminent lawyer and

scholar was born in Charleston, S.C. He graduated at Yale College

in 1807. He gained considerable reputation as a politician, but is

best known as an advocate of peace, Sunday schools, and the

Bible. He was a man of deep feeling, earnest purpose, and pure

life.

1. There is a classic the best the world has ever seen, the noblest that

has ever honored and dignified the language of mortals. If we look into

its antiquity, we discover a title to our veneration unrivaled in the

history of literature. If we have respect to its evidences, they are found

in the testimony of miracle and prophecy; in the ministry of man, of

nature, and of angels, yea, even of "God, manifest in the flesh," of "God

blessed forever."

2. If we consider its authenticity, no other pages have survived the lapse

of time that can be compared with it. If we examine its authority, for it

speaks as never man spake, we discover that it came from heaven in vision

and prophecy under the sanction of Him who is Creator of all things, and

the Giver of every good and perfect gift.

3. If we reflect on its truths, they are lovely and spotless, sublime and

holy as God himself, unchangeable as his nature, durable as his righteous

dominion, and versatile as the moral condition of mankind. If we regard

the value of its treasures, we must estimate them, not like the relics of

classic antiquity, by the perishable glory and beauty, virtue and

happiness, of this world, but by the enduring perfection and supreme

felicity of an eternal kingdom.

4. If we inquire who are the men that have recorded its truths, vindicated

its rights, and illustrated the excellence of its scheme, from the depth

of ages and from the living world, from the populous continent and the

isles of the sea, comes forth the answer: "The patriarch and the prophet,

the evangelist and the martyr."

5. If we look abroad through the world of men, the victims of folly or

vice, the prey of cruelty, of injustice, and inquire what are its

benefits, even in this temporal state, the great and the humble, the rich

and the poor, the powerful and the weak, the learned and the ignorant

reply, as with one voice, that humility and resignation, purity, order,

and peace, faith, hope, and charity are its blessings upon earth.

6. And if, raising our eyes from time to eternity; from the world of

mortals to the world of just men made perfect; from the visible creation,

marvelous, beautiful, and glorious as it is, to the invisible creation of

angels and seraphs; from the footstool of God to the throne of God

himself, we ask, what are the blessings that flow from this single volume,

let the question be answered by the pen of the evangelist, the harp of the

prophet, and the records of the book of life.

7. Such is the best of classics the world has ever admired; such, the

noblest that man has ever adopted as a guide.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Clas'sic, a work of acknowledged excellence and

authority. 2. Au-then-tic'i-ty, of established authority for truth and

correctness. Sanc'tion (pro, sank'shun), authority, support. 3.

Ver'sa-tile, readily applied to various subjects. 4. Vin di-cat-ed,

defended, justified. E-van'gel-ist, a writer of the history of Jesus

Christ. 6. Ser'aph, an angel of the highest order.

CXVII. MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

George P. Morris (b. 1802, d. 1864) was born in Philadelphia. In 1823 he

became one of the editors of the "New York Mirror," a weekly literary

paper, In 1846 Mr. Morris and N. P. Willis founded "The Home Journal." He

was associate editor of this popular journal until a short time before his

death.

1. This book is all that's left me now,--

Tears will unbidden start,--

With faltering lip and throbbing brow

I press it to my heart.

For many generations past

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,

She, dying, gave it me.

2. Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;

Who round the hearthstone used to close,

After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill!

Though they are with the silent dead,

Here are they living still!

3. My father read this holy hook

To brothers, sisters, dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,

Who loved God's word to hear!

Her angel face,--I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met

Within the walls of home!

4. Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false, I found thee true,

My counselor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give

That could this volume buy;

In teaching me the way to live,

It taught me how to die.