• ■] 
 
 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924075703763 
 
ECLECTIC EDUCATIONAL SERIES. 
 
 The design in the publication of the Eclectic Series is not merely to jjio- 
 duce Class Books of sterling merit, for the purposes of instruction, but also 
 to furnish them at much lower prices than are usually charged for simila' 
 text books. In the department of authorship, the services of the best educa 
 tional talent of the country have been secured. 
 
 McGUPPEY'S ECLECTIC PRIMER: 
 
 For Little Children. 
 
 JKcaVFE-EfS ECI.EOTIG SPEI.I1ING BOOH.I 
 
 For Primary Schools. 
 
 MoGTJFPEY'S ECr,ECTIC FIRST READER: 
 
 For tlie Tonngest Fnpils in Reading. 
 
 MoQCFEEY'S ECI,ECTIC SECOND READER: 
 
 For Young Fnpils in Reading. 
 
 mcGnFFEF'S ECIiECTIC THIRD READER: 
 
 For the Middle Classes. 
 
 McGTTFFElT'S EC1.ECTIC FOURTH READER: 
 
 For the more advanced Classes. 
 
 OIcGUFFES'>S RHETORICAIj GUIDE, or FIFTH READER. 
 
 A Rhetorical Reading Book for the highest Classes. 
 
 Qj" Professor McGnraET has furnished, in the above books, unsurpassed 
 aids for the thorough instruction of youth in Spelling and Reading. They 
 combine, in an eminent degree, the varied excellencies of nearly all other 
 similar school books. 
 
 ARITHMETICAL COURSE: 
 
 Compiled for the Eclectic Educational Series by Dn. Joseph Rat, Professor 
 cd Mathematics in Woodward College. 
 
 RAY'S ARITHMETIC, PART FIRST. 
 
 Simple Lessons for Little Learners. 
 
 RAT'S ARITHMETIC, FART SECOND. 
 
 A Complete Text Book in Mental Arithmetic. 
 
 RAY'S ARITHMETIC, PART THIRD. 
 
 The best work extant for Common Schools and Academies. 
 
 QTy- Notvrithstanding the many admirable text books which undoubtedly 
 exist in this department of Mathematics, Rat's Arithmetics are rapidly 
 superceding all others, as standard Class Books, in many of the best schools 
 in our country. 
 
 (1) 
 
2 RAY'S ALGEBRA, PART FIRST. 
 
 On tne Analytic and Inductive methods of Instruction : with numerous 
 practical exercises. Designed for Common Schools and Academies. By 
 JosKPH Rat, M. D., Professor of Mathematics in Woodward College 
 
 Complete in one volume I'^mc, "24:0 pages. 
 
 This work has been prepared expressly for the Eclectic Educational Series, and 
 is the result of much labor and mT§stigation. It is hoped that it will be found as 
 meritorious in its department, as the highly popular Arithmetics by the same author, 
 have already been pronounced by the educational public. 
 
 Gratifying evidence of its adaptation to the wants of Teachers and Pupils is found 
 in the fact that the first edition is already entirely exhausted, though it is but a few 
 weeks since its issue. 
 
 The following extract from the Preface will explain the plan (f the work : 
 
 " The object has been to furnish an elementary treatise, commencing with the first 
 principles, and leading the pupil by gradual and easy steps, to a knowledge of the 
 elements of the science. The design has been to present these in a brief, clear, and 
 scientific manner, so that the pupil should not be taught merely to perform a certain 
 routine of exercises mechanically, but to understand the wAy and \hB wherefore of 
 every step. For this purpose every rule is demonstrated, and every principle ana- 
 lyzed, in order that the mind of the pupil may be disciplined and strengthened, so as 
 to prepare him, either for pursuing the study of Mathematics intelligently, or more 
 successfully attending to any pursuit in life. 
 
 ** Some Teachers may object that this work is too simple, and too easily understood. 
 A leading object has been to make the pupil feel that he is not operating on unmeaning 
 symbols, by means of arbitrary rules ; that Algebra is both a rational and a practical 
 subject, and that he can rely upon his reasoning and the results of his operations, with 
 the same confidence as in Arithmetic. For this purpose he is furnished, at almost 
 every step, with the means of testing the accuracy of the principles on which the rules 
 are founded, and of the results which they produce. 
 
 " Throughout the work the aim has been to combine the clear, explanatory methods of 
 the French mathematicians, with the practical exercises of the English and German, so 
 that the pupil should acquire both a practical and theoretical knowledge of the subject." 
 
 The intention to render the works comprised in the Eclectic Series the cheapest 
 School Boolis extant, has not been lost sight of in fixing the price of Rat's Algebra. 
 
 FromD. S. BansoTn, Principal of Waynesville Academy. 
 
 Kay's Ai-g}Ebra, Part First, is a work 'sui generis,' and more than any treatise 
 with which I am acquainted, is calculated to make the study of Algebra popular, and 
 will, I hope, by rendering the subject plain and inlelligible, be the means of introduc- 
 ing this beautiful branch of mathematics into our common schools. Some may object 
 to its simplicity ; but, in my opinion, this is a most desirable feature. In most treatises 
 on Algebra there is a lamentable want of clearness— in many, even a mystifying of 
 the subject, the authors seeming to think that students generally have judgments at 
 ripe as their own. Hence a distaste on the part of pupils for this study. Prolixity oj» 
 the one hand, and a dimly shadowing forth of principles, on the other, should be care 
 fully guarded against by authors. This golden medium is, in my opinion,'more nearlj 
 attained, both in Ray^s Arithmetics, and in this treatise on AlgeVa, than in any worki 
 of similar design with which I am acquainted, I give the book my unreserved com 
 mendation, and shall introduce it into our Academy. D. S. BITRSON. 
 
ECLECTIC EDUCATIONAL SERIES. 
 
 THE HBMANS YOUNG LADIES' READEK. 
 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 3 1924 075 703 763 
 
 HEMAN S READER 
 
 FEMALE SCHOOLS 
 
 coirrAXNin'a 
 
 EXTRACTS IN PROSE AND POETRY, 
 
 Si:X,£CTSI) FROM THK WRITINQS OF MOKS THAN 
 
 ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY DIFFERENT AUTHORS. 
 
 Br T. S. PINNEO, A. M., M. D. 
 
 COUrlLED FOB THB BCLECTIC BERIE&. 
 
 PUBLISHERS: 
 
 JNEW YORK:_CLARK, AUSTIN, & SMITH> 
 
 CINCINNATIi/— W. B. SMITH & CO. 
 
Entebed, according to Act of Congress, in the year Eighteen Hundred 
 and Forty-seven, Bi Wtnthhop is. smith, in the Clerk's Office of the 
 District Court of the UniteJ States for the District of Ob-o 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Lessons, contained in this book, have been selected with 
 great care, from a large amount of material examined for the pur- 
 pose. Every article has been carefully studied with reference to its 
 instructive character, to its interest, to its appropriateness as an 
 exercise for reading, and, also, especially with regard to its adapted- 
 ness to the cultivation of the female mind and heart. The develop- 
 ment of correct sentiment and taste, the encouragement of gentle 
 and amiable feeling, and the regulating and maturing of the social 
 affections, have been objects constantly prominent in the mind of the 
 compiler. 
 
 The title given to the work seems appropriate, as a tribute of 
 respect and admiration to one, whose writings, purely and dis- 
 tinctly feminine, present to youthful aspiration a high standard of 
 Intellectual and moral excellence, and open a pure fount of religious 
 sentiment and refined feeling. 
 
 More than one hundred and thirty different authors, male and 
 female, are represented in this volume, and, in every instance, where 
 practicable, the selection has been made directly from an edition 
 issued under the eye of its author. Accuracy, beauty, and variety 
 of style have, also, been carefully consulted, and alterations have 
 been freely made, whenever necessary to secure this object. While 
 it has been made an object of importance to give a decidedly moral 
 and religious character to the instruction conveyed, every point of 
 sectarian opinion has been carefully avoided. 
 
 Directions for reading are given in the introductory article, which 
 may be useful as a review of previous instruction on the subject, 
 or may be profitably made an introductory study, whenever this 
 essential part of education has been neglected. 
 
 A few elliptical lessons have been introduced, which, while they 
 give variety and interest to the work, and are adapted for practice in 
 reading, serve also, as useful exercises in grammatical construction 
 and composition. 
 
 To the teachers and pupils of that class for which it has been 
 especially prepared, this work is presented, with the hope that it may, 
 in some degree, prepare the youthful mind and heart for the high 
 and holy duties of active life, and give an impulse and direction 
 to that progressive development which will never cease, while the 
 immortal part of our nature shall continue to exist, 
 
 (5^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 DIKECSTIONS FOR BEADING. 
 
 FAQS. 
 
 Pbeiimiitaht Remabes ''' 
 
 Aeticciatioit 
 
 Inflectioks 
 Accent . . 
 
 16 
 
 28 
 
 Emphasis *" 
 
 The Eeadiitg oe Poetbt 32 
 
 MoDriATioir 33 
 
 Exercises 37, 38, 39 40 
 
 LESSONS IN PROSE. 
 
 LESSON. PAGE. 
 
 1. What is Education? Annah of Education. 41 
 
 2. On Elocution and Reading N. A. Review. 43 
 
 3. On Female Influence T. S. Pinneo. 45 
 
 5. Female Heroism J. Wikon. 49 
 
 10. The Moon and Stars J. Montgomery. 60 
 
 11. The same, concluded J.Montgomery. 62 
 
 15. Beauty of Flowers Howitt. 70 
 
 18. Resignation Knox. 74 
 
 19. Poetry of Mrs. Hemans Mrs, Sigoumey. 78 
 
 24. Fashionable Follies T. Flint. 86 
 
 29. Lilias Grieve J. Wikon. 94 
 
 30. The same, concluded J. Wihon. 97 
 
 34. The Deformed Child C. Edwards. 106 
 
 37. Description of the Mocking Bird A. Wilson. 113 
 
 40. The Wife W.Irving. 117 
 
 41. The same, concluded W. Irving. 121 
 
 47. Value of the Soul Griffin. 128 
 
 48. Promises of Religion to the Young Alison. 130 
 
 51. Good Sense and Beauty Anonymous. 137 
 
 52. On Contentment Addison. 139 
 
 65. On Politeness Miss Talbot. Ui 
 
 (6) 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 LESSON. PASK 
 
 58. The Cottage of Moss-side J. V/lhon. 149 
 
 59. The same, concluded, J. Wilson, 154 
 
 66. Unwritten Music N. P. Willis. 165 
 
 67. The same, concluded N. P. Willis. 168 
 
 71. The Wise and Amiable Woman Freeman. 175 
 
 72. Mrs. Slgourney Mrs. S. J. Hale. 177 
 
 75. The Hermit of Niagara Mrs. Slgourney. 183 . 
 
 78. Government of the Temper Mrs. Chapone. 190 
 
 79. The Daughter at her Mother's Grave Anonymous. 192 
 
 83. On the Nature of Clouds Anonymous. 200 
 
 86. Description of Prairies James Hall. 206 
 
 88. God Seen in Nature's Works Anonymous. 212 
 
 89. The Miracle P. A. Krummaclier. 214 
 
 90. Description of Sinai J.L.Stephens. 216 
 
 94. Planetary and Terrestrial Worlds Hervey. 221 
 
 95. Escape from a Panther J. F. Cooper. 223 
 
 100. Maternal Influence Mrs. A. Whelpley. 234 
 
 103. Woman's Influence on Character Thatcher. 238 
 
 105. The Sea is His, and He Made it Greenwood. 243 
 
 107. Thanks to God for Mountains Howitt. 249 
 
 111. Byron and his Poetry T. B. Macaulay Frishie. 256 
 
 112. Henry Martyn and Lord Byron Miss C. E. Beecher. ^5S 
 
 117. The North American Indian Story. — McLellan. 265 
 
 1 18. Pocahontas James Hall. 269 
 
 120. The Peruvian Soldier R. B. Sheridan. 271 
 
 121. Disinterested Friendship K.B.Sheridan. 274 
 
 122. Friendship in Scripture Melmoth. 278 
 
 123. Naomi and Ruth ('Elliptical. J Ruth.^ 279 
 
 128. Tea Parties in Nev7 York W. Irving, 286 
 
 129. On Taste and Beauty in Dress Mrs. Farrar. 287 
 
 132. Female Accomplishments Hannah More. 294 
 
 133. The Profession of » Woman Miss C. E. Beecher. 295 
 
 134. The Musical Instrument Anonymous. 297 
 
 136. The Last Days of Queen Elizabeth Hume. 301 
 
 137. Death of Princess Charlotte Robert Hall. 303 
 
 143. Matilda • Goldsmith, 311 
 
 144. The Voyage of Life : An Allegory Dr. Johnson. 312 
 
 145. The Emigrant's Abode T. Flint. 315 
 
 149. Thanksgiving J. T. Buddngham. 321 
 
 150. Duties of American Mothers D. Webster. 324 
 
 151. Lady Arabella Johnson fEllipiicaUJ Story. 325 
 
 152. Trials of the Pilgrims E. Everett. 327 
 
 157. The Transport Anonymous. 336 
 
 160. The Uses of Suflering W. E. Vhanning. 342 
 
 161. Moral Influence of Burial-Places Story. 344 
 
 1C2. Death and Sleep : A Parable F, A. Krummacher. 346 
 
 167. Memory and Hope J. K. Paulding, 352 
 
VUl CONTENTS. 
 
 I.ESSOlt PAOB. 
 
 168. Both Sides of the Question C Elliptical. J Beaumont. 356 
 
 169. A Leaf from the Life of a Loolung-Glass .... Jane Taykr. 358 
 
 174. On Apparitions Addison. 368 
 
 175. Anecdotes of Children John Neut. 370 
 
 176. The Uncalled Avenger Anonymous. 372 
 
 181. Qualities of a Well-Regulated Mind Abercrombie. SSi 
 
 183. On Decision of Character John Foster. 389 
 
 184. Character of Washington J. Sparks. 391 
 
 189. The Umbrella Anonymous. 399 
 
 190. Effects of Universal Falsehood . . Dick. 402 
 
 194. Sabbath Morning Jane Taylor. 408 
 
 198. The Little Brook and the Star Anonymous. i.\6 
 
 199. The same, concluded Anonymous. 420 
 
 206. A Winter Scene W. P. Willis. 434 
 
 209. The Widow and Her Son W. Irving. 439 
 
 210. The same, concluded W. Irving. 442 
 
 214. Spirit of the Rose-Bush F. A. Krummacher. 450 
 
 215. The Penitent Son J. Wilson. 452 
 
 219. The Garden of Hope Dr. Johnson. 458 
 
 222. The New-Year's Night Richter. 465 
 
 323. Westminster Abbey W. Irving. 467 
 
 229. The Resurrection Corinthians. 477 
 
 230. Heaven Revelation. 479 
 
 LESSONS IN POETRY. 
 Lesson-. Page. 
 
 4. Better Momenta N. P. Willis. 47 
 
 6. Fidelity unto Death Mrs. Remans. 54 
 
 7. Footsteps of Angels H.W. Longfellow. 56 
 
 8. The Parting of Friends J. Montgomery. 57 
 
 9. Romance of the Swan's Nest Miss E. B. Barrett. 57 
 
 12. Adam's Morning Hymn Milton. 66 
 
 13. Spring ■ . . . . Mary Howltt. 68 
 
 14. Breathings of Spring Mrs. Hemans. 69 
 
 16. The Reaper and the Flowers H. W. Longfellow. 72 
 
 17. The Child of Earth Mrs. Norton. 73 
 
 80. Death o( Mrs. Hemans Miss L. E. Landon. 81 
 
 21. The Two Voices Mrs. Hemans. 83 
 
 84 
 85 
 
 25. Reflections of a Belle Anonymous. 90 
 
 26. The Stolen Blush Mrs. F. S. Osgood. 90 
 
 ^^" ™ ® I™.'^^'*'.''"^ Mrs. S. J. Hale. 91 
 
 92 
 
 22. The Angel's Greeting j/^^. Hemans. 
 
 23. Evening Prayer at a Girl's School Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 2S. The Pebble and the Acorn Miss H. F. Gould 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 LESSON. FAas. 
 
 31. True Love no Flatterer Shcjcspeare. 100 
 
 32. Filial Ingratitude Shdkipeare. 103 
 
 33. Filial Affection Shakspeare. 105 
 
 35. Tlie Vulture of the Alps Anonymous. 109 
 
 36. God's Works and Providence Psalms. Ill 
 
 38. The Winter King Miss H. F. Gould. 115 
 
 39. The Wild Violet Mss H. F. Gould. 116 
 
 42. The Homes of England Mrs. Hemans. 124 
 
 43. Childhood's Spells ^ Mrs. Hemans. 125 
 
 44. Come Home Mrs. Hemans. 126 
 
 45. The Stranger's Heart Mrs. Hemans. 127 
 
 46. Departure of Adam and Eve Milton. 127 
 
 49. Invitation to the Young Eccksiastes — W.G.Clark. 132 
 
 50. Prisoner's Evening Service Mrs. Hemans. 133 
 
 53. Select Paragraphs .... Akenside, Cowper, Campbell, Beattie: 142 
 
 54. The Quiet Mind John Clare. 144 
 
 56. On Conversation Cowper. 147 
 
 57. Elegy on Madam Blaize Goldsmith. 149 
 
 60. Nature's Farewell Mrs. Hemans. 158 
 
 61. The Return Mrs. Hemans. 159 
 
 62. The Adieu Miss L. E. London. 160 
 
 63. The Bride Mrs. Sigoumey. 161 
 
 64. The Bride's Farewell Mrs. Hemans. 163 
 
 65. The Family Meeting C. Sprague. 164 
 
 Q8^ Music Shakspeare. 170 
 
 69. The Freed Bird Mrs. Hemans. 172 
 
 70. Beauty, — Health, — Happiness Thomson, Moore, Milton. 174 
 
 73. The Contrast Mrs. Sigoumey. 179 
 
 74. Burial of the Young Mrs. Sigourney. 182 
 
 76. Apostrophe to Niagara . Mrs. Sigoumey. 187 
 
 77. Story of the Ark and Dove M-s. Sigoumey. 188 
 
 80. To My Mother Fanny Forester. 194 
 
 81. Fairies of Caldon Low Mary Howitt. 195 
 
 82. Home C Elliptical. J W. Scott. 198 
 
 84. The Beauty of Clouds Miss M. A. Broum. 203 
 
 85. The Zephyr's Soliloquy Miss H. F. Gould. 204 
 
 87. The pTairies W. p. Bryant. 209 
 
 91. Song of Moses at the Red Sea Exodus. 217 
 
 92. Hymn of Nature W. 0. P. Peabody. 219 
 
 93. The Presence of God Mrs. A. B. Welby. 220 
 
 96. The Suliote Mother Mrs. Hemans. 227 
 
 97. Hagar in the Wilderness N. P. Willis. 229 
 
 98. Thy Will Be Done Mrs. Nortm. 232 
 
 99. A Psalm of Life H. W. Longfellow. 233 
 
 101. A Mother's Gift . , W. Ferguson. 236 
 
 102. Inpentives to Devotion U.K. White. 237 
 
 104. My Mother's Picture , , . Cowper. 241 
 
DIRECTIONS FOR READING,* 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 PRELIMINARY REMARKS. 
 
 In reading before a circle of auditors, the object to be ac- 
 complished is, to convey to the hearer, fiiUy and clearly, the 
 ideas and feelings of the writer. In order to do this, it is nec- 
 essary that these should be thoroughly understood by the 
 reader. This is an essential point. It is true, the words may 
 be pronounced, as traced upon the page, and, if they are audibly 
 and distinctly uttered, they will be heard, and in some degree 
 understood, and, in this way, a general and feeble idea of the 
 author's meaning may be obtained. 
 
 Ideas received in this manner, however, bear the same re- 
 semblance to the reality, that the dead body does to the living 
 spirit. There is no soul in them. The author is stripped of 
 all the grace and beauty of life, of all that expression and feel- 
 ing, which constitute the soul of his subject. 
 
 Such readers, with every conceivable grace of manner, with 
 the most perfect melody of voice, and with all other advantages 
 combined, can never attain the true standard of excellence in this 
 accomplishment. The golden rule here is, that the reader 
 must be in earnest. The ideas and feelings of the author 
 whose language is read, must be fiilly understood and realized, 
 and then only, can they be properly expressed. 
 
 In accordance with this view, a preUminary rule of great im- 
 portance is the following. 
 
 Rule .v- Before attempting to read a lesson, the learner 
 should become well acquainted with the subject, as treated of in 
 that lesson, and endeavor to imbibe fuUy, for the time being, the 
 feelings and sentiments of the writer. 
 
 For this purpose, every lesson should be well studied before- 
 hand, and no scholar should be permitted to attempt to read any 
 
 •These " DireotioiiS for Reading" are taken, with some modification, from Mo- 
 Guffey'a Eclectic Seader, fiii which they were prepared by the coitipilei of this work. 
 
 13 
 
14 ARTICULATION 
 
 thing, until it is thoroughly understood. The best speakers and 
 readers are those who follow the impulse of nature as felt in 
 their own hearts, or most closely imitate it as observed in 
 others. Let the reader, then, enter fully into the feelings and 
 sentiments, which he is about to express in the language of an- 
 other, and not only will that lisflessness and heaviness which 
 constitute a prominent fault in reading, disappear, but he wiU be 
 prepared also to give the inflection, emphasis, and modulation 
 most appropriate to the subject. 
 
 Questions.— WhBX is the chief design of reading ? In order to do this, what is 
 first necessary? Suppose a person reads without understanding the subject, ^vhat 
 is the consequence? When is a person qualified to read well? Repeat the Rule. 
 For the purpose of being able to observe this rule, what must be done ? 
 
 , SECTION II. 
 
 ARTICULATION. 
 
 The subject, first in order and in importance, requiring atten- 
 tion, is ARTICULATION. The object to be accomplished, may be 
 expressed by the following general direction. 
 
 Give to each letter (except silent letters), to each syllable, and 
 to each word its full, distinct, and appropriate utterance. 
 
 For the purpose of avoiding the more common errors under 
 this head, it is necessary to observe the following rules. 
 
 Rule I. —Avoid the omission or improper sound of un- 
 accented vowels, whether they form a syllable, or part of a sylla- 
 ble; as, 
 
 Sep '-rate for sep-a-rate ;* met-ri-c'l for met-ri-cal ; 'pear for op-pear ; com- 
 p'tent for com-pe-tent; p'r-cede for pre-cede; 'spe-cial for «s-pe-cial; ev'dent 
 for ev-«-dent ; moun-t'n for mount-izm (pro. mount-in) ; mem'ty for mem-o- 
 ry ; 'pin-ion for o-pin-ion ; pr'pose for pro-pose ; gran'lar for gran-tt-lar ; 
 pai-tic'lar for par-tio«-Iar. 
 
 In the above instances the unaccented vowel is omitted : it 
 may also be improperly sounded, as in the followifig examples ; 
 viz. 
 
 Sep-er-ate for sep-a-rate ; met-ri-cul for met-ri-cal ; up-pear for rfp-pear ; 
 ■com-per-twnt for com-pe-tent ; dwTTz-mand for de-mand ; ob-stwr-nate for ob- 
 fltz-nate ; mem-er-y for mem-o-ry ; «p-pin-ion for o-pin-ion ; prup-pose for 
 pro-pose ; gran-n^-lar for gran-u-lar ; par-tioer-lar for par-tic-u-lar. 
 
 *In these examples the italicized letters are those which are liable to be omitted, 
 or sounded improperly 
 
ARTICULATION. 15 
 
 In correcting such errors in words of more than one syllable, 
 it is very important to avoid a fault which is the natural conse- 
 quence of all' effort, to articulate correctly. Thus, in endeavor- 
 ing to sound correctly the a in met'-ri-cal, the pupil is very apt 
 to sz-Y rnet-ri-paV , Accenting the last syllable instead of the first. 
 In correcting the sound of o, in pro-pose', it will perhaps be 
 pronounced' /)ro'-/)0«c. This change of the accent and all 
 undue sty^ss upon'the uTiaccented syllable, should be carefully 
 avoided. J > -'^ '- ^ 
 
 ""R V L E ^I I . — Guardi^particularly against the omission, or 
 tlie feeble sound of the terminating consonan|. '' 
 
 Upon a full and correct sound of the consoriahts, defends 
 very much, distinctness of utterance. The following are ex- 
 amples of this fault ; viz. 
 
 An' or un for and; ban' for banc?; raoun' for mounrf; morn-in' for morn- 
 ing' ; dess for desk ; moss for mask ; near-es' for near-es< ; wep' for wep< ,• 
 ob-jec' for ob-jec? ; &c. 
 
 This omission is still more likely to take place, where several 
 consonants come together ; as, 
 
 Thrus' for thrus/s ; beace for beasts ; thinks' for thinks^ ; weps' for 
 wepfst; harms' for harms/,- wrongs' for wrongc?'siy twink-les' for 
 tmmk-l'ds't ,■ black'ns' for black'n'(fe<, &c. 
 
 In all cases of this kind, these sounds are omitted, in the first 
 instance, merely because they are difficult, and require care and 
 attention for their utterance, although after a while, it becomes a 
 matter of habit. The only remedy is, to devote that care and 
 attention, which may be necessary. There is no other difficulty, 
 unless there should be a defect in the organs of speech, which 
 does not often happen. 
 
 Rule III . — ^ Avoid uniting into one word, syllables which 
 belong to different words. 
 
 This fault, when added to that last mentioned, forms perhaps 
 the most fruitfiil source of error in articulation. The following 
 lines furnish an example. 
 
 Here — res-e-zed upon th'lapper verth, 
 A youth tofor turnan tofa munknown, 
 Fairsci enslrow noton ezum blebirth, 
 UQmel anchol emark dimfor crown. 
 
16 INFLECTIONS. 
 
 With some difficulty these lines may be deciphered to mean 
 as follows ; 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 A. youth to fortune and to fame unknown, 
 
 Fair science frowned not on his humble birth. 
 And melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 The learner will recollect, that in correcting a fault, there is 
 always danger of erring in the opposite extreme. Now, pro- 
 perly speaking, there is no danger of learning to articulate too 
 distinctly, but there is danger of contracting a habit of drawl- 
 ing, and of pronouncing unimportant words with too much pro- 
 minence. This should be carefully guarded against. It is a 
 childish fault, but is not always confined to children. 
 
 Questions. — What subject is first in importance to the reader? Repeat the gene- 
 ral direction. Repeat the first Rule. Give some examples in wliich the vowel is 
 left out. Give some in which it is improperly sounded. In correcting these errors, 
 what fault is it necessary to guard against? What is the second Rule? 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 INFLECTIONS. 
 
 1. Definitions and Examples, 
 
 Inflection is a bending or sliding of the voice either up- 
 ward or downward. 
 
 The upward or rising inflection is marked by the acute ac- 
 cent, thus, (^f) ; and in this case the voice is to shde upward ; as, 
 Did you call' ? Is he sick' 1 
 
 The downward or falling inflection is marked by the grave 
 accent, thus, (\) ; and indicates that the voice is to shde down- 
 ward ; as, Where is London^ ? Where have you been^ ? Who 
 has come^ ? 
 
 Sometimes both the rising and falling inflection are given to 
 the same sound. Such sounds are designated by the circum- 
 flex, thus, (— ), or (-). The former is c^edthe rising circum- 
 flex, because it ends with the rising inflection ; the latter the 
 falling circumflex, because it ends with the falling inflection. 
 
 When several successive syllables are uttered without either 
 the upward or downward slide, they are said to be uttered in a 
 monotone, which is marked thus, (-). 
 
INFLECTIONS. 
 
 17 
 
 EXAMPLES. 
 
 Does he read correctly', or incorrectly^'! 
 
 In reading this sentence, the voice should slide somewhat as 
 represented in the following diagram : 
 
 Does he read cot- 
 
 If you said vinegar, I said sflgar. 
 To be read thus : 
 
 If you said \J|>^-'''^ I said ^ ^<^. 
 
 If you said ygs, I said no. 
 To be read thus : 
 
 If you said <^!>^ I said t--"-^- 
 
 What', did he say no'? 
 To be read thus : 
 
 ^^ did he say ^°!> 
 
 He did* ; he said no\ 
 To be read thus : 
 
 He 
 
 he said 
 
 Did he do it voluntarily', or involuntarily ? 
 To be read thus : 
 
 Did he do it -4' 
 
 it jov 
 
 He did it voluntarily', not involuntarily'. 
 To be read thus : 
 
 C°/. 
 
 He did it 
 
 -^Z not V?' 
 
18 FALLING INFLECTION. 
 
 It is important that these inflections should be familiar to the 
 ear of the learner. In the following questions, the first member 
 has the rising, and the second member, the falling inflection. 
 
 Is he sick,' or is lie well^ % 
 Is he young', or is he old^ 1 
 Is he rich', or is he poor^ ? 
 Did you say valor', or value^ ? 
 Did you say statute', or statue^ 1 
 Did he act properly', or improperly' ? 
 
 In the following answers to these questions, the inflections 
 are used in a contrary order, the first member terminating with 
 the falling, and the second, with the rising inflection. 
 
 He is weir, not sick'. 
 
 He is young\ not old'. 
 
 He is rich\ not poor'. 
 
 I said value', not valor'. 
 
 I said statue', not statute'. 
 
 He acted properly', not improperly'. 
 
 These slides of the voice are sometimes very slight, so as to 
 be scarcely perceptible, but at other times, when the words are 
 pronounced in an animated tone, and strongly emphasized, the 
 voice passes upward or downward through several notes. This 
 will readily be perceived, by pronouncing the above questions or 
 answers with a strong emphasis. 
 
 QuestUms. — What are inflections? How does the voice slide in the rising inflec- 
 tion? How in the falling? Explain their use in the questions given as exam- 
 ples. What is the circumflex ? Explain the difference between the rising and the 
 /ailing circumflex. Explain the different inflections, in the questions commencing 
 with "Is he sick, or is he well ?" Explain them in the answers to these questions. 
 Are these inflections always very plainly perceived ? When are they most readily 
 perceived ? 
 
 2. Falling Inflection. 
 R D L E I . — The falling inflection is generally proper, 
 wherever the sense is complete ; as, 
 
 Truth is more wonderful than fiction'. 
 Men generally die as they live'. 
 By industry, we obtain wealth'. 
 
 The falling of the voice at the close of a sentence is some- 
 times called a cadence, and properly speaking, there is a slight 
 difference between it and the falling inflection, but for all practi- 
 
FALLING INFLECTION. 19 
 
 cal purposes they may be considered as one and the same. It is 
 of some importance, and requires attention to be able to close a 
 sentence gracefully. The ear, however, is the best guide on 
 this point. 
 
 Parts of a sentence often make complete sense in themselves, 
 and in this case, unless qualified or restrained by the succeeding 
 clause, or unless the contrary is indicated by some other princi- 
 ple, the falling inflection takes place, according to the rule ; as, 
 
 Truth is wonderful^ even more so than fiction^. 
 
 Men generally die as they liveS and by their lives we must judge of their 
 character\ 
 
 By industry we obtain wealth^ and persevering exertion will seldom be 
 unrewarded^. 
 
 Exception 1. When a sentence concludes with a negative 
 clause, or with a contrast or comparison, (called also antithesis,) 
 the first member of which requires the felling inflection, it must 
 close with the rising inflection. See Rule VIII. 
 
 Examples. No one desures to be thought a fool'. 
 
 I come to bury" Caesar, not to praise' him. 
 If we care not for others", we ought at least to respect ourselves'. 
 
 He lives in England", not in France'. 
 
 In bearing testimony to the general character of a man, we 
 say. 
 
 He is too honorable' to be guilty of a vile act^. 
 But if he is accused of some act of baseness, a contrast is, 
 at once, instituted between his character and the specified act, 
 and we change the inflection, and say. 
 
 He is too honorable' to be guilty of such' an act 
 A man may say in general terms, 
 
 I am too busy' for projects^. 
 But if he is urged to embark in some particular enterprise, 
 he will change the inflection, and say, 
 I am too busy^ for projects'. 
 In such cases, as the falling inflection is required in the former 
 part, by the principle of emphasis, (as will hereafter be more 
 fully explained,) contrast renders necessary the rising inflection 
 at the close. * 
 
 Sometimes also, emphasis alone, seems to require the rising 
 inflection on the concluding word. See exception to Rule II. 
 
20 FALLING INFLECTION. 
 
 Exception 3. As a sentence generally ends with the falling 
 inflection, harmony seems to require, that the last but one 
 should be the rising inflection. Such, in fact, is the very- 
 common custom of speakers, even though this part of the sen- 
 tence, where the rising inflection would fall, should form com- 
 plete sense. This principle may, therefore, be considered as 
 sometimes giving authority for exception to the rule. This may 
 be illustrated by tlie following sentence. According to the 
 Rule, it would be read thus ; 
 
 Hearken to thy father who hath cherished' thee, and despise not thy mo- 
 ther when she is old\ 
 
 But according to the principle stated in the exception, it 
 would be read thus ; 
 
 Hearken to thy father who hath cherished' thee, and despise not thy moth 
 er when she is old^ 
 
 If the two words only, "cherished" and "old," receive an 
 inflection, the latter perhaps would be the correct reading, but 
 let the word " mother" receive the rising inflection, and the two 
 principles no longer conflict with each other. It would then be 
 read as follows. 
 
 Hearken to thy father who hath cherished' thee, and despise not thy mo- 
 ther' when she is old'. 
 
 In many cases, however, it may be necessary that one or the 
 other of these principles should give way. Which of them 
 should yield, in any given case, must depend upon the con- 
 struction of the sentence, the nature of the style and subject, 
 and often, upon the taste of the speaker. 
 
 Rule II. The language of emphasis inclines to the use 
 of the falling inflection. 
 
 E XAMFLE S. 
 1. Imperative Mood. 
 
 The combat deepens : Ora', ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
 Wave^, Munich, all thy banners wavt^! 
 
 Did ye not hear it 1 — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On' with the dance ! let joy be unconfined". 
 
 Charg^, Chester, charge^, On^, Stanley, o»' ! 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
FALLING INFLECTION. 21 
 
 Now set^ the teeth, and stretch'^ the nostril wide ,■ 
 Hold hard'' the breath, and bend'' up every spirit 
 To its full bight ! 0«\ on', you noble English, 
 Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof! 
 
 Remark, When the imperative mode is used to express gentle entreaty, the n. 
 iing InAection is sometimes used ; as, Let him come back' / Leave me not' in this extre- 
 mity. So also, desire is often expressed by the rising inHection ; as, O tliat tliey 
 understood this', that they would consider their danger' 1 
 
 2. Emphatic Exclamation. 
 
 Thou slave^.' thou wretch'.' thou coward'.' 
 
 Thou Uttle valiant, great in villainy ! 
 
 Oh, ye Gods^ ! Ye Gods^ ! must I endure all this 7 
 
 Hark^ ! hark^ the horrid sound 
 Hath raised up his head. 
 
 3. Emphatic Repetition. 
 
 And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the 
 gate, and wept ; and as he went, thus he said ; O my son Absalom'! my 
 son', my son Absalom' ! would to God I had died for thee, O Absalom', my 
 son', my son' ! 
 
 4. Simple emphasis. 
 
 Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side ? 
 Been sworn my soldier'? bidding me depend 
 Upon thy'' stars, thy^ fortune, and thy' strength' ? 
 Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who having eyes', see not, 
 and having ears', hear not' ? 
 
 For exception to this principle, see Exception to Rule. 
 
 5. Series. 
 
 A series is a number of particulars, immediately following 
 one another. When a series begiris a sentence, but does not 
 end it, it is called a commencing series ; where it ends the sen- 
 tence, whether it begins it or not, it is called a concluding 
 series.^ 
 
 In a commencing series, the last member must have the ri- 
 sing inflection, and all the others the falling inflection : In a 
 concluding series, the last member but one must have the ri- 
 sing inflection ; all the others, the falling inflection. 
 
 The falling inflection is given on the principle of emphasis, 
 and the rising, to one member of the series, for the sake of har^ 
 mony. 
 
 Examples of commencing series. 
 
 Wine', beauty', music", pomp', are poor expedients to heave o£F the load of an 
 hour from the heir of eternity'. 
 
122 FALLING INFLECTION. 
 
 Absalom's beauty\ Jonathan's love,^ David's valor*, Solomon's wisdom," 
 the patience of Job^ the prudence of Augustus\ the eloquence of CiceroS 
 and the intelligence of all', though faintly amiable in the creature, are found 
 in immense perfection in the CreatorV 
 
 War\ famine^ pestS volcano\ tempests storm\ 
 
 Intestine broils\ oppression with her heart 
 
 Wrapped up in triple brass', besiege mankind'. 
 
 Examples of concluding series. 
 
 They passed o'er many a firozen, many a fiery Alp ; 
 
 Iiocks\ caves\ lakes\ fens\ bogs\ dens', and shades of death\ 
 
 They, through faith, subdued kingdoms^ wrought righteousness^ obtained 
 promises^ stopped the mouths of lions", quenched the violence of fireS es- 
 caped the edge of the sword\ out of weakness were made. strong\ waxed 
 valiant in fight', turned to flight the armies of the alieus\ 
 
 Inspiiing rites ! which stimulate fear", rouse hope\ kindle zeal", quicken 
 dullness", sharpen discernment", exercise memory', and inflame curiosity*. 
 
 N o T E . — ^ When the emphasis on these words or members, 
 is not very decided, they take the rising inflection according to 
 Rule IV ; as. 
 
 They are the ofSpring of restlessness', vanity', and idleness". 
 Love', hope', and joy' took possession of his breast. 
 
 Exception to the Eule. While the tendency of emphasis is 
 decidedly to the use of the falling inflection, sometimes a word 
 to which the falling inflection naturally belongs, changes this, 
 upon its becoming emphatic, for the rising inflection ; as. 
 
 Three thousand ducats* ; 'tis a good, round sum!. 
 
 It is useless to point out the beauties of nature to one who is blind'. 
 
 Here sum and blind, according to Rule I, would take tlie 
 falling inflection, but as they are emphatic, and the object of 
 emphasis is to draw attention to the word emphasized, this is 
 here accomplished, in part, by giving an unusual inflection. 
 Some speakers would give these words the circumflex, but it 
 would be the rising circumflex, so that the sound would still 
 terminate with the rising inflection. 
 
 Rule III. — Questions which cannot be answered by 
 yes or no, together with their answers, generally require the 
 falling inflection ; as. 
 
 Where has he gone* ? Ans. To New York*. 
 
 What has he done* 1 Ans. Nothing*. 
 
 Who did this* 1 Ans. I know not*. 
 
 When did he go*? Ans. Yesterday*. 
 
RISING INFLECTION. 23 
 
 Note. — If these questions are repeated, the inflection is 
 changed, according to the principle stated under the exception 
 to Rule II; as, 
 
 Where did you say he had gone" ? 
 When did he go' ? 
 
 QuMtions. — What is the first rule for the use of the falling inflection? Give an 
 example. When this occurs at the close of a sentence, what is it called? What ia 
 said about the manner of closing a sentence ? What is the best guide on this 
 point ? Where else may the sense be complete ? What inflection must be used in 
 this case? Give an example. What is the first exception to the first rule? Give 
 an example. What is antithesis? What is the substance of the second excep- 
 tion ? Explain the example. Repeat the second rule. What is the first particular 
 under this rule ? Give an example. Repeat the remark under this head. What 
 is the second particular ? Give an example. What is the third head under this 
 rule ? Give examples. State the fourth head, and give examples. What is a 
 series? What is a commencing series? What is a concluding series ? Give ex- 
 amples. Repeat the note, and give the examples under it. Repeat the exception. 
 Give the examples. What is the reason of the exception ? Repeat the third rule 
 for the use of the falling inflection. If these questions are repeated, what inflec- 
 tion is used ? and why ? 
 
 3. Rising Inflection. 
 As the completeness of the sense, forms the first rule for the 
 use of the falling inflection, so the converse of that principle 
 forms a guide for the use of the rising inflection, and may be 
 expressed thus : 
 
 Rule IV. — Where a pause is rendered proper by the 
 ineaning, and the sense is incomplete, the rising inflection is 
 generally required ; as. 
 
 To endure slander and abuse with meekness', requires no ordinary degrev 
 of self-conunand^. 
 
 Night coming on', both armiea retired from the field of battle'. 
 As a dogretumeth to his vomit', so a fool retumeth to liis folly . 
 The nominative addressed comes under this head ; as, 
 Fathers' ! we once again are met in council. 
 My Lords' ! and Gentlemen' ! we have arrived at an awful crisis. 
 Age' ! thou art shamed. 
 Home' ! thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. 
 
 Exception. Where a word, which, according to this rule, 
 requires the rising inflection, becomes emphatic either from 
 contrast, or any other cause, it generally must have Ihe tailing 
 inflection, according to Rule II ; as. 
 
24 RISING INFLECTION. 
 
 When we aim at a high standard, if we do not attmn^ it, we shall secure 
 a high degree of excellence. 
 
 Those who mingle with the vicious, if they do not become depraved"; 
 will lose all delicacy of feeling. 
 
 So also, when a child addresses his father, he first says, 
 Father' ! but if he repeats it emphatically, he changes the in- 
 flection and says, Father' ! Father* ! 
 
 Rule V . Harmony of sound generally requires, that 
 when a sentence closes with the falling inflection, the rising 
 inflection should be used at the last pause before the close ; as, 
 
 Chades was extravagant', and by this means' became poor*. 
 
 He was a great statesman', and he was an amiable man\ 
 
 The mountains will be dissolved', and the earth vrill vanish', but God will 
 never cease to exist*. 
 
 For exception, see exception to the last Rule. 
 Rule VI. Negative sentences, or members of sentences, 
 generally end with the rising inflection ; as, 
 My Lord, we could not have had such designs'. 
 It shields not only the dust of the humble'. 
 I did not mean to complain'. 
 STou need not be alarmed', or offended'. 
 You are not left alone', to climb the steep ascent . 
 Do not slight him because of his humility'. 
 
 ExcEfTiONS. 1. Emphasis; as, " We repeat it, we do reoi' desire to pro- 
 duce discord ; we do not' wish to kindle the flames 
 of a civil war." 
 
 2. General propositions, when not emphatic ; as, " God is 
 not the author of sinV 
 "Thou Shalt not killV 
 
 Rule VII. Questions which may be answered by yes 
 or no, generally require the rising, and their answers, the fall- 
 ing inflection ; as, 
 
 Has he arrived' ? Yes*. 
 
 Will he return' 1 No'. 
 
 Does the law condemn him' 1 It does not*. 
 
 Exception. If these questions are repeated emphatically, 
 they take the falling inflection according to Rule II ; as, 
 
 Has he arrived' ? 
 Will he return' ? 
 
BOTH INFLECTIONS. 25 
 
 Note. — When a word or sentence is repeated as a kind 
 of interrogatory exclamation, the rising inflection is used, ac- 
 cording to the principle of this Rule ; as, 
 
 You ask, who would venture' in such a cause ? Who would venture' ! 
 Rather say, who would not' venture all things for such an object ? 
 
 He is called the friend' of virtue. The friend' ! ay ! the enthusiastic 
 lover', the devoted protector', rather. 
 
 So also when one receives unexpected information, he exclaims, ah' ! in- 
 deed'! 
 
 In the above examples, the words "venture," "friend," 
 " ah !" &c. may be considered as interrogatory exclamations, 
 because if the sense were carried out, it would be in the form 
 of question; as, "Do you ask who would venture'?'''' "Do 
 you say that he is the friend' of virtue ?" " Is it possible' ?" 
 and thus, they would receive the rising inflection according to 
 this rule. 
 
 Questions. — Repeat Rale IV. Of what rnle is this the converse or opposite? 
 Give some of the examples under this m , What inflection has the nominative 
 addressed? Give examples. Give the e3r ,eption to Rule 'V and examples. Re- 
 peat Rule V. Give examples. Repeat Rule VI. Give ei 4ples, What are the 
 exceptions? Repeat Rule VII. Give examples and exception. Bdp^at the note 
 end illustrate it by examples. 
 
 4. Both Inflections. 
 Rule VIII. — The different members of a sentence ex- 
 pressing comparison, or contrast, or negation and affirmation, 
 or where the parts are united by or used disjunctively, require 
 different inflections ; generally the rising inflection in the first 
 member, and the falling inflection in the second member. 
 This order is, however, sometimes inverted. 
 
 1. Comparison and contrast. This is also called antithesis. 
 
 Examples. By all things approving ourselves the ministers of God ; by 
 honor', and dishonor' ; by evil' report, and good* report ; as deceivers', and 
 yet true'; as unknovm', and yet well' known; as dying', and behold we 
 live' ; as chastened', and not killed" ; as sorrowful', yet always rejoicing" ; as 
 poor', yet making many rich" ; as having nothing', and yet possessing all' 
 things. 
 
 Europe was one great battle field, where the weak struggled for freedom', 
 and the strongfor dominion". The king was without power', and the nobles, 
 without principle". They were tyrants at home', and robbers abroad\ 
 
 2. Negation and afGrmation. 
 
 3 
 
26 CIRCUMFLEX. 
 
 Examples. He desired not to injure' his friend, but to protect' him. 
 We desire not your money', but yourselves'. 
 I did not say a belter' soldier, but an elder'. 
 
 If the affirmative clause comes first, the order of the infleo 
 lions is inverted ; as, 
 
 He desired to protect" his friend, not to injure' him. 
 We desire yourselves', not your money'. 
 I said an elder' soldier, not a better'. 
 
 I'he affirmative clause is sometimes understood ; as, 
 
 We desire not your money'. 
 I did not say a better' soldier. 
 The region beyond the grave, is not a solitjiy land. 
 If such sentences are repeated emphatically, the-/ take the 
 falling inflection according to Rule II ; as, 
 
 We do nof desire your money. 
 I did not' say a better soldier. 
 
 3. Or used disjunctively. 
 
 Examples. Did he behave properly', or improperly' ? 
 Are they living,' or dead' ? 
 Is he rich', or poor' 7 
 
 Does God, having made his creatures, take no further' care of them, or does 
 he preserve, and guide' them ? 
 
 Note . — Where or is used conjunctively, this rule does 
 
 not apply ; as, 
 
 Win the lav? of kindness' or of justice' justify such conduct' ? 
 
 Quisiions. — What is the eighth Rule ? What is the first head under this Rule ? 
 Give an example. What is the second head? Give examples. If the affirmative 
 clause comes first, in what order are 'the inflections used? Give examples. Is 
 either clause ever omitted? Give examples. If sentences requiring the rising in- 
 flection are repeated emphatically, vfhat inflections are used? What is the third 
 nead under this rule ? Give examples. Repeal the note. 
 
 5. Circumflex. 
 The circumflex is a union of the rising and falling inflec- 
 tions upon the same sound. Of these there are two, the one 
 called the rising circumflex, (-) in which the voice slides 
 down and then up; and the other, (-) the falling circumflex, in 
 which the voice slides upward and then downward on ttie same 
 vowel. The circumflex is used chiefly to indicate thf emphasis 
 of irony, or of contrast, or of hypothesis. 
 
MONOTONE. 27 
 
 Examples. Queen. Hamlet, you have your father much offended. 
 Hamlet. Madam, y6u have my father much offended. 
 
 This is the emphasis of contrast. The queen had poisoned 
 her husband, of which she incorrectly supposed her son igno- 
 rant, and she blames him for treating his father-in-law with dis- 
 respect. In his reply, Hamlet contrasts her deep crime with 
 his own slight offence, and the circumflex upon you, becomes 
 proper. 
 
 They offer us their protec'tion. Yes', such protection as vtilfures give 
 to lamhs, c5vering and devouring them. 
 
 Here the emphasis is ironical. The Spaniards pretended, 
 that they would protect the Peruvians, if they would submit 
 to them, whereas, it was evident, that they merely desired to 
 plunder and destroy them. Thus their protection is ironically 
 called such protection as vultures give to lambs. Sac. 
 
 I knew when seven justices could not make up a quarrel; but when the 
 parties met themselves, one of them thought but of an if ; as, if you said 
 so, then I said s6 ; ho ! did you say sO 7 So they shook hands and were 
 sworn brothers. 
 
 In this example, the word "so" is used hypotheticaUy, that 
 is, it implies a condition or supposition. It will be observed 
 that the rising circumflex is used in the first "so," and the 
 falling, in the second, because the first " so " must end with the 
 rising inflection, and the second, with the falling inflection, 
 according to previous rules. 
 
 Questions. — What inflections are united to form the cireumflex? Explain tlie 
 two kinds of circumflex. Wliat does the circumflex indicate ? Give an example 
 in which it is used to indicate the emphasis of contrast, and explain it. Kxplain 
 the one, in which the emp>'asis of irony is illustrated. Give the last example ant* 
 explain it. 
 
 6. Monotone. 
 When no word in a sentence receives an inflection, it ts 
 said to be read in a monotone; that is, in nearly the same tone 
 throughout. This uniformity of tone is occasionally adopted, 
 and is fitted to express solemnity or sublimity of idea, and 
 sometimes intensity of feeling. It is used, also, wlien the 
 whole sentence or phrase is empliatic. In books of elocution, 
 when it is marked at all, it is generally marked thus, ( — ), as 
 Ln the following examples. 
 
28 ACCENT. 
 
 Hence ! loathed Melancholy ! 
 Where brjoding darkness spreads her jea ous wings, 
 
 And the night-raven sings ; 
 There, under ebon shades and low browed rocks, 
 
 As ragged as thy locks, 
 In dark Cimmerian darkness ever dwell. 
 
 Thus saith the High and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name 
 is Holy ; " I dwell in the high and holy place." 
 
 Questions. — When is a sentence said to be read in a monotone ? When is the 
 monotone appropriate? 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 ACCENT. 
 
 In every word, which contains more than one syllable, one 
 of the syllables is pronounced with a somewhat greater stress 
 of voice than the others ; as, lovef-ly, where this stress is on 
 the first syllable ; and, re-turn', where it is on the last syllable. 
 This syllable is said to be accented. The accented syllable is 
 distinguished by this mark ('), the same which is used in 
 mflections. 
 
 In most cases, custom is the only guide for placing the accent 
 on one syllable rather than another. Sometimes, however, the 
 same word is differently accented, in order to mark its different 
 meanings ; as, 
 
 Con'-jme, to practice enchantments, and con-jure', to entreat. 
 Ga/'-lant, brave. gaWani', a gay fellow. 
 
 Au'-gasX, a month. aa-gust', grand, &c. 
 
 A number of words, also, have their accent on one syllable 
 when verbs or adjectives, and on another, when nouns ; as, 
 
 Sub'-ject, the noun, and to sub-ject', the verb. 
 Pres'-ent, " to ^re-sent', " 
 
 Cmi'-duct, " to con-ducf, " 
 
 Ob'-ject, " to object', &o. " 
 
 Qitestwns. — ^When is a syllable said to be accented ? Give an example. How is 
 the accented syllable marked? What Is eenerallylhe guide for placing the accent! 
 When is the same word differently accented ? Give an example, under each head. 
 
EMPHASIS. 29 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 EMPHASIS. 
 
 That stress of voice which marks the accent, when in- 
 creased, forms EMPHASIS. A word is said to be emphasized, 
 when it is uttered with a greater stress of voice, than the other 
 words with which it is connected. This increased stress is, 
 generally, not upon the whole word, but only upon the accent- 
 ed syllable. The object of emphasis is, to attract particular 
 attention to the word upon which it is placed, indicating, that 
 the idea to be conveyed, depends very much upon that word. 
 This object, as just stated, is generally accomplished by in- 
 creasing the force of utterance, but sometimes, also, other 
 methods are used, as, for instance, a change in the inflection, 
 the use of the monotpne, or by uttering the words in a very 
 low or whispering tone. Emphatic words are often denoted 
 by italics, and a still stronger emphasis, by capitals. Emphasis 
 constitutes the most important feature in reading and speaking, 
 and, properly applied, gives life and character to language. 
 Accent, inflection, and, indeed, every thing yields to emphasis. 
 The inflections, especially, are auxiliary to it. In the article 
 on that subject, it has been already observed, how often they 
 yield to emphasis, or are used to enforce it. In the following 
 examples, it wiU be seen that accent, in like manner, is governed 
 by it. 
 
 What is done, cannot be undone. 
 
 There is a difference between giviDg andybrgiving 
 
 He that t^scended is the same that ascended 
 
 Some appear to make very little difference between Acency and mdecency, 
 morality and tTOmorality, religion and irreligion. 
 
 The nature and importance of emphasis may be illustrated 
 by examples like the following. It wiU be observed, that the 
 meaning and proper answer of the question varies with each 
 change of the emphasis. 
 
 Did you walk into the city yesterday '! Ans. No, my bi-other went 
 
 Did you {ooZ/c into the city yesterday ? Ans. No, I rode. 
 
 Did you walk into the citt/ yesterday ? Ans. No, I went into the 
 country. 
 
 Did you walk into the city yesterday ? Ans. No, I went the dav 
 before. 
 
30 EMPHASIS. 
 
 1. Absolute Emphasis. 
 Sometimes a word is emphasized simply to indicate the im 
 portance of the idea. This is called absolute emphasis. 
 The following are examples. 
 
 To arms ! they come, the Greek .' the Greek ! > 
 
 Stkike — till the last armed foe expires, 
 .Strike — for your altars and your fires, 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
 God — and your native land. 
 
 Woe unto you Phariseks! HrPorniTES ! 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll. 
 
 In instances like the last, it is sometimes called the em- 
 phasis of specification. 
 
 2. Relative Emphasis. 
 Words are often emphasized, in order to exhibit the idea 
 they express as compared or contrasted with some other idea. 
 This is called relative emphasis. The following are examples. 
 It is much better to be injured, than to injure. 
 They fight for plunder, we, for our country. 
 Hnmer was the greater genius, Virgil, the better artist 
 This is sometimes carried through several sets or pairs o5 
 antithesis, or contrasted words. In the following examples 
 there are two sets of antithesis in the same sentence. 
 John was punished ; William, rewarded. 
 Without v/eie Jig/itings, within were fears. 
 Business sweetens pleasure, as labor sweetens ri::l. 
 Justice gives reward to merit, z-ai punishment to crime. 
 
 The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation, the fool, 
 when he gains the applause of others. 
 
 .In the following examples the relative emphasis is applied to 
 three sets of antithetic words. 
 
 The difference between a madman and a fool is, that the/ormer reasons 
 justly from fake data ; and the tatter, erroneously, from just data. 
 
 A friend cannot be known in prosperity ; an enemy cannot be hidden 
 in adversity. 
 
 They follow an adventurer whom they /ear; voe serve a monarch whom 
 we Unie 
 
EMPHASIS. 31 
 
 In many instances one part only of the antithesis is ex- 
 pressed, the corresponding idea being understood ; as, 
 K friendly eye would never see such faults. 
 Here the unfriendly eye is understood. 
 King Henry exclaims, while vainly endeavoring to compose 
 himself to rest ; 
 
 How many thousands of my subjects are at this hour asleep. 
 Here the emphatic words thousands, subjects, and asleep are 
 contrasted in idea with their opposites, and if the contrasted 
 ideas were expressed, it would be done something in this way : 
 While I alone their sovereign am doomed to wakefulness. 
 
 3. Emphatic Phrase. 
 
 Sometimes, several words in succession, are emphasized. 
 The following are examples. 
 
 Shall I, the conqueror of Spain and Gaul, and not only of the Alpine 
 nations, but of the Alps themselves — shall I compare myself with this 
 
 HALF-TEAll-CAPTAIxl 
 
 There was a time, my fellow-citizens, when the Lacedaemonians were 
 Bovereign masters, both by sea and land ; while this state had not one ship — 
 
 no, HOT OWE WALL. 
 
 4. Emphatic Pause. 
 An emphatic expression of sentiment often requires a pause, 
 where the grammatical construction authorizes none. This is 
 sometimes called the rhetorical pause. Such pauses occur, 
 chiefly, before or after an emphatic word or phrase, and some- 
 times both before and after it. Their object is, to attract atten- 
 tion to the emphatic idea, or to give the mind time to dwell 
 upon it, and thus strengthen the impression. 
 
 Examples. Rise — fellow-men! our country — yet remains! 
 By that dread name we wave the sword on high, 
 And swear,/or her — to live — loith her — to die. 
 
 But mo.?< — by numbers judge the poet's song; 
 And smooth or rough, with them is — right or wrong. 
 
 He said ; then full before their sight 
 Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'twas white. 
 
32 THE READING OF POETRY. 
 
 And if thou said'et I am not peer 
 
 To any lord in Scotland here, 
 
 Lowland or Highland, far or near, 
 
 Lord Angus, — thott — hast — LIED! 
 
 Heaven gave this Lyre, and thus decreed, 
 
 Be thou a bruised — but not a broken — reed. 
 
 Questions. — When is a word said to be emphasized? Upon vi^hat part of the 
 word is the increased stress placed? What is the object of emphasis? In what 
 other way, than the one just mentioned, can this be accomplished? How are em- 
 phatic words marked? What is said of the importance of emphasis? What other 
 things yield to emphasis? Give some examples in which accent yields to it? 
 What is ofeio^Mte emphasis? Give examples. What is meant hy relative emphasis? 
 Give the examples, and show the words contrasted. Give the examples, in which 
 the emphasis is carried through several sets of contrasted words, and point oat 
 which words are opposed to each other. Is the idea corresponding to the emphatic 
 word ever left out ? Explain the two last examples under this head, and show what 
 is the idea opposed to Jnendly, in the one, and what are opposed to thousand, 5u&- 
 jecte, and asZeep, in the other. What is meant by the e^^hatic phraat? Give the 
 examples. What do you understand by the emphat"' pause ? Where doesit occur ' 
 What is its object? Give examples. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 THE READING OF POETRY. 
 
 Poetic Pauses. 
 
 In poetry, we have three sets of pauses, viz., grammatical 
 pauses, rhetorical pauses, and poetic pauses. The first two 
 are common to poetry and prose. The last belongs to poetry 
 alone, and its object is simply to promote the melody. 
 
 At the end of each line, a slight pause is generally proper, 
 whatever be the grammatical construction, or the sense. The 
 purpose of this is, to make prominent the melody of the 
 measure, and, in rhyme, to allow the ear to appreciate the har- 
 mony of the similar sounds. 
 
 There is, also, another important pause, somewhere near the 
 middle of each line, which is called the cesura or cesural 
 pause. It should never be so placed, as to injure the sense. 
 It adds very much to the beauty of poetry, where it naturally 
 coincides with the pause required by the sense. The follow 
 ing lines present an example of this pause. It is marked thus () 
 
 There are hours long departed 1 which memory brings, 
 Like blossoms of Eden || to twine round the heart, 
 
 And as time rushes by |1 on the might of his wings, 
 They may darken awhile 1 but they never depart. 
 
MODULATION. 33 
 
 There is a land || of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven || o'er all the world beside ; 
 Where brighter suns || dispense serener light, 
 And milder moons || imparadise the night ; 
 Oh, thou shalt find, 1| howe'er thy footsteps roam. 
 That land — thy country || and that spot — thy home. 
 
 In lines like the following, three cesural pauses are proper. 
 The first and last are very slight, indeed, scarcely perceptible, 
 and are sometimes called demi-cesuras. 
 
 True ease | in writing J comes from art, | not chance, 
 
 As those [ move easiest, | who have learned | to dance. 
 
 'Tis not I enough || no harshness | gives offense, 
 
 The sound { must seem || an echo | to the sense : 
 
 Soft I is the strain H when Zephyr ] gently blows, 
 
 And I the smooth stream || in smoother { numbers flows, 
 
 But when | loud surges || lash | the sounding shore, 
 
 The hoarse | rough verse || should like the torrent roar. 
 
 When Ajax | strives || some rock's | vast weight to throw, 
 
 The line | too labors, | and the words | move slow. 
 
 Not so I when swift | Camilla | scours the plain, 
 
 Flies I o'er th' unbending corn, || and skims | along the main. 
 
 Questions. — How many kinds of pauses are used in poetry ? Which of them are 
 common to both poelry and prose? "Wliich is used in poetry alone? What is the 
 object of this latter kind? Where is a jKffAe pause generally proper? What is its 
 object? What other pause in poetry is used ? What is it called? Point it out in 
 the examples. What caution is given with regard to its use ? When there are 
 three, what are the first and last called? 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 MODULATION. 
 
 1. Fitch and Compass. 
 
 If any one wiU notice closely a sentence as uttered m pri- 
 vate conversation, he will observe, that scarcely two succes- 
 sive words are pronounced in exactly the same tone. At the 
 same time, however, there is a certain pitch or key, which 
 seems, on the whole, to prevail. This governing note, or key 
 note, as it may be called, is that, upon which the voice most 
 frequently dwells, to which it usually returns when wearied, 
 and upon which a sentence generally commences, and very 
 
34 MODULATION. 
 
 frequently ends, while, at the same time, there is a considera- 
 ble play of the voice above and below it. 
 
 This note may be high or low. It varies in different indi- 
 viduals, and at different times in the same individual, being 
 governed by the namre of the subject, and the emotions of ths 
 speaker. The range of the voice above and below this note, is 
 called its compass. When the speaker is animated, this range 
 is great; but upon abstract subjects, and with a dull, lifeless 
 speaker, it is small. If, in reading or speaking, too high a 
 note be chosen, the lungs will soon become wearied ; if too low 
 a pitch be selected, there is danger of indistinctness of utter- 
 ance ; and, in either case, there is less room for variety of tone, 
 than if one be taken between the two extremes. 
 
 On this point, let the following rule be observed. 
 
 Rule I . — ■ The reader or speaker should choose that pitch, 
 on which he can feel himself most at ease, and above and 
 below which, he may have most room for variation. 
 
 Having chosen the proper key note, he should beware of 
 f onfining himself to it. This constitutes monotony, one of the 
 greatest faults in elocution. One very important instrument 
 for giving expression and life to thought, is thus lost, and the 
 hearer soon becomes wearied and disgusted. 
 
 Theie is another fault of nearly equal magnitude, and of 
 very frequent occurrence. This consists in varying the tones 
 without any rule or ^ide. In cases of this kind, there seems 
 to be a desire to cultivate variety of tone, without a knowledge 
 of the principles upon which it should be done. Sometimes, 
 also, there is a kind of regular variation, but still not connected 
 with the sense. A sentence is commenced with vehemence 
 and in a high tone, and the voice gradually sinks, word by 
 word, until, the breath being spent, and the lungs exhausted, it 
 dies away, at the close, in a whisper. 
 
 The habit of sing-song; so common in reading poetry, as it 
 is a variation of tone without reference to the sense, is a species 
 of the fault above mentioned. 
 
 If the reader or speaker is guided by the sense, and if he 
 gives the empliasis, infection, and expression, required by the 
 meaning, these faults will speedily disappear. 
 
MODULATION. 36 
 
 2. Quality or Expression. 
 
 The tones of the voice should vary, also, in quality or 
 expression, according to the nature of the subject. We notice, 
 very plainly, a difference betvireen the soft, insinuating tones of 
 persuasion ; the full, strong voice of command and decision ; 
 the harsh, irregular, and sometimes grating explosion of the 
 sounds of passion ; the plaintive notes of sorrow and pity ; 
 and the equable and unimpassioned &ow of words in argu- 
 mentative style. In dialogue, common sense teaches, that the 
 manner and tones of the supposed speaker should be imitated. 
 In all varieties of style, this is equally proper, for the reader is 
 but repeating the language of another, and the fiill meaning of 
 this cannot be conveyed, unless uttered with that expression 
 which we may suppose the author would have given to it, or in 
 other words, which the subject itself demands. 
 
 The following direction, upon this point, is worthy of atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Rule II. — The tones of the voice should always corres- 
 pond with the nature of the subject. 
 
 If the following extracts are all read in the same tone and 
 manner, and then read again with the expression appropriate to 
 each, the importance of this point cannot fail to be, at once, 
 perceived. 
 
 " Come back! come back!" he cries with grirf, 
 
 " Across the stormy water, 
 And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 
 
 My daughter ! oh, my daughter !" 
 
 But thou, Oh Hop^ with eyes so fair, 
 
 What was thy delighted measure ! 
 
 Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail; 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
 She called on Echo still through all her song ; 
 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; 
 And Hope, enchanted, smiled; and waved her gplden hair. 
 
 Brackenbury. Why looks your grace so ^P^% to-day 1 
 Clarence. 0, 1 have passed a miserable night, 
 So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 
 
30 MODULATION. 
 
 That, as I am a Christian, faithful man, 
 I ^ould not spend another such a night, 
 Though 't were to buy a world of happy days 
 So full of dismal terror was the time. 
 
 Then came wandering by 
 A shadow, like an angel, with bright hair 
 Dabbled in blood ; and he shrieked out aloud : 
 "Clarmce is come ; false, fleeting, perjured Clwence t 
 TTiat stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury : 
 Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments .'" 
 
 Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
 And shook his very frame for ire, 
 
 And, "This to mel" he said, 
 
 " An 'twere not for thy hoary beaid, 
 Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 
 E'en in thy pitch of pride. 
 Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
 
 I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! 
 And if thou said'st, I am not peer 
 To any lord in Scotland here, 
 Lowland or Highland, far or neat, 
 
 Lord Angus, thou hast lied !" 
 
 In our attempt to imitate nature it is important to avoid qffec 
 tation, for, to this fault, even perfect monotony is preferable 
 
 3. Improvement of the Voice. 
 
 To improve the voice in the particulars which have been 
 named, practice is necessary. To increase its compass or 
 range of notes, commence, for example, with the lowest pitch 
 the voice can comfortably sound, and repeat whole paragraphs 
 and pages upon that key. Then rise one note higher, and 
 practice on that, in the same way, then another note, and so on, 
 until the highest pitch of the voice is reached. The strength 
 of the voice may be increased in the same way, by practicing 
 with different degrees of loudness, from a whisper to full ro- 
 tundity, taking care to keep the voice on the same key. The 
 same note in music may be sounded loud or soft. So, also, a 
 sentence may b^ronounced on the same pitch with different 
 degrees of loudness. Having practiced with different degrees 
 of loudness on one key, make the same experiment on another " 
 
EXERCISES. 3*7 
 
 and then on another, and so on. It will be found, that the voice 
 is capable of being changed and improved by exercise and 
 practice to a much greater degree than is generally supposed. 
 
 QuestioTis. — What is meant by the key note? Is this the same at all times, and 
 In all individuals? What circumstances cause it to differ? What is meant by 
 compass of voice ? Under what circumstances is this range great? When is it 
 small? If loo high a key note be selected, what is the consequence ? If the note 
 be too low, what danger is there? What is the rule on this ^subject? What is 
 monotony? What are the evils arising from this fault? What other faults of tone 
 are mentioned? What manner of reading poetry is mentioned? How are these 
 faults to be corrected? What is said with regard to varying -the tones in quality or 
 expression? What is said of the reading of dialogues. &c. ? Repeat the second 
 Rule ? What must be guarded against in attempts to imitate nature ? How may 
 the voice be improved in compass? How, in strength? 
 
 Q^ For the purpose of illustrating more ftilly the preceding Directions 
 for Heading, a few Exehcises are appended, in which the inflections are 
 marked. 
 
 On Lying. 
 
 I really know nothing more criminal', more mean', and more 
 ridiculous', than lying\ . It is the production either of malice', 
 cowardice', or vanity^ ; and generally misses of its aim' in every 
 one of these views^ ; for lies are always detected' sooner or 
 later^. If I tell a malicious lie, in order to aflFect any man's 
 fortune or character', I may indeed injure him for some time^ ; 
 but I shall be sure' to be the greatest sufferer at last^ ; for as 
 soon as I am detected', (and detected I most certainly shall' be,) 
 I am blasted for the infamous attempt^ ; and whatever is said 
 afterward to the disadvantage of that person', however true', 
 passes for calumny^. 
 
 If I lie or equivocate', (for it is the same thing',) in order to 
 excuse myself for something that I have said or done', and to 
 avoid the danger or the shame that I apprehend' from it, I dis- 
 cover, at once, my fear', as well as my falsehood^ ; and only 
 increases instead of avoiding' the danger and the shame* ; I show 
 myself to be the lowest/ and meanest* of mankind^ and am sure 
 to be always treated* as such. 
 
 Eemember, as long as you live', that nothing but strict truth 
 can carry you through the world', with either your conscience 
 or your honor unwounded*. It is not only your duty', but your 
 interest*: as a proof of which you may always observe', that 
 the greatest foolsf are the greatest Kars^. For my own' part, I 
 judge, by every man's truth', of his degree of underatandiiife'' 
 
38 EXERCISES. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels", 
 and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass', or a tink- 
 ling cymbals And though I have the gifts of prophecy', and 
 understand all mysteries\ and all knowledge^ ; ind though I 
 have all faith", so that I could remove mountains\ and have not 
 charit/, I am nothing'. And though I bestow all my goods 
 to feed the poor\ and though I give my body to be burned\ and 
 have not charity', it profiteth me nothing \ 
 
 Charity suffereth long, and is kind^ ; charity envielh^ not , 
 charity vaunteth^ not itself, is not puffed up^ ; doth not behave 
 itself unseemly\ seeketh not her own^, is not easily pirovoked\ 
 thinketh no evil"; rejoiceth not in iniquit]/, but rejoiceth in the 
 truth' ; beareth^ all things, believeth^ all things^, hopeth' all things 
 endureth" all things. Charity never faileth^ : but whether there 
 be prophecies,' they shall fail^ ; whether there be tongues,' they 
 shall cease^ ; whether there be knowledge', it shall vanish away^ 
 For we knov/ in part, and we prophesy^ in part. But when 
 that which is perfect^ is come', that which is in part' shall be 
 done away^. 
 
 Questions. 
 What, then, was Caesar's object^? Do we select extortion- 
 ers', to enforce the law of equity' ? Do we make choice of 
 profligates', to guard the morals of society ? I will not press'' 
 the answer. I need> not press the answer. The premises of 
 ray argument render it unnecessary. What would content^ 
 you? Talent/? No\ Enterprise'? No\ Courage'? No^ 
 Reputation'? No". Virtue'? No\ The men whom you 
 would select, should possess, not one', but alt of these. 
 
 Alas', poor Yorick^ ! I knew him well\ Horatio', a fellow 
 of infinite jest', of most excellent fane/. He hath borne me 
 on his back', a thousand times'" ; and now', how abhorred in my 
 imagination is this skull^ ! My gorge rises^ at it. Here hung 
 those lips that I have kissed', I know not how oft". Where are 
 your gibes", now ? Your gambols^ ? your songs^ ? your flashes 
 of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar^ ? Not 
 one', now, to mock your grinning'? quite chop-fallen'? Now 
 
EXERCISES. 39 
 
 get you to my lady's chamber, and tell' her, if she paint an 
 moh thick\ yet to this favor will she come at last\ 
 
 Hour of Prayer. 
 
 Cmtn , amid the flowers at play', 
 While the red light fades away ; 
 Mother', with thine earnest eye'. 
 Ever following silently'; 
 Father', by the breeze at eve' 
 Call'd thy harvest work to leave'; 
 Pray^ ! — Ere yet the dark hours be , 
 Lift the heart, and bend the knee\ 
 
 Traveler', in the stranger's land', 
 Far from thine own household band' ; 
 Mourner', haunted by the tone 
 Of a voice from this world gone' ; 
 Captive', in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell' ; 
 Sailor', on the darkening sea' ; 
 Lift the heart, and bend the knee'. 
 Warrior', that from battle won', 
 Breathest now at set of sun' ; 
 Woman', o'er the lowly slain'. 
 Weeping on his burial plain' ; 
 ye that triumph', ye that sigh'. 
 Kindred by one holy tie' ; 
 Heaven's first star alike ye see, 
 Lift the heart\ and bend the knee'. 
 
 Shylock to Antonio. 
 
 Seignor Antonio', many a time*, and oft'. 
 
 In the Rialto, you have rated me 
 
 About my moneys'', and my usances'' : 
 
 Still have I borne it with a patient shrug -, 
 
 For sufferance — is the badge of all our tribe\ 
 
 You called me' — misbeliever', — cut-ihroat dog'. 
 
 And spiT^ — upon my Jewish gabardine^ ; 
 
 And all for use of that which is my oimi\ 
 
 Weir, then', it now' appears you need my help'' 
 
 Go to, then\ you come to me', and you say', 
 
 " Shylock', we would have moneys"." You say so, 
 
 Yod, that did void your rheum upon my beard^ 
 
40 EXERCISES. 
 
 And foof me, as you spurn a stranger air 
 Over your threshold^ Money is your suit. 
 What should I say to you' ? Should I not say , 
 Hath a dog — money ? — is it possible', 
 A cfen — can lend three thousand ducats'? or', 
 Shall I bend low', and in a bondman's key', 
 With bated breath', and whispering humbleness', 
 S^y this'? 
 
 " Fair sir' ! you spif' on me, on Wednesday last' ; 
 You spumed' me, such a day' ; another time' 
 You called me' — dog' .■ and for these — courtesies, 
 I'll lend you thus much — moneys'." 
 
 Justice. 
 
 Kienzi. This is justice*. 
 Pure justice', not revenge' ! Mark well', my lords' 1 
 Pure', equal' justice'. Martin Ursini' 
 Had open trial\ is guilty', is condemned*, 
 And he shall die ! 
 
 Colonna. Yet listen to us — 
 
 Rienzi. Lords', 
 If ye could range before me all the peers'. 
 Prelates', and potentates' of Christendoms 
 The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee". 
 And emperors' crouching at my feet, to sue 
 For this great robber', still I should be blind 
 As Justice'. But this very day', a wife'. 
 One in&nt hanging at her breast', and two 
 Scarce bigger', first-born twins of misery'. 
 Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 
 Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle reir; 
 To beg her husband's life' ; condemned to die 
 For some vile petty thefl>, some paltry scudi' : 
 And', whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared , 
 Shaking his crest', and plunging to get free'. 
 There, mid the dangerous coil, unmoved she stood. 
 Pleading' in piercing words, the very cry 
 Of nature" ! And, when I at last said no' — 
 For I said no' to her' — she flung herself 
 And those poor innocent babes' between the stones 
 And my hot Arab's hoofs". We saved them all'. 
 Thank Heaven', we saved them all' ! but I said n& 
 To that sad woman mid her shrieks'. Ye dare' not 
 Ask for mercv now 1 
 
THE HEMANS 
 
 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON I. 
 
 WHAT IS EDUCATION? 
 
 Education we consider as consisting in the formation of the 
 character ; and a good education, in the preparation of man for 
 usefulness and happiness. It involves the right development, 
 and cultivation; and direction of' all his powers, physical, Intel-' 
 lectual, and moral. It implies instruction in all the branches 
 of. knowledge which are necessary to useful and efficient 
 action in the sphere of the individual. But it must also in- 
 clude the physical training which is to render the body 
 capable of executing the purposes of the soul; the skill 
 which is requisite in order to apply our knowledge and strength 
 to the very best advantage ; and, above all, the moral discip- 
 line by which the character and direction of our efforts is to 
 be decided. Each of these branches includes an extensive list 
 of particulars ; and the means of education comprise all those 
 circumstances and influences by which the human character is 
 formed and modified. 
 
 In this view, education does not begin with the school ; nor 
 does it terminate with the university. It is not confined to the 
 nursery, nor the family, nor the public institution. It begins 
 with the first moment of consciousness. Every being, every 
 object, every event, forms a part of it. The first lessons are 
 given in the arms of the mother. The parent, by her looks 
 and movements, and the sun by its varying light, are educating 
 the eye. The songs of the birds, and the whistling of the 
 wind, are cultivating the ear, no less truly than the voice of the 
 mother, or the instrument of music. The air and the tempera- 
 ture of the room are fitting the body to enjoy or to suffer. The 
 food which is given him calls forth his appetite, and forms him 
 4 I*!) 
 
42 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 to habits of temperance or sensuality. The clothing which he 
 wears begins to inspire the taste for simplicity, or the love of 
 finery. 
 
 In the progress of childhood, the daily and hourly treatment 
 he receives, the conduct he witnesses, and the language he 
 hears, in the family circle, in the company of domestics, in 
 the lilde society of his school-fellows and playmates, all exert 
 an influence upon him, no less decided, and often more power- 
 ful, than the instructions of the school, or the exhortations of the 
 parent, or the worship of the church ; and all, therefore, make 
 an essential part of his education. As he advances into youth 
 and manhood, the number of educators who thus surround him, 
 and the variety of influences to which he is exposed, are great- 
 ly increased. Society at length begins to act upon him, and 
 he feels the force of public opinion. The church presents its 
 weekly school of instruction and discipline, which may exert 
 the most efficient and salutary influence ; and the state employs 
 its power in directing and restraining, and thus educating the 
 man, by means of laws and institutions, whose operation ter 
 rainates only in the grave. 
 
 But does education terminate here ? Nature, reason, cast no 
 light upon the " valley of the shadow of death." But revela- 
 tion points us to a higher world, and enables us to discern, 
 through the cloud which rests upon the grave, that state, in 
 which those who have improved the privileges already enjoyed 
 on earth, shall be allowed higher and nobler means of advance- 
 ment. There, the immediate perception of all that is excellent 
 and glorious in the Creator, and in the most exalted of the 
 rational creation, shall take the place of imperfect description. 
 There, that knowledge, which is here the result of painful 
 study, win be seen as intuitively as the visible objects which 
 now surround us ; and there, the mind will no longer have to 
 struggle with those gross defects, that painful weakness of its 
 material organs, which now obscure its perceptions, and arrest 
 and retard its progress, in truth and excellence. 
 
 But such a state, such progress, it is now incapable even of 
 conceiving; and we can only rejoice in the distant glimmerings 
 of that light whose full glory, like the beams of some of those 
 orbs whose remoteness reduces them to stars, would overpower 
 our minds. Nor can we suppose any termination to this glo- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 43 
 
 nous course. At every period of enlargement in the faculties, 
 the field of vision will be extended. Unlike the mountain 
 traveler, who sees "Alps on Alps arise," but knows that anoth- 
 er day will bring him to the summit, where all will be beneath 
 him, we shall only learn at every step, with the more delightful 
 certainty, that the exhibitions of Infinite Wisdom and Infinite 
 Goodness present a field for unending occupation and untiring 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Education, then, in its largest sense, is not limited to time ; 
 it is not confined to the narrow boundaries of existence which 
 we can discern. We have said that its first lessons are given 
 in the motlier's arms. The family is its primary school ; the 
 series of public institutions is but the academy of this great 
 course. The world itself is the university, in which man is to 
 make his final preparation for the employments and pleasures 
 of that future, endless state, in comparison with which the 
 period of our residence on earth is less than the hours of 
 infancy in the life of a century ; for that true life of the soul, 
 in which it first begins its free, its independent existence. 
 
 Annais of Edocation. 
 
 LESSON II. 
 
 ON ELOCUTION AND READING, 
 
 The business of training our youth in elocution must be 
 commenced in childhood. The first school is the nursery. 
 There, at least, may be formed a distinct articulation, which is 
 the first requisite for good speaking. How rarely is it found 
 in perfection among our orators ! " Words," says one, referring 
 to articulation, " should be delivered out from the lips, as 
 beautiful coins, newly issued from the mint ; deeply and accu- 
 rately impressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by the proper 
 organs, distinct, in due succession, and of due weight." How 
 rarely do we hear a speaker, whose tongue, teeth, and lips, do 
 their oflice so perfectly, as, in any wise, to answer to this 
 beautiful description ! And the common faults in articulation, 
 it should be remembered, take their rise from the very nursery. 
 But let us refer to other particulars. 
 
 Grace in eloquence — in the pulpit, at the bar — cannot be 
 separated from grace in the ordinary manners, in private life, in 
 
44 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 tne social circle, in the family. It cannot well be superinduced 
 upon all the other acquisitions of youth, any more than that 
 nameless, but invaluable quality, called good breeding. You 
 may, therefore, begin the work of forming the orator with your 
 child ; not merely by teaching him to declaim, but, what is of 
 more consequence, by observing and correcting his daily man- 
 ners, motions, and attitudes. 
 
 You can say, when he comes into your apartment, or pre- 
 sents you with something, a book or letter, in an awkward and 
 blundering manner, " Return, and enter this room again," or, 
 " Present me that book in a different manner," or, " Put your- 
 self in a different attitude." You can explain to him the dif- 
 ference between thrusting or pushing out his hand and arm, in 
 straight lines and at acute angles, and moving them in flowing, 
 circular lines, and easy, graceful action. He will readily un- 
 derstand you. Nothing is more true than that " the motions of 
 children are originally graceful;" and it is by suffering them 
 to be perverted, that we lay the foundation for invincible 
 awkwardness in later life. 
 
 We go, next, to the schools for children. It ought to be a 
 leading object, in these schools, to teach the art of reading. It 
 ought to occupy three-fold more time than it does. The teach- 
 ers of these schools should labor to improve themselves. They 
 should feel, that to them, for a time, are committed the future 
 orators of the land. We would rather have a child, even of 
 the other sex, return to us from school a first-rate reader, than 
 a first-rate performer on the piano-forte. We should feel that 
 we had a far better pledge for the intelligence and talent of our 
 child. The accomplishment, in its perfection, would give 
 more pleasure. The voice of song is not sweeter than the 
 voice of eloquence; and there may be eloquent readers, as 
 well as eloquent speakers. 
 
 We speak of perfection in this art ; and it is something, we 
 must say in defense of our preference, which we have never 
 yet seen. Let the same pains be devoted to reading, as are 
 required to form an accomplished performer on an instrument ; 
 let us have, as the ancients had, the formers of the voice, the 
 music-masters of the reading voice ; let us see years devoted 
 to this accomplishment, and then we should be prepared to 
 stand the comparison. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 45 
 
 It is, indeed, a most intellectual accomplishment. So is 
 music, too, in its perfection. We do by no means undervalue 
 this noble and most delightful art, to which Socrates applied 
 himself even in his old age. But one recommendation of the 
 art of reading is, that it requires a constant exercise of mind. 
 It demands continual and close reflection and thought, and the 
 finest discrimination of thought. It involves, in its perfection, 
 the whole art of criticism on language. A man may possess a 
 fine genius without being a perfect reader ; but he cannot be a 
 perfect reader without genius. N. A. Review. 
 
 LESSON III. 
 
 ON FEMALE INFLUENCE. 
 
 The influence of cultivated female intellect upon the social 
 and religious welfare of mankind, cannot easily be overrated. 
 If civilization and Christianity have elevated woman in the 
 scale of being, she has a thousand fold repaid the debt. Hea- 
 thenism alone has debased her, and the light of divine truth 
 wiU, without doubt, fuUy restore her to her original rank and 
 position. Indeed, it has already done this, as far as its principles 
 control opinion and action. As opportunity and public opinion 
 have permitted, she has herself stepped forward, and gently, 
 but firmly grasped the wand which waves over the circle of 
 her influence. From this elevation, with the love of God in 
 her heart, and the accents of affection on her tongue, she is 
 destined to become the chief source of light and blessing to 
 our race. 
 
 Woman's mind has stamped its impress upon the choicest 
 treasures of modern literature. How many characters have 
 been formed, and' souls strengthened for honorable and lofty 
 action, by the sound wisdom and gentle attractiveness of Hannah 
 More, Jane Taylor, and Mrs. Barbauld ! How many stricken 
 hearts have borne their sorrows with meek and gentle suffer- 
 ance, inspirited by the sympathizing strains of Mrs. Hemans, 
 and Miss Landon ! And how many have bounded with life, 
 and hope, and the love of nature's works, inspired by Mrs; 
 Hemans' more enlivening lays, and those of the gentle, pure- 
 hearted Mary Howitt! How many have been made wise, 
 and pure, and affectionate, by the consecrated harp of Mrs. 
 
46 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Sigourney ! How often has the happy spirit flitted, in thought, 
 from twig to twig, to the bird-Iilie song of Miss Gould! Thanks 
 to the spirit of the age, to the influence of Christian principle, 
 and to woman's own emancipated intellect, the list of such 
 names is rapidly swelling. The future happiness and prosperity 
 of our race will depend, in no small degree, upon the impulse 
 given to it by cultivated female intellect and heart. 
 
 The interests of education will hereafter be committes 
 chiefly to the hands of woman. In her maternal character 
 this has always been more or less true. But the field of hei 
 influence has not yet been fully disclosed. The eye has nol 
 reached its boundaries. It will still be widening, until the 
 mother's teachings, and woman's affectionate, persevering, well 
 directed efibrts, shall become, in the hands of God, a mighty 
 agent in the complete conversion of the world. For this task 
 her mental and social qualities peculiarly qualify her. Her 
 discernment and acuteness fit her to guide the mental traveler ; 
 her patience and endurance prepare her to bear with his way- 
 wardness ; and her activity of mind and her affectionate dis- 
 position have formed her for that companionship with youth, 
 without which all teaching is but a heavy task to the forming 
 mind. 
 
 But still more important will be her influence upon the 
 heart. This is her peculiar home. It is also the only foun- 
 tain of happiness. It is made so by the wise and immutable 
 laws of our being. God has formed us to be happy only in 
 loving and being loved, in the exercise of kindness and sym- 
 pathy, in the interchange of good feeling and affectionate 
 remembrance, and in the cultivation of all those sister virtues, 
 which form the bright chain of love. It is woman's favored 
 lot to twine the shining braid, and make Strong the tie that 
 binds man to his fellow man, and reaches even to his God 
 above. 
 
 Her active sympathy must insinuate itself into the selfish- 
 ness of man's nature, root out the worldliness of his heart, 
 pacify the angry spirit, shame the turbulence of passion, and 
 point the troubled soul to the true source of happiness on earth, 
 and to an eternal home with the God of peace and love. Evil 
 habit and impure feeling wiU ffee abashed from her presence. 
 Not that her influence will take the place of religious motive 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 4." 
 
 and power, but will greatly assist their operation. As she was 
 the first to disobey, so will she be the tirsit to lead man back to 
 obedience and communion with his God. 
 
 What must be the character of that class, who are to exert 
 so great a power over our race ? It is needless to say, that 
 there must be high purpose, firm resolve, educated mind, and 
 holy hearts. To accomplish this, her high destiny, woman 
 must he educated. She must have a complete and perfect 
 training, a thorough and well adapted physical, intellectual, and 
 religious education. T. S. Pinneq 
 
 LESSON IV. 
 
 BETTER MOMENTS. 
 
 /' Mv mother's voice ! how often creep ) 
 1 Its accents o'er my lonely hours ! 
 Like healing, sent on wings of sleep. 
 
 Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
 I can forget her melting prayer. 
 
 While leaping pulses raadly fly; 
 But in the still, unbroken air. 
 
 Her gentle tones come stealing by. 
 And years, and sin, and manhood, flee, 
 And leave me at my mother's knee. 
 
 The book of nature, and the print 
 
 Of beauty on the whispering sea, 
 Give ay to me some lineament 
 
 Of what I have been taught to be. 
 My heart is harder, and perhaps 
 
 My manliness hath drank up tears, 
 And there's a mildew in the lapse 
 
 Of a few miserable years ; 
 But nature's book is even yet 
 With all my mother's lessons writ. 
 
 I have been out, at eventide. 
 
 Beneath a moonlit sky of spring, 
 When earth was garnished like a bride, 
 
 And night had on her silver wing. 
 When bursting leaves, and diamond grass, 
 
 And waters, leaping to the light. 
 And all that make the pulses pass 
 
 With wilder fleetness, thronged the night,- 
 
48 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 When all was beauty, then have I, 
 With friends on whom my love is flung, 
 
 Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 
 
 Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung ; 
 
 And, when the beauteous spirit there 
 
 Flung over me its golden chain, 
 My mother's voice came on the air, 
 
 Like the light dropping of the rain, 
 Showered on me from some silver star: 
 
 Then, as on childhood's bended knee, 
 I've pour'd her low and fervent prayer. 
 
 That our eternity might be, 
 To rise in heaven, like stars at night. 
 And tread a living path of light. 
 
 I have been on the dewy hills, 
 
 When night was stealing from the dawn 
 And mist was on the waking rills. 
 
 And tints were delicately drawn 
 In the gray east ; when birds were waking, 
 
 With a slow murmur in the trees ; 
 And melody by fits was breaking 
 
 Upon the whisper of the breeze; 
 And this, when I was forth, perchance. 
 As a worn reveler from the dance ; 
 
 And when the sun sprang gloriously 
 And freely up, and hill and river 
 
 Were catching, upon wave and tree. 
 The subtile arrows from his quiver; 
 
 I say, a voice has thrilled me then. 
 
 Heard on the still and rushing light. 
 Or creeping from the silent glen, 
 
 Like words from the departing night , 
 Hath stricken me, and I have pressed 
 
 On the wet grass my fevered brow, 
 And, pouring forth the earliest, 
 
 First prayer, with which I learned to bow, 
 Have felt my mother's spirit rush 
 
 Upon me, as in by-past years. 
 And, yielding to the blessed gush 
 
 Of my ungovernable tears. 
 Have risen up — the, gay, the wild — 
 As humble as a very child. N. P. Wiiti*. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 49 
 
 LESSON V. 
 
 FEJIALE HEROISM. 
 
 When the tyranny and bigotry of the last James drove his 
 subjects to take up arms against him, one of the most formidable 
 enemies to his dangerous usurpations was Sir John Cochrane, 
 (ancestor of the present Earl of Dundonald,) who was one of 
 the most prominent actors in Argyle's rebellion. For ages, a 
 destructive doom seemed to have hung over the house of 
 Campbell, enveloping in a common ruin all who united their 
 fortunes to the cause of its chieftains. The same doom 
 encompassed Sir John Cochrane. He was surrounded by the 
 king's troops. Long, deadly, and desperate was his resistance ; 
 but, at length, overpowered by numbers, he was taken prisoner, 
 tried, and condemned to die upon a scaffold. He had but a 
 few days to live, and his jader only waited the arrival of his 
 death-warrant, to lead him forth to execution. His family and 
 his friends had visited him in prison, and exchanged with him 
 the last, the long, the heart-yearning farewell. But there was 
 one who came not with the rest to receive his blessing ; one 
 who was the pride of his eyes and of his house ; even Ellen, 
 the daughter of his love. 
 
 Twilight was casting a deeper gloom over the gratings of his 
 prison-house, he was mourning for a last look of his favorite 
 chdd, and his head was pressed against the cold, damp walls of 
 his cell, to cool the feverish pulsations that shot through it like 
 stings of fire, when the door of his apartment turned slowly 
 on its unwilling hinges, and his keeper entered, followed by a 
 young and beautiful lady. Her person was tall and command 
 ing ; her eyes dark, bright, and tearless ; but their very bright- 
 ness spoke of sorrow, of sorrow too deep to be wept away ; 
 and her raven tresses were parted over an open brow, clear and 
 pure as the polished marble. The unhappy captive raised his 
 head as they entered. 
 
 "My child! my own Ellen!" he exclaimed, and she fell 
 upon his bosom. " My father ! my dear father !" sobbed the 
 miserable maiden, and she dashed away the tear that accom- 
 panied the words. "Your interview must be short, very 
 short," said the jailer, as he turned and left them for a few 
 minutes together. " God help and comfort thee, my daughter!" 
 
50 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 added Sir John, while he held her to his breast, and printed a 
 kiss upon her brow ; " I had feared that I should die without 
 bestowing my blessing on the head of my own child, and that 
 stung me more than death ; but thou art come, my love, thou 
 
 art come ! and the last blessing of thy wretched father ' 
 
 " Nay, forbear ! forbear !" she exclaimed," not thy last blessing 
 not thy last! My father shall not die !" 
 
 " Be calm, be calm, my child," returned he. " Would to 
 Heaven that I could comfort thee, my own ! my own ! But 
 there is no hope ; within three days, and thou and all my little 
 
 ones will be " Fatherless, he would have said, but the 
 
 word died on his tongue. " Three days ?" repeated she, 
 raising her head from his breast, but eagerly pressing his hand, 
 " three days ? then there is hope ! my father shall live ! Is not 
 my grandfather the friend of Father Petre, the confessor and 
 the master of the king ? From him he shall beg the life of his 
 son, and my father shall not die." "Nay, nay, my EUen," 
 returned he, " be not deceived ; there is no hope ; already my 
 doom is sealed ; already the king has sealed the order for my 
 execution, and the messenger of death is now on the way." 
 
 "Yet my father shall not — shall not die!" she repeated 
 emphatically, and clasping her hands together. " Heaven 
 speed a daughter's purpose !" she exclaimed, and turning to 
 her father, said calmly, "we part now, but we shall meet 
 again." "What would my child?" inquired he, eagerly, and 
 gazing anxiously on her face. "Ask not now," she replied, 
 " my father, ask not now, but pray for me, and bless me^ — but 
 not with thy last blessing." He again pressed her to his , 
 heart, and wept upon her neck. In a few minutes the jailer 
 entered, and they were torn from the arms of each other. 
 
 On the evening of the second day after the interview we 
 have mentioned, a wayfaring man cr. ,s5ed the drawbridge at 
 Berwick from the north, and proceeding along Marygate, sal 
 down to rest upon a bench by the door of an hostelry, on the 
 south side of the street, nearly fronting where what was called 
 the "Main-guard" then stood. He did not enter the inn, for 
 it was above his apparent condition, being that which Oliver 
 Cromwell had made his head-quarters a few years before, and 
 'A-here, at a somewhat earlier period, James the Sixth of Scot- 
 
yOUNG LADIES' READER. 51 
 
 land had taken up his residence, when on his way to enter on 
 the sovereignty of England. 
 
 The traveler wore a coarse jerkin, fastened round his body 
 by a leathern girdle, and over it a short cloak, composed of 
 equally plain materials. He was evidently a young man, but 
 his beaver was drawn down so as almost to conceal his fea- 
 tures. In one hand he carried a small bundle, and in the other 
 a pilgrim's staff. Having called for a glass of wine, he took a 
 crust of bread, from his bundle, and after resting for a few min- 
 utes, rose to depart. The shades of night were setting in, and 
 it threatened to be a night of storms. The heavens were 
 gathering black, the clouds rushing from the sea, sudden gusts 
 of wind were moaning along the streets, accompanied by heavy 
 drops of rain, and the face of the Tweed was troubled. 
 
 " Heaven help thee ! if thou intendest to travel far in such 
 a night as this," said the sentinel at the English gate, as the 
 traveler passed him, and proceeded to cross the bridge. In a 
 few minutes he was upon the wide, desolate, and dreary moor 
 of Tweedmouth, which, for miles, presented a desert of furze, 
 fern, and stunted heath, with here and there a dingle covered 
 with thick brushwood. He slowly toiled over the steep hill, 
 braving the storm, which now raved with the wildest fury. 
 The rain fell in torrents, and the wind howled as a legion of fam 
 ished wolves, hurling its doleful and angry echoes over the 
 heath. Still the stranger pushed onward, until he had pro- 
 ceeded two or three miles from Berwick, when, as if unable 
 longer to brave the storm, he sought shelter among some crab 
 and bramble bushes by the wayside. 
 
 Nearly an hour had passed since he sought this imperfect 
 refiige, and the darkness of the night and the storm had in- 
 creased together, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard, 
 hurriedly splashing along the road. The rider bent his head 
 to the blast. Suddenly his horse was gi'asped by the bridle : 
 the rider raised his head, and the stranger stood before him, 
 holding a pistol to his breast. " Dismount," cried the stran- 
 ger, sternly. The horseman, benumbed, and stricken with 
 fear, made an effort to reach his arms, but in a moment the 
 hand of the robber, quitting the bridle, grasped the breast of the 
 rider, and dragged him to the ground. He fell heavily on his 
 face, and for several minutes renained senseless. The stran-, 
 
52 YOUNfi LADIES' READER. 
 
 ger seized the leathern bag which contained the mail to th? 
 north, and flinging it on his shoulder, rushed across the heath. 
 
 Early on the following morning the inhabitants of Berwick 
 were seen hurrying in groups to the spot where the robbery 
 had been committed, and were scattered in every direction over 
 the moor, but no trace of the robber could be obtained. 
 
 Three days had passed, and Sir John Cochrane yet lived. 
 Tlie mail which contained his death-warrant had been robbed, 
 and before another order for his execution could be given, the 
 intercession of his father, the Earl of Dundonald, with the 
 king's confessor, might be successful. Ellen now became 
 almost his constant companion in prison, and spake to him 
 words of comfort. Nearly fourteen days had passed since the 
 robbery of the mail had been committed, and protracted hope 
 in the bosom of the prisoner, became more bitter than his first 
 despair. But even that hope, bitter as it was, perished. The 
 intercession, of his father had been unsuccessful; and, a second 
 time, the bigoted and would-be despotic monarch had signed 
 the warrant for his death, and within little more than another 
 day that warrant would reach his prison. " The will of Heaven 
 be done !" groaned the captive. " Amen !" responded Ellen, 
 with wild vehemence ; " yet my father shall not die." 
 
 Again the rider with the mail had reached the moor of 
 Tweedmouth, and, a second time, he bore with him the doom 
 of Sir John Cochrane. He spurred his horse to his utmost 
 speed ; he looked cautiously before, behind, and around him, 
 and in his right hand he carried a pistol, ready to defend him- 
 self. The moon shed a ghostly light across the heath, which 
 was only suflicient to render desolation dimly visible, and 
 it gave a spiritual embodiment to every shrub. He was turn- 
 ing the angle of a straggling copse, when his horse reared 
 at the report of a pistol, the fire of which seemed to dash 
 into its very eyes. At the same moment, his own pistol 
 flashed, and his horse rearing more violently, he was driven 
 from the saddle. In a moment the foot of the robber was 
 upon his breast, who bending over him, and brandishing a short 
 dagger in his?hand, said, " Give me thine arms, or die !" The 
 heart of the king's servant failed within him, and without 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 53 
 
 ventunng to reply, he did as he was commanded. " Now go 
 thy way," said the robber, sternly, "but leave with me thy 
 horse, and leave with me the mail, lest a worse thing come 
 upon thee." The man arose, and proceeded towards Berwick, 
 trembling ; and the robber, mounting the horse which he had 
 left, rode rapidly across the heath." 
 
 Preparations were making for the execution of Sir John 
 Cochrane, and the officers of the law waited only for the 
 arrival of the mail with his second death-warrant, to lead him 
 forth to the scaffold, when the tidings arrived that the mail had 
 again been robbed. For yet fourteen days, and tM life of the 
 prisoner would be again prolonged. He again' fell on the neck 
 of his daughter, and wept, and said, "It is good; the hand of 
 Heaven is in this!" "Said I not," replied the maiden, and 
 for the first time she wept aloud, " that my father should not 
 die ?" 
 
 The fourteen days were not yet passed, when the prison 
 doors flew open, and the Earl of Dundonald rushed «to the 
 arms of his son. His intercession with the confessor had 
 been at length successful, and after twice signing the warrant 
 lor the execution of Sir John, which had as often failed in 
 reaching its destination, the king had sealed his pardon. 
 
 He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own 
 house ; his family were clinging around him, shedding tears 
 of joy, but Ellen, who during his imprisonment had suiFered 
 more than them all, was again absent. They were marveling 
 with gratitude at the mysterious Providence that had twice 
 intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger craved 
 an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted, and the 
 robber entered ; he was habited, as we have before described, 
 with the coarse cloak and coarser jerkin, but his bearing was 
 above his condition. On entering, he slightly touched his 
 beaver, but remained covered. 
 
 "When you have perused these," said he, taking two 
 papers from his bosom, " cast them into the fire." Sir John 
 glanced on them ; started, and became pale ; they were his 
 death-warrants. " My deliverer !" he exclaimed, " how, 
 how shall I thank thee ? how repay the savior of my life ? 
 My father ! my children ! thank him for me." The old earl 
 
54 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 grasped the hand of the stranger ; the children embraced his 
 knees. He pressed his hand before his face, and burst into 
 tears. " By what name," eagerly inquired Sir John, "shall 
 I thank my deliverer ?" The stranger wept aloud, and raising 
 nis beaver, the raven tresses of Ellen Cochrane fell on the 
 coarse cloak. " My ';hild !" exclaimed the astonished and 
 enraptured father, " my own child ! my savior ! my own 
 EUen !' 
 
 It is unnecessary to add more. The imagination of the 
 reader can supply the rest, and we may only add, that Ellen 
 Cochrane, whose heroism and noble affection we have here 
 briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the grandmother of the 
 late Sir John Stewart, of AUanbank, in Berwickshire, and 
 great, great grandmother of Mr. Coutts, the celebrated banker. 
 
 J. WiLSOK. 
 
 LESSON VI. 
 
 * FIDELITY UNTO DEATH. 
 
 (Gerfr«(fe.) 
 
 The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an ae- 
 complice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on 
 the wheel, and was attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last ago- 
 niziDv pwments, with the most heroic fidelity. 
 
 Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, 
 
 Thp breeze threw back her hair ; 
 Up M the fearful wheel she gazed, 
 
 All that she loved was there. 
 The night was round her clear and cold, 
 
 The holy heaven above ; 
 Its pale stars watching to behold 
 
 The might of earthly love. 
 
 " And bid me not depart," she cried, 
 
 " My Rudolph ! say not so ! 
 This is no time to quit thy side. 
 
 Peace, peace ! I cannot go. 
 Hath the world aught for me to fear 
 
 When death is on thy brow? 
 The world ! what means it ? mine is hercj 
 
 I will not leave thee now ? 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. §b 
 
 " I have been with thee in thine hour 
 
 Of glory and of bliss, 
 Doubt not its memory's living power 
 
 To strengthen me through this ! 
 And thou, mine honored love and true, 
 
 Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
 We have the blessed Heaven in view. 
 
 Whose rest shall soon be won." 
 
 And were not these, high words to flow 
 
 From Woman's breaking heart ? 
 Through all that night of bitterest wor. 
 
 She bore her lofty part : 
 But oh ! with such a freezing eye 
 
 With such a curdling cheek! 
 Love, love ! of mortal agony. 
 
 Thou, only thou, shouldst speak '. 
 
 The wind rose high, but with it rose 
 
 Her voice, that he might hear ; 
 Perchance that dark hour brought repose 
 
 To happy bosoms near ; 
 While she sat striving vvith despair 
 
 Beside his tortured form. 
 And pouring her deep soul in prayer 
 
 Forth on the rushing storm. 
 
 She wiped the death-damps from his brow. 
 
 With her pale hands and soft. 
 Whose touch, upon the lute chords low. 
 
 Had stilled his heart so oft. 
 She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 
 
 She bathed his lips with dew. 
 And on his cheek such kisses pressed. 
 
 As Joy and Hope ne'er knew. 
 
 Oh ! lovely are ye. Love and Faith, 
 
 Enduring to the last! 
 She had her meed — one smile ift death — 
 
 And his worn spirit passed. 
 ; While even as o'er a martyr's grave. 
 
 She knelt on that sad spot, , 
 
 And weeping, blessed the God who gave 
 
 Strength to forsake it not ! Mns. H£ma»s 
 
56 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON VII. 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS, 
 
 When the-hours of day are numbered. 
 
 And the voices of the night 
 Wake the better soul that slumbered. 
 
 To a holy, calm delight ; 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 , Shadows from the fitful firelight 
 
 Dance upon the parlor wall ; 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 The beloved, the true-hearted. 
 
 Come to visit me once more. 
 He, the young and strong, who cherished 
 
 Noble longings for the strife, 
 -By the roadside fell and perished, 
 
 Weary with the march of life ! 
 
 They, the lioly ones and weakly. 
 
 Who the cross of suffering bore. 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
 
 Spake with as on earth no more ! 
 
 And with them the being beauteous. 
 
 Who unto my youth was given. 
 More than all things else to love me. 
 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep. 
 
 Comes that messenger divine. 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
 
 Lays her gentle hand in mine. 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me, 
 
 With*those deep and tender eyes. 
 Like the stars, so still and saintlike. 
 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 Uttered not, yet comprehended. 
 
 Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 
 Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
 
 Breathing from her lips of air. 
 
 Oh, though oft depressed and lonely. 
 
 All my fears are laid aside. 
 If I but remember only 
 
 Such as these have lived and dfed ! h W LoirarKn.Bv 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 57 
 
 LESSON VIII. 
 
 THE PARTING OF FRIENDS. 
 
 Friend after friend departs ; ' 
 
 Who hath not lost a friend 1 
 There is no union here of hearts, . 
 
 That finds not here an end : 
 Were this frail world our only rest, 
 Living or dying none were blest. 
 
 Beyond the flight of time, 
 
 Beyond this vale of death, 
 There surely is some blessed clime. 
 
 Where life is not a breath ; 
 Nor life's affections, transient fire. 
 Whose sparks fly upward to expirei 
 
 There is a world above. 
 
 Where parting is unknown, 
 A whole eternity of love. 
 
 Formed for the good alon&; 
 And faith beholds the dying her^ 
 Translated to that happier sphere. 
 Thus star by star declines. 
 
 Till all have passed away. 
 As morning high and higher shines 
 
 To pure and perfect day ; 
 Nor sink those stars in empty night. 
 They hide themselves in heaven's own light 
 
 J. MolfTGOMEKI, 
 
 LESSON IX. 
 
 ROMANCE OF THE SWAn's NEST 
 
 (Meverie.) 
 So the dreams depart, 
 So the fading phantoms flee, 
 And the sharp reality, 
 Now must act its part 
 
 Little EUie sits alone 
 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, 
 
 By a stream side, on the grass ; 
 
 And the trees are showering down 
 Doubles of their leaves in shadow, 
 
 On tier shining hair and face 
 
68 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 She has thrown her bonnet by, 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 
 In the shallow water's flow ; 
 
 Now she holds them nakedly, 
 In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 
 
 While she rocketh to and fro. 
 
 Little Eilie sits alone ; 
 And the smile she softly useth, 
 
 Fills the silence like a speech. 
 
 While she thinks what shall be done. 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooseth. 
 
 For her future within reach. 
 
 Little Ellie in her smile 
 Chooseth, — " I will have a lover, 
 
 Riding on a steed of steeds : 
 
 He shall love me without guile. 
 And to him I will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 ' " And the steed shall be red-roan, 
 And the lover shall be noble,' 
 
 With an eye that takes the breath ; 
 
 And the lute he plays upon. 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble. 
 
 As his sword strikes men to death. 
 
 " And the steed it shall be shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure, 
 
 And the mane shall swim the wind, 
 
 And the hoofs along the sod, 
 Shall flash onward in a pleasure. 
 
 Till the shepherds look behind. 
 
 " But my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in. 
 
 When he gazes on my face. 
 
 He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
 Build the shrine my soul abides in ; 
 
 And I kneel here for thy grace.' 
 
 " Then, ay, then, he shall kneel low, 
 'Vith the red-roan steed anear him, 
 
 Which shall seem to understand, 
 
 '►'ill I answer, ' Rise and go I 
 For the world must love and fear him 
 
 Whom I gift ivjth heart and hand.' 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 69 
 
 " Then he will arise so pale, 
 I shall feel my own lips tremble 
 
 With a yes I must not say. 
 
 Nathless, maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' 
 £ will utter and dissemble, 
 
 ' Light to-morrow with to-day.' 
 
 " Then he will ride through the hills 
 To the wide world past the river. 
 
 There to put away all wrong, 
 
 To make straight distorted wills, 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Which the wicked bear along. 
 
 " Three times shall a young foot-page 
 Swim the stream, and climb the mountain, 
 
 And kneel down beside my feet; 
 
 ' ho ! my master sends this gage. 
 Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 
 
 What wilt thou exchange for it ?' 
 
 " And the first time, I will send 
 A white rose-bud for a guerdon ; 
 
 And the second time, a glove ; 
 
 But the third time, I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer, ' Pardon, 
 
 If he comes to take my love.' 
 
 " Then the young foot-page will run. 
 Then my lover will ride faster, 
 
 Till he kneeleth at my knee. 
 
 ' I am a duke's eldest son. 
 Thousand serfs do call me master, 
 
 But, O Love ! I love but thee.' 
 
 " He will kiss me on the mouth 
 Then ; and lead me as a lover 
 
 Through the crowds that praise his deeds 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
 Unto him I, will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds !" 
 
 Little Ellie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gayly. 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe. 
 
 And went homeward, round, a mile, 
 Just to see, as she ^id daily, 
 
 What more eggs were there than two. 
 
fiS YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 She has thrown her bonnet by, 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 
 In the shallow water's flow ; 
 
 Now she holds them nakedly, 
 In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 
 
 While she rocketh to and fro. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone ; 
 And the smile she softly useth. 
 
 Fills the silence like a speech. 
 
 While she thinks what shall be done. 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooseth, 
 
 For her future within reach. 
 
 Little Ellie in her smile 
 Chooseth, — " I will have a lover. 
 
 Riding on a steed of steeds : 
 
 He shall love me without guile. 
 And to him I will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 ' " And the steed shall be red-roan. 
 And the lover shall be noble,' 
 
 With an eye that takes the breath ; 
 
 And the lute he plays upon. 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble. 
 
 As his sword strikes men to death. 
 
 " And the steed it shall be shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure. 
 
 And the mane shall swim the wind. 
 
 And the hoofs along the sod. 
 Shall flash onward in a pleasure. 
 
 Till the shepherds look behind. 
 
 " But my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in, 
 
 When he gazes on my face. 
 
 He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
 Build the shrine my soul abides in ; 
 
 And I kneel here for thy grace.' 
 
 " Then, ay, then, he shall kneel low, 
 *Vith the red-roan steed anear him, 
 
 Which shall seem to understand, 
 
 '►Ml I answer, ' Rise and go I 
 For the world must love and fear him 
 
 Whom r gift with heart and hand.' 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. BS 
 
 " Then he will arise so pale, 
 t shall feel my own lips tremble 
 
 With a yes I must not say. 
 
 Nathless, maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' 
 I will utter and dissemble, 
 
 ' Light to-morrow with to-day.' 
 
 " Then he will ride through the hills 
 To the wide world past the river. 
 
 There to put away all wrong. 
 
 To make straight distorted wills, 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Which the wicked bear along. 
 
 " Three times shall a young foot-page 
 Swim the stream, and climb the mountain, 
 
 And kneel down beside my feet; 
 
 ' Lo ! my master sends this gage. 
 Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 
 
 What wilt thou exchange for it ?' 
 
 " And the first time, I will send 
 A white rose-bud for a guerdon ; 
 
 And the second time, a glove ; 
 
 But the third time, I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer, ' Pardon, 
 
 If he comes to take my love.' 
 
 " Then the young foot-page will run. 
 Then my lover will ride faster. 
 
 Till he kneeleth at my knee. 
 
 ' I am a duke's eldest son. 
 Thousand serfs do call me master, 
 
 But, O Love ! I love but thee.'' 
 
 " He will kiss me on the mouth 
 Then ; and lead me as a lover 
 
 Through the crowds that praise his deeds 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one troth. 
 Unto him I, will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds !" 
 
 Little EUie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gayly. 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, 
 
 And went homeward, round, a mile, 
 Just to see, as she &id daily, 
 
 What more eggs were there than two. 
 
60 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Pushing through the elm-tree copse, 
 Winding by the stream, light-hearted. 
 
 Where the osier path-way leads. 
 
 Past the boughs she stoops — and stops ! 
 Lo ! the wild swan had deserted. 
 
 And a rat had gnawed the reeds ! 
 
 EUie went home, sad and slow ! 
 If she found the lover ever, 
 
 With his red-roan steed of steeds. 
 
 Sooth, I know not ! but I know, 
 She could show him never — never, 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 Miss E. B. Bahust. 
 
 LESSON X. 
 
 THE MOON AND STARS. 
 
 On the fourth day of creation, when the sun, after a glorious, 
 but solitary course, went down in the evening, and darkness 
 began to gather over the face of the uninhabited globe, already 
 arrayed in the exuberance of vegetation, and prepared by the 
 diversity of land and water, for the abode of uncreated animals 
 and man, — a star, single and beautiful, stepped forth into the 
 firmament. Trembling with wonder and delight in new-found 
 existence, she looked abroad, and beheld nothing in heaven or 
 on earth resembling herself. But she was not long alone; 
 now one, then another, here a third, and there a fourth re- 
 splendent companion had joined her, till,light after light stealing 
 through the gloom, in the lapse of an hour the whole hemi- 
 sphere was brilliantly bespangled. 
 
 The planets and stars, with a superb comet, flaming in the 
 zenith, for a while contemplated themselves and each other; 
 and every one, from the largest to the least, was so perfectly 
 well pleased with himself, that he imagined the rest only par- 
 takers of his felicity ; he being the central luminary of his own 
 universe, and all the hosts of heaven besides displayed around 
 him in graduated splendor. Nor were any undeceived in 
 regard to themselves, though all saw their associates in their 
 real situations and relative proportions ; — self-knowledge being 
 the last knowledge acquired, either in the .«ky or below it ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' REABER. 61 
 
 till bending over the ocean in their turns, they discovered what 
 they supposed at first to be a new heaven, peopled with beings 
 of their own species. But when they perceived further, that 
 no sooner had any one of their company touched the horizon 
 than he instantly disappeared, they then recognized themselves, 
 in their individual forms, reflected beneath, according to their 
 places and configurations above, from seeing others, whom they 
 previously knew, reflected in^ike manner. 
 
 By an attentive, but mournful self-examination in that mirror, 
 they slowly learned humility ; but every one learned it only for 
 himself, none believing what others insinuated respecting theii 
 own inferiority, till they reached the western slope, from 
 whence they could identify their true visages in the nethei 
 element. Nor was this very surprising; stars being only 
 visible points, without any distinction of limbs, each was all 
 eye ; and though he could see others most correctly, he could 
 neither see himself nor any part of himself, till he came to 
 reflection. The comet, however, having a long train of bright- 
 ness, streaming sun-ward, could review that, and did review it 
 with ineffable self-complacence. Indeed, after all pretensions 
 to precedence, he was at length acknowledged king of the hemi- 
 sphere, if not by the universal assent, by the silent envy of all 
 his rivals. 
 
 But the object which attracted most attention, and astonish- 
 ment too, was a slender thread of light, that could scarcely be 
 discerned through the blush of evening, and vanished soon after 
 night-fall, as if ashamed to appear in so scanty a form, like an 
 unfinished work of creation. It was the moon, the first new 
 moon. Timidly, she looked around upon the glittering multi- 
 tude that crowded the dark serenity of space, and filled it with 
 life and beauty. Minute, indeed, they seemed to herj but per- 
 fect in symmetry, and formed to shine forever ; while she was 
 unshapen, incomplete, and evanescent. In her humility, she 
 was glad to hide herself from their keen glances in the friendly 
 bosom of the ocean, wishing for immediate extinction. 
 
 When she was gone, the stars looked one at another with in- 
 quisitive surprise, as mnch as to say, " What a figure !" It was 
 so evident that they all thought alike, and thought contemptu- 
 ously of the apparition, (though at first they almost doubted 
 whether they should not be frightened,) that they soon began to 
 
64 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 depths of ether, to gaze at a safe distance upon her. " Whal 
 more can she be ?" thought these scattered survivors of myriads 
 of extinguished sparklers ; " as hitherto she has increased every 
 evening, to-morrovi' she will do the same ; and -we must be lost 
 like our brethren, in her all-conquering resplendence." 
 
 The moon herself was not a little puzzled to imagine what 
 might become of her ; but vanity readily suggested, that although 
 she had reached her full form, she had not reached herfuU size; 
 consequently, by a regular nightly expansion of circumference, 
 she would finally cover the whole convexity of the sky, not only 
 to the exclusion of stars, but of the sun himself, since he occu- 
 pied a superior region of space, and certainly could not shine 
 through her ; tiU man, and his beautiful companion.woman, look- 
 ing upward from the bowers of Eden, would see all moon above 
 them, and walk in the light of her countenance forever. 
 
 In the midst of this pleasing self-illusion, a film crept upon 
 her, which spread from her utmost verge, athwart her center, 
 till it had completely eclipsed her visage, and made her a blot 
 on the tablet of the heavens. In the progress of this disaster, 
 the stars, which were hid in her pomp, stole forth to witness 
 her humiliation. But their transport and her shame, lasted not 
 long ; the shadow retired as gradually as it had advanced, 
 leaving her fairer by contrast than before. Soon afterward, 
 the day broke, and she withdrew, marveling what would next 
 befall her. 
 
 Never had the stars been more impatient to resume their 
 places, nor the moon more impatient to rise, than on the fol- 
 lowing evening. With trembling hope and fear, the planets 
 that came out first after sunset, espied her disk, broad and dark 
 red, emerging from a gulf of clouds in the east. , At the first 
 glance, their keen, celestial sight discovered that her western 
 limb was a little contracted, and her orb no longer perfect. 
 She herself was too much elated to suspect any failing, and 
 fondly imagined that she had continued to increase all round, 
 till she had got above the Pacific ; but even then, she was only 
 chagrined to perceive, that her image was no larger than it had 
 been last night. There was not a star in the horoscope — no, 
 not the comet himself — durst tell her she was less. 
 
 Another day went, and another night came. She rose as 
 us<'*l, a little later. Even while she traveled above the land. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 65 
 
 she was haunted with the idea, that her luster was rather 
 feebler than it had been ; but when she beheld her face in the 
 sea, she could no longer overlook the unwelcome defect. The 
 season was boisterous ; the wind rose suddenly, and the waves 
 burst into foam ; perhaps the tide, for the first time, was then 
 affected by sympathy with the moon; and what had never 
 happened before, a universal tempest mingled heaven and 
 earth in rain, and lightning, arid darkness. She plunged among 
 the thickest of the thunder-clouds, and, in the confusion that 
 hid her disgrace, her exulting rivals were all likewise put ou< 
 of countenance. 
 
 On the next evening, and every evening afterward, the 
 moon came forth later, and less, and dimmer ; while on each 
 occasion, more and more of the minor stars, which had for- 
 merly vanished from her eye, re-appeared to witness her 
 fading honors and disfigured form. Prosperity had made her 
 vain ; adversity brought her to her mind again, and humility 
 soon compensated the loss of glaring distinction with softer 
 charms, which won the regard which haughtiness had repelled ; 
 for when she had worn off her uncouth gibbous aspect, and, 
 through the last quarter, ner profile waned into a hollow shell, 
 she appeared more graceful than ever in the eyes of all heaven. 
 When she was originally seen among them, the stars contemned 
 ner ; afterward, as she grew in beauty, they envied, feai'ed, 
 hated, and finally fled from her. As she relapsed into insig- 
 nificance, they first rejoiced in her decay, and then endured 
 her superiority, because it could not last long ; but when they 
 marked how she had wasted away every time they met, com- 
 passion succeeded, and, on the last three nights, (like a human 
 fair one, in the latest stages of decline, growing lovelier, and 
 dearer to her friends till the close,) she disarmed hostility, 
 conciliated kindness, and secured aflection : she was admired 
 beloved, and unenvied by all. 
 
 At length, there came a night when there was no moon. 
 There was silence in heaven all that night. In serene medita- 
 tion on the changes of the month, the stars pursued their jour- 
 ney from sunset to daybreak. The comet had, likewise, 
 departed into unknown regions. His fading luster had been 
 attributed" at first, to the bolder radiance of the moon in her 
 meridian; but, during her wane, while inferior luminaries 
 6 
 
66 VOUNG LADIES' REA.DER. 
 
 were brightening around her, he was growing fainter and 
 smaller every evening, and now, he was no more. Of the 
 rest, planets, and stars, all were unimpaired in their light, and 
 the former only slightly varied in their positions. The whole 
 multitude, v^iser by experience, and better for their knowledge, 
 were humble, contented, and grateful, each for his lot, whether 
 splendid or obscure. 
 
 Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of all, the moon, 
 with a new crescent, was descried in the west ; and instantly, 
 from every quarter of the heavens, she was congratulated on 
 her happy resurrection. Just as she went down, while her 
 bow was yet recumbent in the dark purple horizon, it is said 
 that an angel appeared, standing between her horns. Turning 
 his head, his eye glanced rapidly over the universe; the sun 
 far sunk behind him, the moon under his feet, the earth spread 
 in prospect before him, and the firmament all glittering with 
 constellations above. He paused a moment, and then in that 
 tongue, wherein, at the accomplishment of creation, " the 
 morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for 
 joy," he thus broke forth : " Great and marvelous are thy 
 works, Lord God Almighty ! In wisdom hast thou made them 
 all. Who would not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name, 
 for thou only art holy !" He ceased ; and from that hour there 
 has«been harmony in heaven. j. MojfTGOMEKT 
 
 LESSON XII. 
 
 Adam's morning hymn. 
 
 These are thy glorious works, Parent of good ! 
 Almighty ! thine this universal frame. 
 Thus wondrous fair ! thyself how wondrous, then, 
 Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens. 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these thy lowest works : yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 
 Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
 Angels ! for ye behold him, and, with songs 
 And choral symphonies, day without night. 
 Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye, in heaven, 
 On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol, 
 Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end' 
 
yoUNG LADIES' READER. ( 
 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn,- 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
 With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere. 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul. 
 Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st. 
 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest 
 With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies ; 
 And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
 In mystic dance, not without song ; resound 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 
 
 Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix, 
 And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
 Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 
 In honor to the world's great Author rise. 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers ; 
 Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 
 
 His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow. 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
 With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. 
 Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow, 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
 Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds 
 That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 
 Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise. 
 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep. 
 Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
 To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 
 Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
 To give us only good : and if the night 
 Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! Miitos 
 
68 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON XIII. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The Spring^she i^a blesfeed thing^ 
 /She iJmother/of th^ flowers ^ 
 ,/She is/the mate/'of birds' and bees/ 
 /The parrfier of Aheir re<'elries,/ 
 /'Our sta/of hope' through winny hoursj 
 
 The merry children, when they see 
 Her coming, by the budding thorn, 
 They leap upon the cottage floor, 
 They shout beside the cottage door, 
 And run to meet her, night and morn. 
 
 They are soonest with her in the woods, 
 Peeping the withered leaves among, 
 To find the earliest, fragrant thing 
 That dares from the cold earth to spring. 
 Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song. 
 
 The little brooks run on in light, 
 As if they had a chase of mirth ; 
 The skies are blue, the air is warm; 
 Our very hearts have caught the charm 
 That sheds a beauty o'er the earth. 
 
 The aged man is in the field ; 
 
 The maiden 'mong her garden flowers ; 
 
 The sons of sorrow and distress 
 
 Are wandering in forgetfulness 
 
 Of wants that fret, and care that lowers. 
 
 She comes with more than present good, 
 With joys to store for future years, 
 From which, in striving crowds apart. 
 The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart. 
 May glean up hope with grateful tears. 
 
 Up ! let us to the fields away, 
 
 And breathe the fresh and balmy air ; 
 
 The bird is building in the tree. 
 
 The flower has opened to the bee. 
 
 And health, and love, and peace are there 
 
 Maut Hown 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 69 
 
 LESSON XIV- 
 
 BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 
 
 What wak'st thou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods, 
 And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute ; 
 
 Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes. 
 
 The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 
 
 Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee. 
 Even as our hearts may be. 
 
 And the leaves greet thee. Spring ! the joyous leaves, 
 Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, 
 
 Where each young spray a rosy flKsh receives, 
 
 When the south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, 
 
 And happy murmurs, running through the grass. 
 Tell that thy footsteps pass. 
 
 And the bright waters, they, too, hear thy call ; 
 
 Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their sleep ! 
 Amid the hollows of the rocks their fall 
 
 Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 
 When sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
 Their windings to the day. 
 
 And flowers, the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 
 
 Thou from the dust hast set that glory ti^e, 
 Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 
 
 And penciling the wood-anemone : 
 Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye 
 Glows with mute poesy. 
 
 But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring 1 
 The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs ? 
 
 Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing. 
 Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
 
 Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art ; 
 What wak'st thou in the heart ? 
 
 Too much, oh ! there too much ! — we know not well 
 Wherefore it should be thus ; yet, roused by thee, 
 
 What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, 
 Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
 
 How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone. 
 By voices that are gone ! 
 
 Looks of familiar love, that never more, 
 Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet) 
 
70 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Past words of welcome to our household door, 
 
 And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet; 
 Spring ! 'mid the murmurs of thy flowering trees. 
 Why, why reviv'st thou these ? 
 
 Vain longings for the dead ! Why come they back 
 With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms ? 
 
 Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 
 
 Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? 
 
 Yes, gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air. 
 
 Breathed by our loved ones there ! 
 
 Mks. Hemaits 
 
 LESSON XV, 
 
 BEAUTY or FLOWERS. 
 
 Of all the minor creations of God, flowers seem to be most 
 completely the effusions of his love of beauty, grace, and joy. 
 Of all the natural objects which surround us, they are the least 
 connected with our absolute necessities. Vegetation might 
 proceed, the earth might be clothed with a sober green ; and 
 all the processes of fructification might be perfected, without 
 being attended by the glory with which the flower is crowned ; 
 but beauty and fragrance are poured abroad over the earth in 
 blossoms of endless varieties, radiant evidences of the bound- 
 less benevolence of the Deity. They are made solely to 
 gladden the heart of man, for a light to his eyes, for a living 
 inspiration of grace to his spirit, for a perpetual admiration. 
 And, accordingly, they seize on our aflections the first moment 
 that we behold them. 
 
 With what eagerness do very infants grasp at flowers ! As 
 they become older they would live forever among them. 
 They bound about in the flowery meadows like young fawns ; 
 they gather all they come near ; they collect heaps ; they sit 
 among them, and sort them, and sing over them, and caress 
 them, till they perish in their grasp. We see them coming 
 wearily into the towns and villages, loaded with posies half as 
 large as themselves. We trace them in shady lanes, in the 
 grass of far-off" fields, by the treasures they have gathered and 
 have left behind, lured on by others still brighter. 
 
 As they grow up to mature years, they assume, in their eyes, 
 
YJUNG hA „ES' READER. 71 
 
 new characters and beauties. Then they are strewn around 
 them, the poetry of the earth. They become invested by a 
 multitude of associations with innumerable spells of power 
 over the human heart ; they are to us memorials of the joys, 
 sorrows, hopes, and triumphs of our forefathers ; they are, 
 to all nations, the emblems of youth in its loveliness and purity. 
 Of all the poetry ever drawn from flowers, none is so beau- 
 tiful, none is so sublime, none is so imbued with that very spirit 
 in which they were made, as that of Christ. ' And why take 
 ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they 
 grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet, I say unto 
 you, that even Solomon in all his glory, was not arrayed like 
 one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the 
 field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall 
 ne not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith ?' 
 
 The sentiment built upon this, entire dependence on the 
 goodness of the Creator, is one of the lights of our existence, 
 and could only have been uttered by Christ. But we have here 
 also the expression of the very spirit of beauty, in which flow- 
 ers were created ; a spirit so boundless and overflowing, that 
 it delights to enliven and adorn, with these luxuriant creatures 
 of sunshine, the solitary places of the earth ; to scatter them by 
 myriads over the very desert ' where no man is ; on the wil- 
 derness where there is no man ;' sending rain, ' to satisfy the 
 desolate and waste ground, and to cause the bud of the tender 
 herb to spring forth.' 
 
 In our confined notions, we are often led to wonder why 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air ; 
 why beauty, and flowers, and fruit, should be scattered so exu- 
 berantly where there are none to enjoy them. But the thoughts 
 of the Almighty are not as our thoughts. He sees them ; he, 
 doubtless, delights to behold the beauty of his handwork, and 
 rejoices in that tide of glory which he has caused to flow wide 
 through the universe. We know not, either, what spiritual 
 eyes besides may behold them ; for pleasant is the belief, that 
 
 Myriads of spiritual creatures walk the.earth. 
 And how often does the gladness of uninhabited lands refresh 
 the heart of the solitary traveler ! When the distant and sea- 
 tired voyager suddenly descries the blue mountain-tops, ana 
 
72 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 the lofty crest of the palm-tree, and makes some green and 
 pleasant island, where the verdant and blossoming forest- 
 jjoughs wave in the spicy gale, where the living waters leap 
 from the rocks, and millions of new and resplendent flowers 
 brighten the fresh sward, what then is the joy of his heart ! 
 
 To Omnipotence, creation costs not an effort, but to the deso- 
 late and the weary, how immense is the happiness thus prepared 
 in the wilderness ! Who does not recollect the exultation of 
 Vaillant over a magnificent lily in the torrid wastes of Africa, 
 which, growing on the banks of a river, filled the air far around 
 with its delicious fragrance, and, as he observes, had been re- 
 spected by all the animals of the district, and seemed defended 
 even by its beauty ? Howitt. 
 
 LESSON XVI. 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 There is a Reaper whose name is Death, 
 
 And, with his sickle keen, 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 " Shall I have nanght that is fair V saith he ; 
 
 " Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
 
 I will give them all back again." 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. 
 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise, 
 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 " My Lord has need of these flowerets gay." 
 
 The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
 " Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
 
 Where he was once a child. 
 
 " They shall all bloom in fields of light. 
 
 Transplanted by my care. 
 And saints, upon their garments white; 
 
 These sacred blossoms wear." 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
 The flowers she most did love ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 73 
 
 She knew she should find tnem all again. 
 In the fields of light above. 
 
 O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 
 
 The Reaper came that day ; 
 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 
 
 And took the flowers away. 
 
 H. W. LOUGFELLOW. 
 
 LESSON XVII. 
 
 THE CHILD OF EARTH. 
 
 Fainter her slow steps fall from day to day, 
 
 Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow , 
 Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 
 
 " I am content to die, but oh ! not now ! 
 Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 
 
 Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
 Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; 
 
 Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. 
 Spare me. Great God ! lift up my drooping brow ; 
 I am content to die, but oh ! not now !" 
 
 The spring hath ripened into summer time; 
 
 The season's viewless boundary is past; 
 The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime ; 
 
 Oh, must this glimpse of beauty be the lasti 
 " Let me not perish while o'er land and lea. 
 
 With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on ; 
 Not while the murmur of the mountain bee 
 
 Greets my dull ear with music in its tone. 
 Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow : 
 I am content to die, but oh ! not now !" 
 
 Summer is gone ; and autumn's soberer hues 
 
 Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; 
 The huntsman swift the flying game pursues. 
 
 Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn : 
 " Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze 
 
 On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream. 
 To watch in silence while the evening rays 
 
 Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ; 
 Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
 I am content to die, but oh ! not now !" , ,■ . 
 
74 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The bleak wind whistles ; snow-showers, far and near, 
 
 Drip without echo to the whitening- ground ; 
 Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, 
 
 Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound : 
 Yet still that prayer ascends. " Oh ! laughingly 
 
 My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, 
 Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high. 
 
 And the roof rings with voices light and loud : 
 Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! 
 I am content to die, but oh ! not now !" 
 
 The spring is come again, the joyful spring; 
 
 Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread ; 
 The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing ; 
 
 The child of earth is numbered with the dead ! 
 
 Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, 
 
 Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ; 
 The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 
 
 Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ; 
 Death's silent shadow vails thy darkened brow ; 
 Why didst thou linger ? thou art happier now ! 
 
 Mrs. Nobton. 
 
 LESSON XVIII. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 On a beautiful evening, about the middle of July, I pursued 
 my walk along a narrow path, that stretched through an exten- 
 sive wood, to enjoy, alone and undisturbed, that soothing mel- 
 • anoholy, which is to me sweeter than the turbulence of social 
 merriment. The sun had just set; the twilight star was 
 twinkling, like the eyes of a beautiful wou^an, whose lashes are 
 quivering with the effects of departing sorrow, that bedewed 
 them with tears ; and the thrush was pouring forth bis vesper 
 hymn on the topmost twig of the tall larch tree, as if he 
 thought that his song would sound the sweeter, the nearer hp 
 could make his perch to heaven. 
 
 It was to me a scene of peculiar interest. On the one side, 
 stood the home of my father and mother, brothers and sisters^ 
 the affectionate beings who appeared to me parts of my own 
 existence, without whom, without one of whom I could not be 
 happy; and on the other side, lay the church-yard, where mv 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 75 
 
 forefathers slept in ' the narrow house,' and where my kindred 
 and myself were in aU likelihood destined to sleep ; one of us, 
 perhaps, in a few days, for my mother was at that time sick ; — 
 the being who gave me birth, who nourished me on her bosom 
 in infancy, who consoled my sorrows m manhood ; — the 
 thought of her death was dreadful. But my mind was soon 
 called from its agonizing anticipations, by the tremulous tones 
 of a plaintive voice; when, on looking around me, I saw a 
 man kneeling beneath a branching fir, and praying loudly and 
 fervently. It was not, however, the prayer of the Pharisee, in 
 the corner of the street, where every eye might behold him : 
 the person before me was unconscious that any eye beheld 
 him, but that of his Creator, whom he was so earnestly sup- 
 plicating. 
 
 I never saw a more affecting picture of devotion. I have 
 seen the innocent child lay its head upon its mother's knee, 
 and lisp out its evening prayer ; and the father of a family 
 kneel in the midst of his domestic circle, and ask'the blessing 
 of God to be upon them and him. I have seen the beautiful 
 maiden, whose lips, to the youthful imagination, seemed only 
 tuned to the song of pleasure, whisper the responses in the 
 public assembly of worship ; and the dim-eyed matron stroke 
 back her hoary tresses, and endeavor to mingle her quivering 
 voice with the sublime symphony of the pealing organ: all 
 these have I seen, and felt the beauty of each ; but this solitary 
 worshiper affected me more deeply, than I had ever before 
 experienced. 
 
 His knees were bent upon the deep green earth, where his 
 Bible lay on the one side of him, and his hat on the other ; his 
 hands were lifted up, his raven hair waved in the breeze, and 
 his eyes were raised to heaven ; yet I saw, or fancied I saw, 
 that he was frequently obliged to close them, and press out the 
 tears that flowed to them from the fountain of sorrow. 1 
 passed him unperceived, with respect for his devotional feel 
 ings, and sympathy with his accumulated afflictions. I knew 
 him well. He was a laborer of the neighboring hamlet, intelli- 
 gent and respectable in his sphere of life. Often had I met 
 with him in the same path, walking with his wife and children ; 
 two little boys that plucked the wild flowers as they proceeded, 
 and an infant girl that yet nesfled in its mother's bosom. 
 
76 yOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 He was devotedly attached to his family, and I considered 
 him one of the happiest men in existence : for his wife appeared 
 altogether worthy of the respect lie paid her, and his children 
 were as beautiful and promising as a parent's heart could have 
 wished. He and I often entered into conversation, and I was 
 not only pleased, but frequently astonished by his remarks ; 
 for his lips were unrestrained by the reserve of polished life, 
 and all his most eccentric conceptions, and all his deepest feel- 
 ings, were in a moment laid open and naked before you, in all 
 their singularity and beauty. 
 
 He had read a good deal, but he had thought more than he 
 had read ; and, in consequence, there was a poetical originality 
 in his mind, and a poetical enthusiasm in his heart, which were 
 peculiarly pleasing to a person who has felt his generous emo- 
 tions repulsed and chilled by the cold and affected votaries of 
 fashion. He was quite contented with his laborious occupation ; 
 for, as he said, his toils seemed light and pleasant, when he 
 considered that they were undergone for the comfort of the wife 
 who, 'Uke a fi-uitful vine,' spread the blossoms of pleasure 
 around his cottage ; and of the children who, ' like olive plants,' 
 arose to support him when bowed down by the burden of age. 
 
 The anticipation of an early death did not even appall him ; 
 for in that case, as he observed, there was a God in heaven 
 who would prove ' a father to the fatherless, and a husband to 
 the widow, and the orphan's stay, and the stranger's shield.' 
 The dictates of philosophy are weak, in comparison with the 
 power of this religious trust; it is the rock under whose 
 shadow the weary find repose, the rock whose summit is 
 brightened by sunshine, while the valley fi'om which it rises is 
 covered with clouds and darkness. My friend, the poor 
 laborer, clung to it with enthusiasm in his severe domestic 
 trials. A malignant fever, like the storm that blasts the blos- 
 soms of spring, entered the hamlet, and, in the space of two 
 months, swept off more than a third of the children. There 
 was scarcely a cottage that had not numbered one of its litde 
 inmates with the dead. 
 
 It has been said, with what degree of truth I know not, that 
 the loss of children is the heaviest trial by which the human 
 heart can be visited ; because, as it is averred, the attachment 
 of the parent to the child is stronger than that of the child to 
 
YOUNG LADIES" READER. 77 
 
 tiie parent. I have no doubt, that if a person have a family to 
 divide the stream of affection, the death of a father or a mother 
 will be felt with less poignancy than if the solitary mourner 
 have no object, as near and as dear, on which he can fix the 
 lacerated ties of love, that have been forced to quit their hold of 
 the bosom that withers in a parent's grave. As each of these 
 domestic calamities is, for a time, as severe as mortal creature 
 can conceive ; and as the man who feels the acuteness of the 
 green wounds of affliction, cannot properly estimate the pain 
 of those that have been healed by the influence of time, there 
 appears to me no use in making, and no certainty in the result 
 of, the comparison. 
 
 I might, however, argue against the received opinion, by 
 saying, that the place of a parent, when once empty, can never 
 be filled ; whereas the bosom that has given its nursling to the 
 grave, may yet have the happiness to nourish another, and the 
 parental heart may half forget its withered scion, until it finds it 
 blooming in heaven. All I intend to say on the subject at present 
 is, that my poor friend lost both his little boys, whose funerals 
 were only divided by three melancholy days ; and that, on the 
 evening when I saw him praying in the lonely wood, his infant 
 girl, his only remaining chUd, lay on the very brink of dis- 
 solution. 
 
 Having reached the end of the solitary footpath, I returned 
 homeward, and still found the afflicted man in the attitude of 
 prayer; perhaps unconscious, amid the strife of his spirit, of 
 the time that had passed over him while employed in this 
 act of heartfelt devotion. As soon as I descried him, a female 
 came running along the path, and informed him that the child 
 was dead. He arose with a trembling frame, and a face that 
 bore the fearful look of despair ; or rather, the look of that 
 reckless frenzy, which prompted him to dispute with his 
 Maker the justice of the calamity that had befallen him. This 
 was but for a moment ; he soon became firm and calm, and 
 exclaimed, with a subdued spirit, 'The Lord's will be done.' 
 It was enough ; it was a balm for his wounded soul, a cordial to 
 his fainting heart. 
 
 He then followed the steps of the female, who had disap- 
 peared, to the ' house of mourning,' to condole with the child- 
 less mother, whose heart had mingled its feelings with his 
 
78 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 from the days of early youth ; whose heart to his had been 
 doubly bound by the tendrils that sprung from their mutual 
 love ; whose heart now demanded the support of his, the sup- 
 port which his would amply receive from hers in return. 
 
 Happy s6uls ! happy, even under all your calamities ! For 
 if there be pleasure, if there be consolation, if there be happi- 
 ness on earth, they are nowhere to be so certainly found, as in 
 the unbounded confidence, and deeply-rooted attachment, of 
 two congenial and conjugal bosoms. Deeply affected by what 
 I had seen and heard, I entered my father's cottage strong in 
 good resolutions, and praying that I might have the power, in 
 all the afflictions that might await me, to say, with the poor 
 peasant: " The Lord's will be done." Kirox 
 
 LESSON XIX 
 
 POETRY OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Both critics and casual readers have united in pronouncing 
 the poetry of Mrs. Hemans to be essentially feminine. The 
 whole circle of the domestic affections ; the hallowed ministry 
 of woman, at the cradle, the hearth-stone, and the death-bed, 
 were its chosen themes. Where have the disinterested, self- 
 sacrificing virtues of her sex, 
 
 " the eye. 
 Lit by the soul's deep truth," 
 
 been depicted by such graphic power? Who else, with a 
 single dash of the pencil, has portrayed, at once, the lot of 
 M Oman and her refuge ? 
 
 " To love on, through all things — therefore, pray !" 
 The warlike imagery, so predominant in her poetry, is not 
 a departure from its feminine elements. The chivalric strain, 
 though frequent and diffuse, is rather an episode, than the 
 key-tone of her spirit. Her genius seeks not to portray even 
 its heroes amid the fury of the fight, but rather in the mild 
 glow of those virtues or sympatliies which bind them to their 
 fellow-men. But with what a free breath and sunny smile, 
 does she turn from these to the simple themes of nature and 
 affection, like the shepherd-boy, springing from the heavy 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 79 
 
 armor of the moody king of Israel, to gather the smooth stones 
 of the clear, tuneful brook ? Which of those high wrought, 
 chivalric strains reveals the deep gushing of the secret heart, 
 hke the fearful night-watch of the devoted Gertrude ? 
 
 " Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised. 
 
 The breeze threw back her hair ; 
 Up to the fearful wheel she g?aed ; 
 
 All that she loved was there. 
 
 " She wiped the death-damps from his brow. 
 
 With her pale hands and soft, 
 Whose touch, upon the lute-chords low, 
 
 Had stilled his heart so oft." 
 
 In which of the spirit-stirring, belligerent lays, does the tremb- 
 litig sweetness of the poet's own soul irresistibly steal out, as 
 in " The Voice of Spring," " The Graves of a Household," 
 "The Homes of England," "The Treasures of the Deep," 
 the thrilling sigh of the " Palm-Tree," or the full, sustained, 
 sublime inspiration of the " Forest Sanctuary ?" 
 
 The genius of Mrs. Hemans was as pure and feminine in 
 its impulses, as in its out-pourings. That ambition which 
 impels the man of genius to " scorn delights, and live laborious 
 days," that he may walk on the high places of the world's 
 renown, and leave a name which shall be as a trumpet-tone to 
 all time, woke no answering echo in her bosom. Sympathy, 
 not fame, was the desire of her being. 
 
 " Fame hath a voice whose thrilling tone 
 Can bid the life-pulse beat, 
 
 As when a trumpet's note hath blown. 
 Calling the brave to meet : 
 
 But mine, let mine, — a woman's breast. 
 
 By words of home-born love be blessed." 
 
 The approbation of the good, and the assurance that hej 
 efforts had imparted pleasure, comfort, or instruction, were 
 indeed precious rewards. Yet even these, with true woman's 
 nature, she valued more for the sake of others, than for her 
 own. How beautifully does she express this sentiment to 
 Miss Baillie! "Your praise will ever be valuable, yet it 
 comes to me now, mingled with mournfulness, for the ear to 
 which it ever brought the greatest delight, is closed. The last 
 winter deprived me of my truest, tenderest friend,— tha 
 
go YOUNG 1.ADIES' READER. 
 
 mother, by whose unwearied spirit of hope and love, 1 have 
 been encouraged to bear on, through all the obstacles that have 
 beset my path!" 
 
 And when the celebrity which she had never sought, had 
 extended itself to the western, as well as her own hemisphere, 
 she writes feelingly in a letter to Miss Mitford ; " Will you 
 think me weak, when I tell you that I shed tears over your 
 letter, from the idea of the pleasure it would have given my 
 mother ? I am sure that you will agree with me, that/ame can 
 afford only reflected delight to a woman." Her poetry often 
 echoes the same voice of the heart. 
 
 " Thou shalt have fame ! Oh mockery ! Give the reed 
 Prom storms a sheher ; give the drooping vine 
 Something round which its tendrils may entwine ; 
 Give the parched flower a rain drop ; and the meed 
 Of love's kind words to woman," 
 
 At the head of the school of poetry, essentially feminine, 
 we place her, " whose name we know not now in heaven." 
 In that department, she would have been crowned at the Olym- 
 pic games, were the whole civilized world her auditor and 
 judge. 
 
 * * 
 
 And now we grieve to say farewell to thee, sweet ruler ol 
 the tuneful harp ! The young, free-hearted west, is a weeper 
 at thy grave. The hymns of the Pilgrim Fathers have found 
 an echo in thy lofty strain ; and, from the storm-beaten rock 
 where they landed, to the Gulf where the Floridian orange- 
 grove and the magnolia mingle their perfumes ; from the sound- 
 ing shores of the Atlantic, to the lone wilds of the Oregon, 
 where the red man wanders; thine image is cherished, and 
 thy memory is dear. The emigrant mother, toUing over steep, 
 rugged mountains, reads thy poems in the rude vehicle which 
 bears all her treasures to a stranger-land. The lisping child 
 responds to her voice, "amid those deep solitudes, and the 
 words are thine. Thou art with them in their unfloored hut, 
 teaching them to love the home which God has given. 
 
 Why have we said farewell? We recall the word. Thou 
 art still with us, gentle spirit. Race after race may fall like 
 autumnal leaves, and our broad prairies become the site of 
 thronged cities ; but thou shalt still be there, undecaying, un- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 81 
 
 ohanged. Yes, sit by our hearth-stones, and sing there, 
 when we shall be gathered to the fathers. When by our 
 children's children our memory is forgotten, thou shall still be 
 remembered; thou shalt lift thy voice of melody to unborn 
 ages, and tell them of the Better Land. Mks. Sigoubset. 
 
 LESSON XX. 
 
 DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute ; 
 
 Bring flowers, the bride is near ; 
 Bring flowers to soothe thecaptive's cell, 
 
 Bring flowers to strew the bier : 
 Bring flowers ; thus said the lovely song ; 
 
 And shall they not be brought 
 To her who linked the offering 
 
 With feeling and with thought? 
 
 Bring flowers, tlie perfumed and the pure, 
 
 Those with the morning dew, 
 A sigh in every fragrant leaf, 
 
 A tear on every hue. 
 So pure, so sweet thy life has been, 
 
 So filling earth and air 
 With odors and with loveliness, 
 
 Till common scenes grew fair. 
 
 Thy song around our daily path 
 
 Flung beauty born of dreams. 
 That shadows on the actual world 
 
 The spirit's sunny gleams. 
 Mysterious influence, that on earth 
 
 Brings down the Heaven above. 
 And fills the universal heart 
 
 With universal love. 
 
 And thou from far and foreign lands 
 
 Didst bring back many a tone, 
 And giving such new music still, 
 
 A music of thine own. 
 A lofty straiYi of generous thoughts. 
 
 And yet subdued and sweet. 
 An angel's song, who sings of earth, 
 
 Whose cares are at his feet. 
 
82 YOUNG LADIES' READKR> 
 
 And yet thy song is Sorrowful, 
 
 Its beauty is not bloom ; 
 The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes 
 
 That look beyond the tomb ; 
 Thy song is sorrowful as winds 
 
 That wander o'er the plain, 
 And ask for summer's banished flowers. 
 
 And ask for them in vain. 
 
 Ah ! dearly purchased is the gift, 
 
 The gift of song like thine : 
 A fated doom is hers who stands. 
 
 The priestess of the shrine. 
 The crowd, they only see the crown, 
 
 They only hear the hymn ; 
 They mark not that the cheek is pale. 
 
 And that the eye is dim. 
 
 Wound to a pitch too exquisite, 
 
 The soul's fine chords are wrung; 
 With misery and melody 
 
 They are too highly strung. 
 The heart is made too sensitive 
 
 The daily pain to bear; 
 It beats in music, but it beats 
 
 Beneath a deep despair. 
 
 It never meets the love it paints, 
 
 The love for which it pines ; 
 Too much of Heaven is in the faith 
 
 That such a heart enshrines. 
 The meteor wreath the poet wears, 
 
 Must make a lonely lotj 
 It dazzles, only to divied 
 
 From those who wear it not. 
 
 Let others thank thee ; 'twas for them 
 
 Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe ; 
 The red rose wastes itself in sighs 
 
 Whose sweetness others breathe ! 
 And they have thanked thee ; many a lip 
 
 Has asked of thine for words. 
 When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched 
 
 The spirit's inmost chords. 
 
 How many loved and honored thee 
 Who only knew thy name; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 83 
 
 Which o'er the weary, working world 
 
 Like starry music came ! 
 With what still hours of calm delight 
 
 Thy songs and image blend ! 
 I cannot choose but think thou wert 
 
 An old familiar friend. 
 
 The charms that dwell in songs of thine 
 
 My inmost spirit moved; 
 And yet I feel as thou hadst been 
 
 Not half enough beloved. 
 They say that thou wert faint and worn 
 
 With suffering and with care ; 
 What music must have filled the soul 
 
 That had so much to spare ! Miss L. E. Lxtsvos, 
 
 LESSON XXI. 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 Two solemn voices, in a funeral strain, 
 
 Met, as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 
 
 Meet in the sky : 
 " Thou art gone hence !" one sang, " our light is flown. 
 Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own 
 
 Ever to die ! 
 
 " Thou art gone hence ! our joyous hills among. 
 Never again to pour thy soul in song. 
 
 When spring-flowers rise ; 
 Never the friend's familiar step to meet. 
 With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 
 
 Of thy glad eyes." 
 
 " Thou art gone home, gone home!" then high and clear, 
 Warbled that other voice ; " thou hast no tear 
 
 Again to shed ; 
 Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain. 
 Never, weighed down by Memory's clouds, again 
 
 To bow thy head. 
 
 " Thou art gone home ! oh ! early crowned and blest ' 
 Where could the love of tha^deep heart find rest 
 
 With aught below % 
 Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 
 All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away; 
 
 Thrice blessed to go 1" 
 
84 
 
 VOUNO LADIES' HEADER. 
 
 Yet sighed again that breeze-like voice of grief, 
 " Thou art gone hence ! alas ! that aught so brief, 
 
 So loved should be ; 
 Thou tak'st our summer hence; the flower, the tone, 
 The music of our being, all in one. 
 
 Depart with thee ! 
 
 " Fau- form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 
 Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead? 
 
 The dark unknown ? 
 Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall. 
 Never again to light up hearth or hall. 
 
 Thy smile is gone !" 
 
 " Home, home .'" once more the exulting voice arose ; 
 " Thou art gone home ! from that divine repose 
 
 Never to roam ! 
 Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, 
 To read of change, in eyes beloved, again : 
 
 Thou art gone home ! 
 
 " By the bright waters now thy lot is cast ; 
 
 Joy for thee, happy friend 1 thy bark hath passed 
 The I'ough sea's foam ! 
 
 Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled. 
 
 Home! home ! thy peace is won, thy heart is filled. 
 Thou art gone home !" 
 * Mrs. H£i£A2<a 
 
 LESSON XXII. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S GBBETING. 
 
 Come to the land of peace ! 
 Come where the tempest hath no longer sway. 
 The shadow passes from the soul away, 
 
 The sounds of weeping cease. 
 
 Pear hath no dwelliiig there. 
 Come to the mingling of repose and love. 
 Breathed by the silent spkit of the dove 
 
 Through the celestial air ! 
 
 Come to the bright, and blest, 
 And crowned forever : 'mid that shining band, 
 Gathered to Heaven's own wreath from every land. 
 
 Thy spirit shall find rest. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 85 
 
 Thou hast been long alone : 
 Come to thy mother ! on the Sabbath shore, 
 The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once more 
 
 Shall take its wearied one. 
 
 In silence wert thou left ? 
 Come to thy sisters ! joyously again 
 All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, 
 
 Shall greet their long bereft. 
 
 Over thine orphan head 
 The storm has swept, as o'er a willow's bough : 
 Come to thy Father ! it is finished now : t 
 
 Thy tears have all been shed. 
 
 In thy divine abode, 
 Changfi finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, 
 And, oh ! bright victory ! death by love no place : 
 
 Come, spirit, to thy God ! 
 
 Mils. HxM^irs. 
 
 LESSON XXIII. 
 
 EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL. 
 
 Hush! 'tis a holy hour; the quiet room 
 
 Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
 
 A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
 
 And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads. 
 
 With all their clustering looks, untouched by care. 
 
 And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer. 
 
 Gaze on ! 'tis lovely ! childhood's lip and cheek 
 Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought; 
 
 Gaze! yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek. 
 And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought 7 
 
 Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky. 
 
 What death must fashion for eternity. 
 
 Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest, 
 Lightly, when those pure brisons are done, 
 
 As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 
 'Mid the dim folded leaves, at set of sun ; 
 
 Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
 
 Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes; 
 
 Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs 
 Of hope make melody where'er ye tread ; 
 
86 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And o'er your sleep, bright shadows, from the wings 
 
 Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 
 Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low. 
 Is woman's tenderness ; how soon her woe ! 
 
 Her lot is on you ; silent tears to weep, 
 And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour. 
 
 And sumless riches, from Affection's deep, 
 To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
 
 And to make idols, and to find them clay. 
 
 And to bewail that worship ; therefore pray ! 
 
 Her kit is on you ; to be found, untired, 
 Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 
 
 With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
 And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 
 
 Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 
 
 And, oh ! to love through all things ; therefore pray ' 
 
 And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
 With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 
 
 On through the dark days, fading from their prime, 
 As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. 
 
 Earth will forsake ; oh ! happy to have given 
 
 The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! 
 
 Mss. Heiuaivs 
 
 LESSON XXIV. 
 
 FASHIONABLE FOLLIES. 
 
 There are -in the United States one hundred thousand young 
 ladies, as Sir Ralph Abercrombie said of those of Scotland, 
 " the prettiest lassies in a' the world," who know neither to 
 toil nor spin, who are yet clothed like the lilies of the valley ; 
 who thrum the piano, and, a few of the more dainty, the 
 harp ; who walk, as the Bible says, softly ; who have read 
 lomances, and some of them seen the interior of theaters; 
 who have been admired at the examination of their high school ; 
 who have wrought algebraic solutions on the blackboard ; who 
 are, in short, the very roses of the garden, the attar of life ; 
 who yet, can never expect to be married, or, if married, to 
 live without — shall I speak, or forbear ? — putting their own lily 
 hands to domestic drudgery. 
 
 We go into the intern villages of our recent wooden 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 87 
 
 country The fair one sits down to clink the wires of the 
 piano. We see the fingers displayed on the keys, which, we 
 are sure, never prepared a dinner, nor made a garment for her 
 robust brothers. We traverse the streets of our own city, and 
 the wires of the piano are thrummed in our ears from every 
 considerable house. In cities and villages, from one extremity 
 of the Union to the other, wherever there is a good house, and 
 the doors and windows betoken the presence of the mild 
 months, the ringing of the piano wires is almost as universal 
 a sound, as the domestic hum of hfe within. 
 
 We need not enter in person. Imagination sees the fair one, 
 2rect on her music stool, laced, and pinioned, and reduced to a 
 questionable class of entomology, dinging at the wires, as 
 though she could, in some way, hammer out of them music, 
 amusement, and a husband. Look at her taper and cream- 
 eolored fingers. Is she a utilitarian ? Ask the fair one, when 
 she has beaten all the music out of the keys, " Pretty fair one, 
 canst talk to thy old and sick father, so as to beguile him out 
 of the headache and rheumatism ? Canst write a good and 
 straight forward letter of business ? Thou art a chemist, I 
 remember, at the examination ; canst compound, prepare, and 
 afterward boil, or bake, a good pudding ? Canst make one of 
 the hundred subordinate ornaments of thy fair person? In 
 short, teU us thy use in existence, except to be contemplated, 
 as a pretty picture ? And how long will any one be amused 
 with the view of a picture, after having surveyed it a dozen 
 times, unless it have a mind, a heart, and, we may emphatically 
 add, the perennial value of utility?" 
 
 It is a sad and lamentable truth, after all the incessant din we 
 have heard of the march of mind, and the interminable theories, 
 inculcations, and eulogies of education, that the present is an 
 age of unbounded desire of display and notoriety, of exhaust- 
 less and unquenchably burning ambition ; and not an age of 
 calm, contented, ripe, and useful knowledge, for the sacred 
 privacy of the parlor. Display, notoriety, surface, and splen- 
 dor, — these are the first aims of the mothers ; and can we 
 expect that the daughters will drink in a better spirit? To 
 play, sing, dress, glide down the dance, and get a husband, is 
 the lesson ; not to be qualified to render his home quiet, well- 
 ordered, and happy. 
 
88 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 It is notorious, that there will soon be no intermediate class 
 between those who toil and spin, and those whose claim to be 
 ladies is founded on their being incapable of any value of 
 utiUty. At present, we know of none, except the little army 
 of martyrs, yclept school-mistresses, and the slill smaller corps 
 of editorial and active blue-stockings. If it should be my lot 
 to transmigrate back to earth, in the form of a young man, my 
 first homages in search of a wife would be paid to the thought- 
 ful and pale-faced fair one, surrounded by her little, noisy, 
 refractory subjects, drilling her soul to patience, and learning to 
 drink of 'the cup of earthly discipline, and more impressively 
 than by a thousand sermons, tasting the bitterness of our pro- 
 bationary course, in teaching the young idea how to shoot. 
 Except, as aforesaid, school-mistresses and blues, we believe, 
 that all other damsels, clearly within the purview of the term 
 lady, estimate the clearness of their title precisely in the ratio 
 of their uselessness. 
 
 Allow a young lady to have any hand in the adjustment of 
 all the components of her dress, each of which has a contour 
 which only the fleetihg fashion of the moment can settle, 
 allow her time to receive morning visitors, and prepare for 
 afternoon appointments and evening parties, and what time 
 has the dear one to spare, to be useful and do good? To labor! 
 Heaven forefend the use of the horrid term ! The simple state 
 of the case is this. There is somewhere, in all this, an 
 enormous miscalculation, an infinite mischief; an evil, not of 
 transitory or minor importance, but fraught with misery and 
 ruin, not only to the fair ones themselves, but to society and 
 the age. 
 
 I cannot conceive, that mere idlers, male or female, can have 
 respect enough for themselves to be comfortable. I cannot 
 imagine, that they should not carry about with them such a con- 
 sciousness of being a blank in existence, as would be written on 
 their forehead, in the shrinking humiliation of perceiving, that 
 the public eye had weighed them in the balance, and found them 
 wanting. Novels and romances may say this or that about 
 their ethereal beauties, their fine ladies tricked out to slaughter 
 my lord A., and play Cupid's archery upon dandy B., and 
 dispatch Amarylis C. to his sonnets. I have no conception of 
 a beautiful woman, or a fine-man, in whose eye, in whose port, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 89 
 
 in whose whole expression, this sentiment does not stand 
 embodied : "I am called by my Creator to duties ; I have em- 
 ployment on the earth ; my sterner, but more enduring plea- 
 sures are in discharging my duties." 
 
 Compare the sedate expression of this sentiment in the 
 countenance of man or woman, when it is known to stand, as 
 the ijjdex of character and the fact, with the superficial gaudi- 
 ness of a simple, good for nothing belle, who disdains useful- 
 ness and employment, whose enipire is a ball-room, and 
 whose subjects, dandies, as silly and as useless as herself. 
 Which, of the two, has most attractions for a man of sense ? 
 The one a help-mate, a fortune in herself, who can aid to pro- 
 cure one, if the husband has it not ; who can soothe him under 
 the loss of it, and, what is more, aid him to regain it; and the 
 other a painted butterfly, for ornament only during the vernal 
 and sunny months of prosperity, and then not becoming a 
 chrysalis, an inert moth in adversity, but a croaking, repining, 
 ill-tempered termagant, who can only recur to the days of her 
 short-lived triumph, to imbitter the misery, and poverty, and 
 hopelessness of a husband, who, like herself, knows not to 
 dig, and is ashamed to beg. 
 
 We are obliged to use severe language in application to a 
 deep-rooted malady. We want words of power. We need 
 energetic and stern applications. No country ever verged more 
 rapidly towards extravagance and expense. In a young republic, 
 like ours, it is ominous of any thing but good. Men of thought, 
 and virtue, and example, are called upon to look to this evil. 
 Ye patrician families, that croak, and complain, and forbode the 
 downfall of the republic, here is the origin of your evils. 
 Instead of training your son to waste his time, as an idle young 
 gentleman at large ; instead of inculcating on your daughter, 
 that the incessant tinkling of a harpsichord, or a scornful and 
 lady-like toss of the head, or dexterity in waltzing, are the 
 chief requisites to make her way in life ; if you can find no 
 better employment for them, teach him the use of the grubbing 
 hoe, and her to make up garments for your servants. 
 
 'I'rain your son and daughter to an employment, to frugality, 
 to hold the high front, and to walk the fearless step of inde- 
 pendence, and sufficiency to themselves in any fortunes, any 
 country, or any state of things. By arts like these, the early 
 
90 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Romans thrived. When your children have these possessions, 
 you may go down to tlie grave in peace, as regards tlieir tem- 
 poral fortunes. T. FiiifT 
 
 LESSON XXV. 
 
 REFLECTIONS OF A BELLE. 
 
 , I'm weary of the crowded ball/ I'm wea/ry of the^irth/ 
 Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of earth ; 
 I'm weary of the flatterer's tone ; its music is no more. 
 And eye and lip may answer "not its meaning as before; 
 I'm weary of the heartless throng ; of being deemed as one. 
 Whose spirit Icindles only in the blaze of fashion's sun. 
 
 I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt 
 
 The mockery of the hollow shrine at which my spirit knelt; 
 
 Mine is the requiem of years, in reckless folly passed. 
 
 The wail above departed hopes, on a frail venture cast. 
 
 The vain regret, that steals above the wreck of squandered hours, 
 
 Like the sighing of the autumn wind above the faded flowers. 
 
 Oh ! it is worse than mockery to list the flatterer's tone. 
 To lend a ready ear to thoughts the cheek must blush to own, 
 To hear the red lip whispered of, and the flowing curl and eye. 
 Made constant themes of eulogy, extravagant and high ; 
 And the charm of person worshiped, in a homage offered not 
 To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of thought. 
 
 Away ! I will not fetter thus the spirit God hath given. 
 Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to heaven ; 
 I will not bow a tameless heart to fashion's iron rule. 
 Nor welcome, with a, smile, alike, the gifted and the fool ; 
 No : let the throng pass coldly on ; a treasured few may find 
 The charm of person doubly dear beneath the light of mind. 
 
 Anostmous. 
 
 LESSON XXVI. 
 
 THE STOLEN BLUSH. 
 
 Never tell me that cheek is not painted, false maid ! 
 
 'Tig a fib, though your pretty lips part while I say it; 
 And if the cheat were not already betrayed, 
 
 Those exquisite blushes themselves would betray it. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. -ftl 
 
 But listen ! This morning you rose e'er the dawn, 
 To keep an appointment, perhaps — with Apollo; 
 
 And, finding a fairy footprint on the lawn 
 
 Which I could not mistake, 1 determined to follow. 
 
 To the hillside I tracked it, and, tripping above me, 
 Her sun-ringlets flying and jeweled with dew, 
 
 A maiden I saw ! Now, the truth, if you love me; 
 But why should I question 1 I'm sure it was you. 
 
 And you cannot deny you were met, in ascending, 
 — I, meanwhile, pursuing my truant by stealth — 
 
 By a blooming young seraph, who turned, and, attending 
 Your steps, said her name was the Spirit of Health. 
 
 Meantime, through the mist of transparent vermilion 
 
 That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill. 
 All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion. 
 
 Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill. 
 
 And Health, floating up through the luminous air, 
 
 Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright; 
 
 Then turned and dashed down o'er her votary fair 
 A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light. 
 
 Even yet they're at play, here and there, in your form, 
 Through your fingers they steal to your white taper tips. 
 
 Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm. 
 Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips. 
 
 Will you tell me again, with that scorn lighted eye, 
 That you do not use paint, while such tinting is there ? 
 
 While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny ? 
 No, in future disclaim the sweet theft, if you dare ! 
 
 Mns.F. S. OsGooB. 
 
 LESSON XXVII. 
 
 THE TWO MAIDENS. 
 
 One came — with light and laughing air. 
 And cheek like opening blossom. 
 
 Bright gems were twined amid her hair, 
 And glittered on her bosom ; 
 
 And pearls and cosily bracelets deck 
 
 Her round, white arras.and lovely neck. 
 
'> ^ 92 YODNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Like summer's sky, with stars bedight. 
 
 The jeweled robe around her, 
 And dazzling as the noontide light 
 
 The radiant zone that bound her; 
 And pride and joy were in her eye, 
 And mortals bowed as she passed by. 
 
 Another came — o'er her mild face 
 
 A pensive shade was stealing, 
 Yet there no grief of earth we trace. 
 
 But that deep, holy feeling, 
 Which mourns the heart should ever stray 
 From the pure fount of Truth away. 
 
 Around her brow, as snow-drop fair, 
 
 The glossy tresses cluster, 
 Nor pearl, nor ornament was there, 
 
 Save the meek spirit's luster ; 
 And faith and hope beamed from her eye. 
 And angels bowed as she passed by. 
 
 Mrs. S. J. Hale. 
 
 LESSON XXVIII. 
 
 THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. 
 
 "I AM a Pebble! and yield to none !" 
 Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ; 
 " Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; 
 I am abiding while ages flee. 
 The pelting hail and the drizzling rain 
 Have tried to soften me, long, in vain; 
 And the tender dew has sought to melt 
 Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
 
 There's none that can tell about my birth. 
 For I'm as old as the big, round earth. 
 The children of men arise, and pass 
 Out of the world, like blades of grass, 
 And many a foot on me has trod. 
 That's gone from sight, and under the sod ! 
 I am a pebble ! but who art thou, 
 Rattling along from the restless bough?" 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 93 
 
 The Acorn was shocked at this rude salutej 
 And lay for a moment abashed and mute ; 
 She never before had been so near 
 This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; 
 And she felt, for a time, at a loss to know 
 How to answer a thing so coarse and low. 
 
 But to give reproof of a nobler sort 
 
 Than the angry look, or keen retort, 
 
 At length, she said, in a gentle tone . 
 
 " Since it has happened that I am thrown 
 
 From the lighter element, where I grew, 
 
 Down to another, so hard and new. 
 
 And beside a personage so august. 
 
 Abased, I will cover my head in dust. 
 
 And quickly retire from the sight of one 
 
 Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, 
 
 Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel. 
 
 Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" 
 
 And soon, in the earth, she sunk away 
 
 From the comfortless spot where the pebble lay. 
 
 But it was not long ere the soil was broke 
 
 By the peering head of an infant oak ! 
 
 And as it arose, and its branches spread. 
 
 The pebble looked up, and wondering said : 
 
 ".5 modest acorn ! never to tell 
 
 What was inclosed in its simple shell ! 
 
 That the pride of the forest was folded up 
 
 In the narrow space of hs little cup ! 
 
 And meekly to sink in the darksome earth. 
 
 Which proves that nothing could hide its worth ! 
 
 And oh ! how many will tread on me. 
 
 To come and admire the beautiful tree. 
 
 Whose head is towering toward the sky. 
 
 Above such a worthless thing as I ! 
 
 Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 
 
 I have been idling from year to year. 
 
 But never, from this, shall a vaunting word 
 
 From the humble pebble again be heard. 
 
 Till something, without me, or within, 
 
 Shall show the purpose for which I have been." 
 
 The pebble its vow could not forget, 
 
 And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 
 
 Miss H. F. Gould. 
 
94 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON XXIX 
 
 LILIAS GRIEVE. 
 
 There were fear and melancholy in all the glens and ralleys 
 that lay stretching around, or down upon St. Mary's Loch ; for 
 it was a time of religious persecution. Many a sweet cottage 
 stood untenanted on the hill-side and in the hollow : some had 
 felt the fire, and had been consumed ; and violent hands had 
 torn off the turf roof from the green shealing of the shepherd. 
 In the wide and deep silence and solitariness of the mountains, 
 it seemed as if human life were nearly extinct. Caverns and 
 clefts, in which the fox had kenneled, were now the shelter of 
 Christian souls ; and when a lonely figure crept stealingly from 
 one hiding-place to another, on a visit of love to some hunted 
 brother in faith, the crows would hover over him, and the 
 hawk shriek at human steps, now rare in the desert. 
 
 When the babe was born, there might be none near to bap- 
 tize it; or the minister, driven from his kirk, perhaps, poured 
 the sacramental water upon its face, from some pool in the glen, 
 whose rocks guarded the persecuted family from the oppressor. 
 Bridals now were unfrequent, and in the solemn sadness of 
 love. Many died before their time, of minds sunken, and of 
 broken hearts. White hair was on heads long before they were 
 old ; and the silver locks of ancient men were often ruefully 
 soiled in the dust, and stained with their martyred blood 
 
 But this is the dark side of the picture ; for even in their 
 caves were these people happy. Their children were w^ith 
 them, even like the wild flowers that blossomed all about the 
 entrances of their dens. And when the voice of psalms rose 
 up trom the profound silence of the solitary place of rocks, the 
 ear of God was open, and they knew that their prayers and 
 praises were heard in heaven. If a child was born, it belonged 
 unto the faithful ; if an old man died, it was in the religion of 
 his forefathers. The hidden powers of their souls were brought 
 forth into the light, and they knew the strength that was in them 
 for these days of trial. The thoughtless became sedate ; the 
 wild were tamed ; the unfeeling made compassionate ; hard 
 hearts were softened, and the wicked saw the error of their 
 ways. 
 
 All deep passion purifies and strengthens the soul ; and so 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 95 
 
 was it now. Now was shown and put to the proof, the stern, 
 austere, impenetrable strength of men, that would neither bend" 
 nor break; the calm, serene determination of matrons, who, 
 with meek eyes and unblanched cheeks, met the scowl of the 
 murderer ; the -silent beauty of maidens, who with smiles 
 received their death ; and the mysterious courage of children, 
 who, in the inspiration of innocent and spotless nature, kneeled 
 down among the dew drops on the green sward, and died fear- 
 lessly by their parents' sides. Arrested were they at their 
 ■work, or in their play ; and, with no other bandage over their 
 eyes, but haply some clustering ringlet of their sunny hair, did 
 many a sweet creature of twelve summers, ask just to be allowed 
 to say her prayers, and then go, unappalled, from her cottage 
 door to the breast of her Redeemer. 
 
 In those days, had old Samuel Grieve and his spouse suffered 
 sorely for their faith. But they left not their own house ; will- 
 ing to die there, or to be slaughtered, whenever God should so 
 appoint. They were now childless ; but a little granddaughter 
 about ten years old, lived with them, and she was an orphan. 
 The thought of death was so familiar to her, that, although 
 sometimes it gave a slight quaking throb to her heart in its glee, 
 yet it scarcely impaired the natural joyfulness of her girlhood ; 
 and often, unconsciously, after the gravest or the saddest talk with 
 ner old parents, would she glide off, with a lightsome step, a 
 blithe face, and a voice, humming sweetly some cheerful tune 
 The old people looked often upon her in her happiness, till 
 Iheir dim eyes filled with tears ; while the grandmother said, 
 " If this nest were to be destroyed at last, and our heads in the 
 mold, who would feed this young bird in the wild, and where 
 would she find shelter in which to fold her bonny wings ?" 
 
 LiUas Grieve was the shepherdess of a small flock, among the 
 green pasturage at the head of St. Mary's Loch, and up the hill- 
 side, and over into some of the little neighboring glens. Some- 
 times she sat in that beautiful church-yard, with her sheep lying 
 s'cattered around her upon the quiet graves, where, on still, 
 sunny days, she could see their shadows in the water in the 
 loch, and herself sitting close to the low walls of the house of 
 God. She had no one to speak to, but her Bible to read; and 
 day after day, the rising sun beheld her in growing beauty, and 
 innocence that could not fade* happy and silent as a fairy upon 
 
96 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 the knoll, with the blue heavens over her head, and the blue 
 lake smiling at her feet. 
 
 "My fairy" was the name she bore by the cottage fire, 
 where the old people were gladdened by her glee, and .turned 
 away from all melancholy thoughts. And it was a name that 
 suited sweet Lilias well; for she was clothed in a, garb of 
 green, and often, in her joy, the green, graceful plants, that 
 grew among the hills, were wreathed around her hair. So 
 was she dressed one Sabbath day, watching her flock at a 
 considerable distance from home, and singing to herself a 
 psalm in the solitary moor ; when, in a moment, a party of 
 soldiers were upon a mount, on the opposite side of a narrow 
 deU. 
 
 Lilias was invisible as a green linnet upon the grass ; but 
 her sweet voice had betrayed her, and then one of the soldiers 
 caught the wild gleam of her eyes ; and, as she sprung fright- 
 ened to her feet, he called out, » A roe ! a roe ! See how she 
 bounds along the bent!" and the ruffian took aim at the child 
 with his musket, half in sport, half in ferocity. Lilias kept 
 appearing and disappearing, while she flew, as on wings, 
 across a piece of black heathery moss, full of pits and hollows ; 
 and still the soldier kept his musket at its aim. His comrades 
 called to him to hold his hand, and not shoot a poor, little, inno- 
 cent child ; but he at length fired, and the bullet was heard to 
 whiz past her fern-crowned head, and to strike a bank which 
 she was about to ascend. The child paused for a moment, 
 and looked back, and then bounded away over the smooth 
 turf; till, like a cushat, she dropped into a little birchen glen, 
 and disappeared. Not a sound of her feet was heard ; she 
 seemed to have sunk into the ground ; and the soldier stood, 
 without any eflbrt to follow her, gazing through the smoke 
 toward the spot where she had vanished. 
 
 A sudden superstition assailed the hearts of the party, as 
 they sat down together upon a hedge of stone. " Saw you her 
 face. Riddle, as my ball went whizzing past her ear ? If she 
 be not one of those hill fairies, she had been dead as a herring; 
 but I believe the bullet glanced off" her yellow hair as against a 
 buckler." " It was the act of a gallows-rogue to fire upon the 
 creature, fairy or not fairy ; and you deserve the weight of this 
 hand, the hand of an Englishman, you brute, for your cruelty." 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 97 
 
 And up rose the speaker to put his threat into execution, when 
 the other retreated some distance, and began to load his mus- 
 ket; but the Englishman was upon him, and, with a Cumber- 
 land gripe and trip, laid him upon the hard ground with a 
 force that drove the breath out of his body, and left him 
 stunned, and almost insensible. 
 
 The fallen ruffian now arose somewhat humbled, and sul- 
 lenly sat down among the rest. "Why," quoth AUen Sleigh, 
 " I wager you a week's pay, you don't venture fifty yards, 
 without your musket, down yonder shingle, where the fairy 
 disappeared;" and, tiie wager being accepted, the half-drunken 
 fellow rushed on toward the head of the glen, and was heard 
 crashing away . through the shrubs. In a few minutes, he 
 returned, declaring, with an oath, that he had seen her at the 
 mouth of a cave, where no human foot could reach, standing 
 with her hair all on fire, and an angry countenance ; and that 
 he had tumbled backward into the burn, and been nearly 
 drowned. " Drowned ?" cried Allen Sleigh. "Ay, drowned; 
 why not ? A hundred yards down that bit glen, the pools are 
 as black as pitch, and the water roars like thunder ; drowned ! 
 why not, you English son of a deer-stealer ?" " Why not ? 
 because, who was ever drowned that was born to be hanged ?" 
 And that jest created universal laughter, as it is always sure to 
 do, often as it may be repeated, in a company of ruffians ; such 
 is felt to be its perfect truth, and unanswerable simplicity. 
 
 J Wiiaoir. 
 
 LESSON XXX. 
 
 THE SAME, CONCLUDED. 
 
 After an hour's quarreling, and gibing, and mutiny, this 
 disorderly band of soldiers proceeded on their way down into 
 the head of Yarrow, and there saw, in the solitude, the house of 
 Samuel Grieve. Thither they proceeded to get some refresh- 
 ment, and ripe for any outrage that any occasion might suggest. 
 The old man and his wife, hearing a tumult of many voices 
 and many feet, came out, and were immediately saluted with 
 many opprobrious epithets. The hut was soon rifled of any 
 smaU articles of wearing apparel ; and Samuel, without emo 
 tion, set before them whatever provisions he had — butter, 
 9 
 
98 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 cheese, bread, and milk — and hoped they would not be too 
 hard upon old people, who were desirous of dying, as they 
 had lived, in peace. Thankful were they both, in their paren- 
 tal hearts, that their little Lihas was among the hills ; and the 
 old man trusted that if she returned before the soldiers were 
 gone, she would see, from some distance, their muskets on the 
 green before the door, and hide herself among the brakens. 
 
 The soldiers devoured their repast with many oaths, and 
 much hideous and obscene language, which it was sore against 
 the old man's soul to hear in his own hut ; but he said nothing, 
 for that would have been willfully to sacrifice his life. At last, 
 one of the party ordered him to return thanks, in words impi- 
 ous and full of blasphemy ; which Samuel calmly refused to 
 do, beseeching them at the same time, for the sake of their 
 own souls, not so to offend their great and bountiful Preserver, 
 " Confound the old canting Covenanter; I will prick him 
 with my bayonet, if he won't say grace !" and the blood 
 trickled down the old man's cheek, from a slight wound on his 
 forehead. 
 
 The sight of it seemed to awaken the dormant blood-thirsti- 
 ness in the tiger heart of the soldier, who now swore, if the 
 old man did not instantly repeat the words after him, he would 
 shoot him dead. And, as if cruelty were contagious, almost 
 the whole party agreed that the demand was but reasonable, 
 and that the old hypocritical knave must preach or perish. 
 " Here is a great musty Bible," cried one of them. " If ho 
 won't speak, I will gag him, with a vengeance. Here, old 
 Mr. Peden the prophet, let me cram a few chapters of St 
 Luke down your maw. St. Luke was a physician, I believe. 
 Well, here is a dose of him. Open your jaws." And, with 
 these words, he tore a handful of leaves out of the Bible, and 
 advanced toward the old man, from whose face his terrified 
 wife was now wiping off the blood. 
 
 Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore; but his sinews were 
 not yet relaxed, and, in his younger days, he had been a man 
 of great strength. When, therefore, the soldier grasped him 
 by the neck, the sense of receiving an indignity from such a 
 slave, made his blood boil, and, as if his youth had been re- 
 newed, the gray-headed man, with one blow, felled the ruffian 
 to the floor. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 99 
 
 That blov> sealed his doom. There was a fierce tumult and 
 yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel Grieve was led out to 
 die. He had witnessed such butchery of others, and felt that 
 the hour of his martyrdom was come. "As thou didst risprove 
 Simon Peter in the garden, when he smote the high priest's 
 servant, and saidst, ' The cup which my Father hath given me, 
 shall I not drink it?' so now, O my Redeemer, do thou pardon 
 me, thy frail and erring follower, and enable me to drink this 
 cup !" With these words, the old man knelt down unbidden, 
 and, after one solemn look to heaven, closed his eyes, and 
 folded his hands across his breast. 
 
 His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside the old 
 man. " Let us die together, Samuel ; but, oh ! what will 
 become of our dear Lilias ?" " God tempers the wind to the 
 shorn lamb," said her husband, opening not his eyes, but taking 
 her hand into his : " Sarah, be not afraid." " 0, Samuel, I 
 remember, at this moment, these words of Jesus, which you 
 this morning read ; ' Forgive them, Father ; they know not 
 what they do !'" "We are all sinners together," said Samuel, 
 with a loud voice ; " we two old gray-headed people, on our 
 knees, and about to die, both forgive you all, as we hope our- 
 selves to be forgiven. We are ready : be mereiful, and do not 
 mangle us. Sarah, be not afraid." 
 
 It seemed that an angel was sent down from heaven, to save 
 the lives of these two old gray-headed folks. With hair float- 
 ing in sunny light, and seemingly wreathed with flowers of 
 heavenly azure ; with eyes beaming luster, and yet streaming 
 tears; with white arms extended in their beauty, and. motion 
 gentle and gliding as the sunshine when a cloud is rolled away; 
 came on, over the meadow before the hut, the same green-robed 
 creature, that had startled the soldiers with her singing in the 
 moor; and, crying loudly, but still sweetly, "God sent me 
 hither to save their lives," she fell down beside them as they 
 knelt together ; and then, lifting up her head from the turf, 
 fixed her beautiful face, instinct with fear, love, hope, and the 
 spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to shed that 
 mnocent blood. 
 
 They all stood heart-stricken ; and the executioners flung 
 down their muskets upon the green sward. " God bless you, 
 kind, good soldiers, for this!" exclaimed the child, now weep- 
 
100 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 ing and sobbing with joy. "Ay, ay, you wiU be happy 
 to-night, when you lie down to sleep. If you have any little 
 daughters or sisters like me, God wiU love them for your 
 mercy to us, and nothing, till you return home, will hurt a 
 hair of their heads. Oh ! I see now that soldiers are not so 
 cruel as we say !" "Lilias, your grandfather speaks unto you; 
 his last words are ; ' leave us, leave us ; for they are going to 
 put us to death.' Soldiers, kUl not this litde child, or the 
 waters of the loch will rise up and drown the sons of perdition. 
 Lilias, give us each a kiss, and then go into the house." 
 
 The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, and 
 seemed now like men themselves condemned to die. Shame 
 and remorse for their coward cruelty, smote them to the core; 
 and they bade them that were stiU kneeling, to rise up and go 
 their ways : then, forming themselves into regular order, one 
 gave the word of command, and, marching off, they soon dis- 
 appeared. The old man, his wife, and little Lilias, continued 
 for some time on their knees in prayer, and then all three went 
 into the hut; the child between them, and a withered hand of 
 each laid upon its beautiful and its fearless head. j. Wiisoir. 
 
 LESSON XXXI. 
 
 TRUE LOVE NO FLATTERER. 
 
 Pkesest. King Lear, Gmeril, Regan, Cordelia, Kent, Cornwall, 
 and Albany. 
 
 Lear. Tell me, my daughters, 
 Since now we will divest us, both of rule, 
 Interest of territory, cares of state, 
 Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most ? 
 That we our largest bounty may extend 
 vVhere merit doth most challenge it. Goneril, 
 )ur eldest-born, speak first. 
 
 Gon. Sir, I 
 Oo love you more than words can wield the matter, 
 Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty ; 
 Beyond what can be valued, rich, or rare ; 
 No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor: 
 4.S much as child e'er loved, or father found. 
 A. love that makes breath poor, and speech unable : 
 Beyond all manner of so much T love you. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 101 
 
 Cor. What shall Cordelia do % Love and be silent. (Adde, ) 
 
 Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, , 
 
 With shadowy forests, and with champaigns riched, 
 With plenteous rivers, and wide-skirted meads, 
 We make thee lady : to thine and Albany's issue 
 Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter, 
 Our dearest Regai . wife of Cornwall ? Speak. 
 
 Meg. I am made of that self metal as my sister, 
 And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
 I find, she names my very deed of love ; 
 Only she comes too short ; that I profess 
 Myself an enemy to all other joys, 
 Which the most precious square of sense posss^ses ; 
 And find, I am alone felicitate 
 Tn your dear highness' love. 
 
 Cor. Then poor Cordelia ! (Sside.) 
 And yet not so : since, I am sure, my love's 
 More richer than my tongue. 
 
 Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever. 
 Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; 
 No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 
 Than that conferred on Goneril. Now our joy. 
 Although the last, not least ; to whose young love 
 The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy, 
 Strive to be interested : what can you say, to draw 
 A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak. 
 
 Cor. Nothing, my lord. 
 
 Lear. Nothing ? 
 
 Cor. Nothing. 
 
 Lear. Nothing can come of nothing ; speak again. 
 
 Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
 My heart into my mouth ; I love your majesty 
 According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. 
 
 Lear. How, how, Cordelia? mend your speech a little 
 Lest it may mar your fortunes. 
 
 Car. Good my lord. 
 You are my father, have bred me, loved me ; 
 I return those duties back as are right fit, 
 Obey you, love you, and most honor you. 
 Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 
 They love you, all ? Haply, when I shall wed. 
 That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry 
 Half my love with him, half my care and duty ; 
 Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 
 To love my father all. 
 
102 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Lear. But goes this with thy heart) 
 ■ ^^- ^li g°°d my lord. 
 
 Lear. So young and so untender ! 
 
 Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 
 
 Lear. Let it be so; Thy truth, then, be thy dower ; 
 For, by the sacred radiance of the sun ; 
 The mysteries of Hecate, and the night ; 
 By all the operations of the orbs. 
 From whom we do exist, and cease to be ; 
 Here I disclaim all my paternal care, 
 Propinquity and property of blood, 
 And as a stranger to my heart and me, 
 Hold thee, from this, forever. The barbarous Scythian 
 Or he that makes his generation messes 
 To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 
 Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved, 
 As thou, my sometime daughter. 
 
 Kent. Good, my liege, — 
 
 Lear. Peace, Kent ! 
 Come not between the dragon and his wrath , 
 I loved her most, and thought to set my rest 
 On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight ! — 
 
 (To Cordelia. ) 
 So be my grave my peace, as here I give 
 Her father's heart from her ! 
 
 Cornwall, and Albany, 
 With my two daughters' dowers digest this third ; 
 Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her ; 
 1 do invest you jointly with my power. 
 Pre-eminence, and all the large effects 
 That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, 
 With reservation of a hundred knights. 
 By you to be sustained, shall our abode 
 Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain 
 The name, and all additions to a king ; 
 The sway, 
 
 Revenue, execution of the rest, 
 Beloved sons, be yours ; which to confirm, 
 This coronet part between you. (Giving the crown. ) 
 
 Kent. Royal Lear, 
 Whom I have ever honored as my king, ■ 
 
 Loved as my father, as my master followed. 
 As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 
 
 Lear. The bow s bent and drawn, make from the shatu 
 
 Kent. Let it fal rather, though the fork invade 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 103 
 
 The regicn of my heart ; be Kent unmannerly 
 
 When Lear is mad. . What would'st thou do, old man ? 
 
 Think'st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak. 
 
 When power to ifiattery bows 1 To plainness honor's bound. 
 
 When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom : 
 
 And, in thy best consideration, check 
 
 This hideous rashness; answer my life, my judgment, 
 
 Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, 
 
 Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sound 
 
 Reverbs no hollowness. 
 
 Tjear. Kent, on thy life, no more. SHAKspEiHE. 
 
 LESSON XXXII. 
 
 FILIAI, IN&RATITtTDE. 
 
 Scene. A heath. — A storm with thunder and lightmng. 
 Present. Kent, a Gentleman, and King Lear, 
 
 ' Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting. 
 
 Kent. Who's here, besides foul weather ? 
 
 Gani. One minded like the veeather, most unquietly. 
 
 Kent. I know you. Where's the king ? 
 
 Gent. Contending vrith the fretful elements , 
 Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea. 
 Or swell the curled waters 'hove the main. 
 That things might change, or cease ; tears his white hair ; 
 Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, 
 Catch in their fury, and make nothing of: 
 Strives in his little world of man, to out-scorn 
 The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. 
 This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would conch. 
 The lion, and the hunger-pinched wolf. 
 Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he roves. 
 And bids what will, take all. 
 
 Enter King Lear. 
 
 Lear. Blow, winds ! and crack your cheeks ! rage ! blow '. 
 You cataracts and hurricanes ! spout 
 Till you have drenched our steeples. 
 You sulphurous and thought-executing fires. 
 Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts. 
 Singe my white head I And thou, all-shaking thunder, 
 Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world ! 
 Crack nature's molds, all gerrains spill at once. 
 
104 YOUNG LADIES' 'READER. 
 
 That make ungrateful man ! spit,fire ! spout.rain! 
 .Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters ; 
 I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness, 
 £ never gave you kingdom, called you children : 
 You owe me no subscription: why, then let fall 
 Your horrible displeasure : here I stand, your slave ; 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man : 
 But yet I call you servile ministers. 
 That have with two pernicious daughters joined 
 Your high engendered battles, 'gainst a head 
 So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis foul ! 
 
 Let the great gods, 
 That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, 
 Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch. 
 That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 
 Unwhipped of justice: caitiif, to pieces shake, 
 That under covert and convenient seeming. 
 Hast practiced on man's life. Close pent-up guilt, 
 Rive your concealing continents, and cry 
 These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man 
 More sinned against, than sinning. 
 
 Kent. Gracious, my lord, hard by here is a hovel ; 
 Some frie^jdship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest; 
 Hepose you here. 
 
 Lear. My wits begin to turn. 
 
 Kent. Here is the place, my lord ; good, my lord, enter. 
 The tyranny of the open night's too much 
 For nature to endure. 
 
 Lear. Let me alone. 
 
 Kent. Good, my lord, enter here. 
 
 Lear. Wilt break my heart ? 
 
 Kent. I'd rather break mine own : good, my lord, enter. 
 
 Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that this contentious storm 
 Invades us to the skin : so 'tis to thee : 
 But where the greater malady is fixed. 
 The less is scarcely felt. Thou'dst shun a bear ; 
 But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, 
 Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free. 
 The body's delicate ; the tempest in my mind 
 Doth from my senses take all feeling else, 
 Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude ! 
 Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand 
 For lifting food to 't? But I will punish home. 
 No, I will weep no more. In such a night 
 To shut me out ! Pour on; I will endure. 
 
yOUNG LADIES' READER. ] 05 
 
 In such a night as this ! O Regan ! Goneiil ! 
 
 Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all ! 
 
 O, that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; 
 
 No more of that. Skakspeahb. 
 
 LESSON XXXIII 
 
 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 Present. King Lear, Cordelia, and Phyaieian. 
 Cor. O MT dear father ! Restoration hang 
 Her medicine on my lips, and let this kiss 
 Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters 
 Have in thy reverence made ! 
 Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
 Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face 
 To be exposed against the warring winds ] 
 To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder? 
 In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
 Of quick, cross-lightning? My enemy's dog, 
 Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
 Against my fire : and wast thou fain, poor father. 
 To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn, 
 In short and musty straw ? Alack, alack ! 
 'Tis wonder, that thy life and wits, at once. 
 Had not concluded all. — He wakes ; speak to him. 
 Phys. Madam, do you ; 'tis fittest. 
 
 Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty? 
 Lear, You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave ; 
 Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound 
 Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
 Do scald like molten lead. 
 Cor. Sir, do you know me ? 
 
 Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? 
 Cor. Still, still far wide — 
 Phys. He's scarce awake ; let him alone awhile. 
 Lear. Where have I been ■! where am I ? fair day light 7 
 I'm mightily abused ; I should even die with pity 
 To see another thus. I know not what to say ; 
 I will not swear, these are my hands : let's see — 
 I feel this pin prick : would I were assured 
 Of my condition. 
 
 Cor. Oh ! look upon me, sir. 
 And hold your hand in benediction o'er me ; 
 Nav, you must not kneel. 
 
106 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Zear, Pray, do not mock me; 
 I am a very foolish, fond, old man. 
 Fourscore and upward; and, to deal plainly, 
 1 fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
 Methinks I should know you, and know this man; 
 Yet I am doubtful : for I'm mainly ignorant 
 What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
 Remembers not these garments ; nay, I know not 
 Where I did lodge last night. Pray, do not mock me ! 
 For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
 To be my child Cordelia. 
 
 Cor. And so I am ; I am. 
 
 Lear. Be your tears wet 1 Yes. I pray you, weep not. 
 If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 
 I know you do not love me ; for your sisters 
 Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. 
 You have some cause ; they have not. 
 
 Cor. No cause, no cause. 
 
 Lear. Am I in France ■! 
 
 Cor. In your own kingdom, sir. 
 
 Lear. Do not abuse me. 
 
 Phi/s. Be comforted, good madam ; 
 Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more 
 Till further settling. 
 
 Cor. Will't please your highness walk ? 
 
 Lear. You must bear with me ; 
 Pray you now forget and forgive : 
 I am old and foolish. Shakspeahi. 
 
 LESSON XXXIV. 
 
 THE DEFORMED CHILD. 
 
 In my. school-boy days, there lived an aged widow near the 
 church-yard. She had an only child. I have often ob- 
 served, that the delicate and the weak receive more than a 
 common share of affection from a mother. Such a feeling was 
 shown by this widow toward her sicldy and unshapely boy. 
 There are faces and forms which, once seen, are impressed 
 upon our brain ; and they will come, again and again, upon the 
 tablet of our memory in the quiet of night, and even flit around 
 us in our daily walks. Many years have gone by since I first 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 107 
 
 saw this boy ; and his delicate form, and quiet manner, and his 
 gentle and virtuous conduct, are often before me. 
 
 I shall never forget, — in the sauciness of youth, and fancy- 
 ing it would give importance to my bluff outside,— si«earing 
 in his presence. The boy was sitting in a high-backed easy 
 chair, reading his Bible. He turned round, as if a signal for 
 dying had sounded in his ear, and fixed upon me his clear 
 gray eye : that look ! it made my little heart almost choke me 
 I gave some foolish excuse for getting out of tlie cottage ; and, 
 as I met a playmate on the road, who jeered me for my blank 
 countenance, I rushed past him, hid myself in an adjoining 
 cornfield, and cried bitterly. I tried to conciliate the widow's 
 son, and show my sorrow for having so far forgotten the inno- 
 cence of boyhood, as to have my Maker's name sounded in 
 an unhaRowed manner from my lips. My spring flowers he 
 accepted; but, when my back was turned, he flung them 
 away. The toys and books I offered to him were put aside 
 for his Bible. His tmly occupations were, the feeding of a 
 favorite hen, which would come to his chair and look up for 
 the crums that he would let fall, with a noiseless action, from 
 his thin fingers, watching the pendulum and hands of the 
 wooden clock, and reading. 
 
 Although I could not, at that time, fully appreciate the 
 beauty of a mother's love, stiU I venerated the widow for the 
 unobtrusive, but intense attention she displayed to her son. 
 I never entered her . dwelling without seeing her engaged in 
 some kind offices toward him. If the sunbeam came through 
 the leaves of the geraniums placed in the window, with too 
 strong a glare, she moved the high-backed chair with as much 
 care as if she had been putting aside a cryltal temple. When 
 he slept, she festooned her silk handkerchief around his place 
 of rest. She placed the earliest violets upon her mantel-piece 
 for him to look at ; and the roughness of her own meal, and 
 the delicacy of the child's, sufficiently displayed her sacrifices. 
 Easy and satisfied, the widow moved about. I never saw her 
 but once unhappy. She was then walking thoughtfully in her 
 garden. I beheld a tear. I did not dare to intrude upon her 
 grief, and ask her the cause of it ; but I found the reason in 
 her cottage ; her boy had been spitting blood. 
 
 I have often envied him these endearments ; for I was away 
 
108 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 from a parent who humored me, even when I was stubburn 
 and unkind. My poor mother is in her grave. I have often 
 regretted having been her pet, her favorite ; for the coldness 
 of the world makes me wretched ; and, perhaps, if I had not 
 drank at the vejy spring of a mother's affection, I might have 
 let scorn and'contumely pass by me as the idle wind. Yet 1 
 have afterward asked myself, what I, a thoughtless, though 
 not a heartless boy should have come to, if I had not had such a 
 comforter. I have asked myself this, felt satisfied and grateful, 
 and wished that her spirit might watch around her chUd, who 
 often met her kindness with passion, and received her gifts 
 as if he expected homage from her. 
 
 Every body experiences how quickly school years pass 
 away. My father's residence was not situated in the village 
 where I was educated ; so that when I left school, I left its 
 scenes also. After several years had passed away, accident 
 took me again to the well-known place. The stable, into 
 which I led my horse, was dear to me ; for I had often listened 
 to the echo that danced within it, when the bells were ringing. 
 The face of the landlord was strange ; but I could not forget 
 the in-kneed, red-whiskered hostler : he had given me a hearty 
 thrashing as a return for a hearty jest. 
 
 I had reserved a broad piece of silver for the old widow. 
 But I first ran toward the river, and walked upon the mill- 
 bank. I was surprised at the apparent narrowness of the 
 stream ; and, although the willows still fringed the margin, and 
 appeared to stoop in homage to the water lilies, yet they were 
 diminutive. Every thing was but a miniature of the picture 
 in my mind. It pr'oved to me that my faculties had grown 
 with my growth, aira strengthened with my strength. With 
 something like disaj^ppintment, I left the river side and strolled 
 toward the church, f My hand was in my pocket, grasping 
 the broad piece of silver^ I imagined to myself the kind look 
 of recognition I should receive. I determined on the way 
 in which I should press the money into the widow's hand. 
 But I felt my nerves slightly tremble, as I thought on the look 
 her son had given, and again might give me. 
 
 Ah, there is the cottage ! but the honey-suckle is older, and 
 it has lost many of its branches ! The door was closed. A 
 pet lamb was fastened to a loose cord under the window , and 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 109 
 
 its melancholy bleating was the only sound that disturbed the 
 silence. In former years I used, at once, to pull the string 
 that lifted the wooden latch; but now I deliberately knock- 
 ed. A strange female form, with a child in her arras, opened 
 the door. I asked for my old acquaintance. "Alas ! poor 
 Alice is in her coffin : look, sir, where the shadow of the spire 
 ends: that is her grave." I relaxed my grasp "of my money. 
 "And her deformed boy ?" " He, too, is there !" I drew my 
 hand from my pocket. 
 
 It was a hard task for me to thank the woman, but I did so. 
 I moved to the place where the mother and the child were 
 buried. I stood for some minutes, in silence, beside the 
 mound of grass. I thought of the consumptive lad, and as I 
 did so, the lamb, at the cottage window, gave its anxious bleat. 
 And then all the affectionate attentioui" of my own mother 
 arose on my soul, while my lips ti-embled out : " Mother ! 
 dear mother ! would that I were as is the widow's son ! would 
 that I were sleeping in thy grave ! I lovd thee, mother ' 
 but I would not have thee living now, to view the worldly sor 
 rows of thy ungrateful boy ! My first step toward vice was 
 the oath which the deformed child heard me utter." * * 
 
 But you, who rest here as quietly as you lived, "hall receive 
 the homage of the unworthy. I wiU protect this hillock from the 
 steps of the heedless wanderer, and from the trampling of the 
 village herd. I wfll raise up a tabernacle to purity a'xd love. 
 I will do it in secret : and I look not to be rewarded openly 
 
 C. Ebwardb 
 
 LESSON XXXV 
 
 THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS 
 
 I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, 
 And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales. 
 As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er. 
 They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. 
 
 And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, 
 A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear : 
 The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice vyas tremulous/ 
 But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus : — 
 
 9 
 
1 10 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 " It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, 
 Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells ; 
 But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock. 
 He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. 
 
 " One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, 
 When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, 
 As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, 
 A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. 
 
 " I hurried out to learn the cause ; but, overwhelmed with fright, 
 The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight 
 I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ; 
 But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the 
 
 " Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye ! 
 His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry ! 
 And know, with agonizing breast, and witli a maniac rave. 
 That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save ! 
 
 " My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me. 
 And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free , 
 At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: 
 Until, upon the azurp sky, a lessening spot he seemed. 
 
 " The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, 
 A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view i 
 But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight ; 
 'T was only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. 
 
 " All search was vain, and years had passed ; that child was ne'ei 
 
 forgot. 
 When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot. 
 From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached. 
 He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached ! 
 
 "I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away ; 
 I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay ; 
 A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred. 
 The crimson cap he wore that mom was still upon the head." 
 
 That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by. 
 Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. 
 And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, 
 The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. 
 
 ^ AirOHTMODB. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' HEADER. Ill 
 
 LESSON XXXVI. 
 god's works and providence 
 O Lord, our Lord, 
 
 How excellent is thy name in all the earth ! 
 Who hast set thy glory above the heavens ! 
 Oat of the mouth of babes and sucklings 
 Hast thou ordained strength, 
 Because of thine enemies, 
 
 That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger. 
 When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers. 
 The moon and the stars which thou hast ordained ; 
 What is man, that thou art mindful of him 1 
 Or the son of man, that thou visitest him ? 
 For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels. 
 And hast crowned him with glory and honor. 
 Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands 
 Thou hast put all things under his feet : 
 All sheep and oxen. 
 Yea, and the beasts of the field ; 
 The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, 
 And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. 
 O Lord, our Lord, 
 How excellent is thy name in all the earth ! 
 
 The Lord is my shepherd ; 
 
 I shall not want. 
 
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. 
 
 He leadeth me beside the still waters, 
 
 He restoreth my soul : 
 
 He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 
 
 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 
 
 I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; 
 
 Thy rod and thy staflf, they comfort me. 
 
 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies ; 
 
 Thou anointest my head with oil ; 
 
 My cup runneth over. 
 
 Surely mercy and goodness will follow me all the days of my life j 
 
 And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 
 
 Oh that men would praise the Lordjfor his goodness, 
 And for his wonderful works to the 'JBildren of men ! 
 They that go down to the sea in ships, 
 That do business in great waters ; 
 
112 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 These see the works of the Lord, 
 
 And his wonders in the deep. 
 
 For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, 
 
 Which lifteth up the waves thereof. 
 
 They mount up to the heaven, 
 
 They go down again to the depths : 
 
 Their soul is melted because of trouble. 
 
 They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, 
 
 And are at their wit's end. 
 
 Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, 
 
 And he bringeth them out of their distresses ; 
 
 He maketh the storm a calm, 
 
 So that the waves thereof are still. 
 
 Then are they glad because they be quiet ; 
 
 So he bringeth them unto their desired haven. 
 
 Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, 
 
 And for his wonderful works to the children of men ! 
 
 O come ! let us sing unto the Lord ; 
 
 Let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation. 
 
 Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, 
 
 And make a joyful noise unto him with psalms. 
 
 For the Lord is a great God, 
 
 And a great King above all gods. 
 
 In his hand are the deep places of the earth* 
 
 The strength of the hills is his also. 
 
 The sea is his, and he made it ; 
 
 And his hands formed the dry land. 
 
 O come ! let us worship and bow down ; 
 
 Let us kneel before the Lord our Maker, 
 
 For he is our God ; 
 
 And we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hano. 
 
 To-day if ye will hear his voice. 
 
 Harden not your hearts, as in the provocation. 
 
 And as in the day of temptation in the wilderness, 
 
 When your fathers tempted me. 
 
 Proved me, and saw my work. 
 
 Forty years long was I grieved with this generation, 
 
 And said, it is a people that doferr in their heart. 
 
 And they have not known m^ifays : 
 
 Unto whom I sware in my wrath, 
 
 That they should not enter my rest. Psalms. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 113 
 
 LESSON XXXVII. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE MOCKING-BIRD, 
 
 The plumage of the mocking-bird, though none of the home- 
 liest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it, and had he nothing 
 else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice ; 
 but his figure is well proportioned, and even handsome. The 
 ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of 
 his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying 
 up lessons from almost every species of the feathered creation 
 within his hearingi are really surprising, and mark the pecu- 
 liarity of his genius. To these qualities we may add that of a 
 voice, full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every 
 modulation, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush, 
 to the savage screams of the bald-eagle. 
 
 In measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals. 
 In force and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon 
 them. In his native groves, mounted upon the top of a tall 
 bush or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while 
 the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his 
 admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The 
 ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others 
 seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain altogether 
 imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguish- 
 able by such as are well acquainted with those of our various 
 birds of song, are bold and fuU, and varied, seemingly, beyond 
 all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, 
 at the most, five or six syllables, generally interspersed with imi- 
 tations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, 
 and continued, with undiminished ardor, for half an hour or an 
 hour, at a time ; his expanded wings and tail, glistening with 
 white, and the buoyant gayety of his action, arresting tlie eye, 
 as his song most irresistibly does the ear. 
 
 He sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstasy ; he mounts and 
 descends, as his song swells or dies away, and, as my friend 
 Mr. Bartram has beautifully expressed it, " he bounds aloft with 
 the celerity of an arrow, as if to recovg^ or recall his very soul, 
 which expired in the last elevated strain." While thus exert- 
 ing himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that 
 10 
 
114 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 the whole feathered tribes had assembled together on a trial of 
 skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect ; so perfect are 
 his imitations. He many times deceives the sportsman, and 
 sends him in search of birds that perhaps are not within miles 
 of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates. Even birds 
 themselves are frequently imposed on by this admirable mimic, 
 and are decoyed by the fancied calls of their mates, or dive, 
 with precipitation, into the depths of thickets, at the scream of 
 what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk. 
 
 The mocking-bird loses little of the power and energy of his 
 song hy confinement. In his domesticated state, when he com- 
 mences his career of song, it is impossible to stand by uninter- 
 ested. He whistles for the dog ; Czesar starts up, wags his 
 tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt 
 chicken ; and the hen hurries about, with hanging wings and 
 bristled feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The 
 barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a 
 passing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He 
 repeats the tune taught him by his master, though of consider- 
 able length, fully and faithfully. He runs over the quiverings 
 of the canary, and the clear whistlings of the Virginia nightin- 
 gale or red-bird, with such superior execution and eifect, that 
 the mortified songsters feel their own inferiority and become 
 altogether silent, while he seems to triumph in their defeat, by 
 redoubling his exertions. 
 
 This excessive fondness for variety, however, in the opinion 
 of some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown 
 thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks : and 
 the warblings of the blue-bird, which he exquisitely manages, 
 are mingled with the screaming of swallows-, or the cackling of 
 hens ; amid the simple melody of the robin, we are sudderdy 
 surprised by the shrill reiterations of the whip-poor-wiU ; while 
 the notes of the killdeer, blue jay, martin, baltimore, and twenty 
 others, succeed, w^ith such imposing reality, that we look round 
 for the originals, and discover, with astonishment, that the 
 sole performer in this singular concert; is the admirable bird 
 now before us. 
 
 During this exhibiti(#of his powers, he spreads his wings, 
 expands his tail, and throws himself around the cage in all the 
 ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming not orJy to sing, but to dance, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 115 
 
 keeping time to the measure of his own music. Both in his 
 native and domesticated state, during the solemn stillness of the 
 night, as soon as the moon rises in silent majesty, he hegins 
 his delightful solo, and serenades us, the Uvelong night, with a 
 fuU display of his vocal powers, making the whole neighbor- 
 hood ring with his inimitable melody. A. Wilson 
 
 LESSON XXXVIII. 
 
 THE WINTER KING. 
 
 Oh ! what will become of thee, poor little bird 1 
 
 The muttering storm in the distance is heard ; 
 
 The rough winds are waking, the clouds growing black. 
 
 They'll soon scatter snow-flakes all over thy back ! 
 
 From what sunny clime hast thou wandered away ? 
 
 And what art thou doing this cold winter day 1 
 
 " I'm picking the gum from the old peach-tree ; 
 
 The storm does n't trouble me. Pee, dee, dee." 
 
 But what makes thee seem so unconscious of care ] 
 The brown earth is frozen, the branches are bare : 
 And how canst thou be so light-hearted and free. 
 As if danger and suffering thou never should'st see, 
 When no place is near for thy evening nest ? 
 No leaf for thy screen, for thy bosom no rest ? 
 " Because the same hand is a shelter for me. 
 That took oif the summer leaves. Pee, dee, dee." ,■; 
 
 But man feels a burden of care and of grief, 
 
 While plucking the cluster and binding the sheaf, 
 
 In the summer we faint, in the winter we're chilled, 
 
 With ever a void that is yet to be filled. 
 
 We take from the ocean, the earth, and the air. 
 
 Yet all their rich gifts do not silence our care. 
 
 "A very small portion sufficient will be, 
 
 If sweetened with gratitude. Pee, dee, dee." 
 
 I thanlc thee, bright monitor ; what thou hast taught. 
 Will oft be the theme of the happiest thought ; 
 We look at the c&i*tfe, while the birds have an eye 
 To Him who reigns over them, changeless and high. 
 And now, little hero, just tell me thy name, 
 ThaJ I may be sure whence ray oracle came. 
 
1 1 6 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 " Because, in all weather, I'm merry and free, 
 They call me the Winter King. Pee, dee, dee." 
 
 But soon there'll be ice weighing down the light bougfh. 
 
 On which thou art flitting so playfully now; 
 
 And though there's a vesture well fitted and warm, 
 
 Protecting the rest of thy delicate form, 
 
 What then wilt thou do with thy little,bare feet, 
 
 To save them from pain 'mid the frost and the sleet 1 
 
 "I can draw them right up in my feathers, you see, 
 
 To warm them and fly away. Pee, dee, dee." 
 
 Miss H. F. Goulu. 
 
 LESSON XXXIX. 
 
 THE WILD VIOLET. 
 
 Violet, violet, sparkling with dew, 
 
 Down in the* meadow-land wild, where you grew. 
 
 How did you come by the beautiful blue 
 
 With which your soft petals unfold ? 
 And how do you hold up your tender, young head. 
 When rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed. 
 And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you, shed 
 
 Their waters so heavy and cold ? ' 
 
 No one has nursed you, or watched you an houi. 
 Or found you a place in the garden or bower ; 
 And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower. 
 
 As here I have found at my feet ! 
 Speak, my sweet violet, answer, and tell, 
 How you have grown up, and flourished so well. 
 And look so contented where lonely you dwell, 
 
 And we thus by accident meet ? 
 
 " The same careful hand," the violet said, 
 "That holds up the firmament, holds up my head ; 
 And He, who with azure the skies overspread. 
 
 Has painted the violet blue. 
 He sprinkles the stars out above me by night, 
 And sends down the sunbeams, at morning, with lio-ht. 
 To make my new coronet sparkling and bright. 
 
 When formed of a drop of his dew. 
 
 " I've naught to fear from the black, heavy cloud. 
 
 Or the brfeath of the tempest that com^s strong and loud, 
 
SOUNG LADIES' REAl^ER. 117 
 
 When, born in the lowland, and far from the crowd, 
 
 1 know, and I live but for One. 
 He soon forms a mantle, about me to cast. 
 Of long, silken grass, till the rain and the blast, 
 And all that seemed threatening, have harmlessly passed, 
 
 A.S the clouds scud before the warm sun !" 
 
 Miss H. F. Godid. 
 
 LESSON XL. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude, with 
 which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of for- 
 tune. Those disasters, which break down the spirit of a man, 
 and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies 
 of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to theii 
 character, that, at times, it approaches to sublimity. Nothing 
 can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, 
 who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every 
 trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, 
 suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and sup- 
 porter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with un- 
 shrinking firmness, the bitterest blast of adversity. 
 
 As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about 
 the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy 
 plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing 
 tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully 
 ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere depend- 
 ent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his 
 stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding 
 herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- 
 ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a. 
 blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " 1 
 can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to 
 have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they 
 are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to 
 comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married 
 man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation 
 in the world than a single one ; partly, because he is more 
 
118 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and 
 beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but 
 chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domes- 
 tic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive by finding, 
 that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is 
 still a Httle world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. 
 Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to 
 fancy himself lonely and abandoned ; and his heart to fall to 
 ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 
 
 These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
 which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
 married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought 
 up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no for- 
 tune ; but that of my friend was ample, and he delighted in the 
 anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and 
 administering to those delicate tastes and fancies, that spread a 
 kind of witchery about the sex. " Her life," said he, "shall 
 be like a fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious 
 combination: he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast ; 
 she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rap- 
 ture, with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which 
 her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the 
 midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there 
 alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his 
 arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly 
 person. The fond, confiding air, with which she looked up to 
 him, seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cher- 
 ishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its 
 very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward, on the 
 flowery path of early and well suited marriage, with a fairei 
 prospect of felicity. 
 
 It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em 
 barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been 
 married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disas- 
 ters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced al- 
 most to penury. For a time, he kept his situation to himself, 
 and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking 
 heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered 
 it more insupportable was, the necessity of keeping up a smile' 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. ] 19 
 
 in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to 
 overwhelm her with the news. 
 
 She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all 
 was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and 
 stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and 
 vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly 
 powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happi- 
 ness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The 
 more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was tlie 
 thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A Uttle 
 while, thought he, and the smUe will vanish from that cheek ; 
 the song will die away from those lips; the luster of those 
 eyes will be quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, 
 which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, 
 like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me, one day, and related his whole 
 situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard 
 him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know aU this ?" At 
 the question, he burst into an agony of tears. " If you have 
 any pity on me," cried he, "don't mention my wife; it is the 
 thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" 
 
 "And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or 
 later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence 
 may break upon her in a more startling manner than if impart- 
 ed by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the 
 harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the 
 comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also 
 endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an 
 unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon 
 perceive, that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; 
 and true love wiU not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and 
 outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- 
 cealed from it." 
 
 " Oh ! but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give to 
 all her future prospects ! how I am to strike her very soul to 
 the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she 
 is to forego all the elegances of life, all the pleasures of society, 
 to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! to tell her 
 tlia| J have dragged her down from the sphere, in which she 
 miflfl have continued to move in constant brightness, the light 
 
120 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 of every eye, the admiration of every heart ! How can she bear 
 poverty 1 She has been brought up in all the refinements of 
 opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has been the idol of 
 society. Oh ! it will break her heart ! it will break her heart !" 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
 sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had 
 subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
 the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation, at once, 
 to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 
 
 " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she 
 should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the 
 alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style 
 of living — ^nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
 nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 
 placed your happiness in outward show ; you have yet friends, 
 warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being 
 less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace 
 to be happy with Mary — " "I could be happy with her," 
 cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! I could go , down with 
 her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless 
 her!— God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of 
 grief and tenderness. 
 
 "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasp- 
 ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the 
 same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and 
 triumph to her ; it will call forth all the latent energies and 
 fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove 
 that she loves you for yourself. There is, in every true 
 woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant 
 in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and 
 beams, and blazes, in the dark hour of adversity. No man 
 knows what the wife of his bosom is, no man knows what a 
 ministering angel she is, until he has gone with her through 
 the fiery trials of this world." 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of my mariner, and 
 the figurative siyle of my language, that caught the ekcited 
 imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal ^yith ; 
 and, following up the impression I had made, I finished by 
 persilading him to go home, and unburden his sad heguct toJ 
 wife. - 1 w. lavK 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 121 
 
 LESSON XLI. 
 
 THE SAME, CONCLUDED. 
 
 I MUST confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
 little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- 
 tude of one, whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ? 
 Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of 
 low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling 
 to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled. 
 Besides, ruin, in fashionable life, is accompanied by so many 
 galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. 
 In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without 
 trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 
 
 " And how did she bear it ?" " Like an angel ! It 
 seemed rather to be a relief to her mind; for she threw 
 her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all, that 
 had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, 
 " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has 
 no idea of poverty, but in the abstract : she has only read of 
 it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels, as yet, 
 no privation : she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences 
 or elegances. When we come practically to experience its 
 sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humdiations, then will 
 be the real trial." 
 
 " But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest 
 task, — that of breaking it' to her, — the sooner you let the 
 world into the secret, the better. The disclosure may be 
 mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon over; 
 whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in 
 the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretense, that harasses 
 a ruined man ; the struggle between a proud mind and an 
 empty purse ; the keeping up a hollow show, that must soon 
 come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you 
 disarm poverty of its sharpest stiiig." On this point 1 found 
 Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and, 
 as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 
 fortunes. 
 
 Some days afterward, he called upon me in the evening. 
 He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small 
 cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had beep 
 1.' 
 
122 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establish 
 ment required few articles, and those of the sinwlest kind 
 All the splendid furniture of his late residence hadtbeen sold, 
 excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely as 
 sociated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story 
 of their love ; for some of the sweetest moments of their 
 courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, 
 and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but 
 smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
 been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
 had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
 story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 
 him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we 
 walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary !" 
 at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. "And what 
 of her?" asked I; " has anything happened to her?" "What?" 
 said he, darting an impatient glance ; " is it nothing to be re- 
 duced to this paltry situation ? to be caged in a miserable cot- 
 tage ? to be obliged to toU almost in the menial concerns of her 
 wretched habitation?" "Has she, then, repined at the change?" 
 "Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
 humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
 known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
 comfort!" "Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call your- 
 self poor, my friend; you never were so rich; you never 
 knew the boundless treasure of excellence you possessed in 
 that woman." 
 
 " O ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
 over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her 
 first day of real experience : she has been introduced into an 
 humble dwelling ; she has been employed all day in arranging 
 its miserable equipments ; she has, for the first time, known 
 the fatigues of domestic employment; she has, for the first 
 time, looked around her on a home destitute of every thing 
 elegant; almost of every thing convenient; and may now be 
 sitting down, exhauisted and spiritless, broking oyer a prospect 
 of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this 
 picture, that I could not gainsay ; so we walked on in silence. 
 
 After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 123 
 
 thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of 
 ^'v, seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
 enough in its appearance for the post^astoral poet ; and yet it 
 had a pleasing^rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end 
 with aXprofusion of loliage ; a few trees threw their branches 
 gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers, 
 tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in 
 front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a foot-path, that 
 wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we ap- 
 proachea, we heard the sound of music. Leslie grasped my 
 arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, 
 in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air, of which 
 her husband was peculiarly fond. 
 
 I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- 
 ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the 
 gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the win- 
 dow, and vanished ; a light footstep was heard, and Mary came 
 tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty, rural dress of 
 white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a 
 fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed 
 with smiles. I had never seen her look so lovely. 
 
 " My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come ! 
 I have been watching and watching for you, and running down 
 the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a 
 beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been gathering 
 some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are 
 fond of them ; and we have such excellent cream, and every 
 thing is so sweet and still here. Oh !" said she, putting her arm 
 within his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh ! we shall 
 be so happy !" 
 
 Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom ; 
 he folded his arms round her ; he kissed her again and again. 
 He could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and 
 he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone 
 prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy 
 one, y^i^ever has he experienced a moment of more exquisite 
 fehcity, w. Ikving 
 
124 yOUNG LADIES- P.EADKP- 
 
 LESSON XLII. 
 
 THF KOMBS OF BNGT. ft.NO, 
 
 ffli s'Mcly Homes of England, 
 
 Hovr beautiful they stand ! 
 JUnid *iieir tall ancestral trees, 
 
 O'er all the pleasant land. 
 The deer across their greensward bound, 
 
 Through shade and sunny gleam, 
 A.nd the swan glides past them with the sound 
 
 Of some rejoicing stream. 
 
 The merry Homes^of England ! 
 
 Around their hearths by night, 
 What gladsome looks of household love 
 
 Meet in the ruddy light ! 
 There, woman's voice flows forth in song. 
 
 Or childhood's tale is told. 
 Or lips move tunefully along 
 
 Some glorious page of old. 
 
 The blessed Homes of England ! 
 
 How softly on their bower* 
 Is laid the holy quietness 
 
 That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
 Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime 
 
 Floats through their woods at morn ; 
 All other sounds, in that still time. 
 
 Of breeze and leaf are born. 
 The cottage Homes of England ' 
 
 By thousands o'er her plains, 
 They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks. 
 
 And round the hjJmlet fanes. 
 Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 
 
 Each from its nook of leaves, 
 -And fearless there the lowly sleep. 
 
 As the bird beneath their eavea.v 
 
 The free, fair Homes of England ! 
 
 Long, long, in hut and hall. 
 May hearts of native proof be reared 
 
 To guard each hallowed wall ! 
 And green forever be the groves. 
 
 And bright the fairy sod. 
 Where first the child's glad spirit loves 
 
 Its country and its God ! Mns. Hiuahs 
 
Y(/l,Wd LADIES' READER. 126 
 
 LESSON XLIII 
 
 childhood's spells. 
 
 " There blend the ties that strengthen 
 
 Our hearts in hours of grief, 
 The silver links that lengthen 
 
 Joy's visits when most brief." 
 
 By the soft, green light in the woody glade, 
 On the banks of moss where thy childhood played. 
 By the household tree through which thine eye 
 First looked in love to the summer sky, 
 By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
 Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath. 
 Upon thine heart there is laid a spell, 
 Holy and precious, — oh ! guard it well ! 
 
 By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
 
 Which hath lulled thee into many a dream, . 
 
 By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
 
 To the wind of morn, at thy casement eaves. 
 
 By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
 
 By the music of the Sabbath chimes. 
 
 By every sound of thy native shade, 
 
 Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 
 
 By the gathering round the winter hearth 
 
 When twilight called unto household mirth, 
 
 By the fairy tale, or the legend old 
 
 In that ring of happy faces told. 
 
 By the quiet hour when hearts unite 
 
 In the parting prayer, and the kind " good-night !' 
 
 By the smiling eye, and the loving tone, 
 
 Over thy life has the spell heen thrown. 
 
 And bless that gift ! it hath gentle might, 
 A guardian power and a guiding light. 
 It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
 In the mountain battles of his land ; 
 It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
 To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
 And back to the gates of his father's hall 
 It hath led the weeping prodigal. 
 
 Yes ! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray 
 From the pare, first loves of its youth away ; 
 
1 26 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 When the sullying breath of the world would come 
 
 O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home ; 
 
 Think thou again of the woody glade, 
 
 And the sound by the rustling ivy made, 
 
 Think of the tree at thy father's door. 
 
 And the kindly spell shall have power once more. 
 
 Mbs. HzMA^rs. 
 
 LESSON XLIV 
 
 COME HOME. 
 
 Come home ! there is a sorrowing breath 
 
 In music since ye went, 
 And the early flower-scents wander by, 
 
 With mournful memories blent. 
 The tones in every household voice 
 
 Are grown more sad and deep, 
 And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 
 
 To turn aside and weep. 
 
 O ye beloved ! come home ! the hour 
 
 Of many a greeting tone, 
 The time of hearth-light and of song. 
 
 Returns, and ye are gone ! 
 And darkly, heavily it falls 
 
 On the forsaken room. 
 Burdening the heart with tenderness. 
 
 That deepens 'mid the gloom. 
 
 Where finds it you, ye wandering ones ? 
 
 With all your boyhood's glee 
 Untamed, beneath the desert's palm. 
 
 Or on the lone midsea ? 
 By the stormy hills of battles old. 
 
 Or where dark rivers foam ? 
 Oh ! life is dim where ye are not ; 
 
 Back, ye beloved, come home ! 
 
 Come with the leaves and winds of spring. 
 
 And swift birds, o'er the main '. 
 Our love is grown too sorrowful ; 
 
 Bring us its youth again ! 
 Bring the glad tones to music back ! 
 
 Still, still our home is fair. 
 The spirit of your sunny life 
 
 Alone is wanting there ! Mns. Hkhaits. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 1 27 
 
 LESSON XLV. 
 
 THE stranger's HEART. 
 
 The stranger's heart ! Oh ! wound it not . 
 A yearning anguish is its lot; 
 In the green shadow of thy tree, 
 The stranger finds no rest with thee. 
 
 Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
 Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
 To him that sound hath sorrow's tone, 
 The stranger's heart is with his own. 
 
 Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
 A lovely sight at fall of day ; 
 Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed. 
 His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 
 
 Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friena 
 Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
 Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim, 
 Far, far, are those who prayed with him. 
 
 Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land. 
 The voices of thy kindred band. 
 Oh ! 'mid them all when blest thou art. 
 Deal gently with the stranger's heart. 
 
 Mhs. Hekans. 
 
 LESSON XLVI. 
 
 DEPARTURE OF ADAM AND EVE. 
 
 The archangel 
 Ended, and they both descend the hill. 
 
 Adam to the bower, where Eve 
 Lay sleeping, ran before, but found her waked ; 
 And thus, with words not sad, she him received. 
 
 "Now lead on; 
 In me is no delay: with thee to go, 
 Is to stay here ; without thee, here to stay. 
 Is to go hence unwilling. Thou to me 
 Art all things under Heaven, all places thou. 
 Who, for my willful crime, art banished hence. 
 
128 YOUNG LADIES' READKR. 
 
 This further consolation yet secure 
 
 I carry hence; though all by me is lost, , 
 
 Such favor, I unworthy am vouchsafed, 
 
 By me the promised seed shall all restore." 
 
 So spake our mother Eve ; and Adam heard 
 Well pleased, but ansvirered not; for now too nigh 
 The archangel stood ; and from the other hill 
 To their fixed station, all in bright array. 
 The Cherubim descended ; on the ground 
 Gliding meteorous, as evening mist, 
 Risen from a river, o'er the marsh doth glide, 
 And gather ground fast at the laborer's heel 
 Homeward returning. High in front advanced, 
 The brandished sword of God before them blazed, 
 Fierce as a comet; which, with torrid heat, 
 And vapor as the Libyan air adust, 
 Began to parch that temperate clime : whereat. 
 In either hand the hastening angel caught 
 Our lingering parents, and, to the eastern gate 
 Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
 To the subjected plain ; then disappeared. 
 
 They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld 
 
 Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 
 
 Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate 
 
 With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms. 
 
 Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon. 
 
 The world was all before them where to choose 
 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
 
 They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. Milton. 
 
 LESSON XLVII 
 
 VALUE OF THE SOUL 
 
 What a tumult of exultation would the promised sovereiffnty 
 of a world excite in the human breast ! How would the purpled 
 robe, the jeweled diadem, the exalted throne, crowd in thick array 
 upon the fancy, as it gazed upon the glittering phantom ! How 
 would the heart expand to meet the love and reverence of sub- 
 ject millions ! With what intense energy would every passion 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 129 
 
 spring to the enjoyment of its object! With what exulting 
 transports to accommodate itself to its exalted destiny ! 
 
 Yet this world, with all its pomp and power attendant on 
 ilB possession; this world, whose sovereignty in prospect 
 would absorb every faculty of our nature, is declared by our 
 Savior to be far inferior in value to a single soul. To one 
 accustomed to estimate every thing by a worldly standard, 
 this may appear, at first, a startling proposition. Yet even 
 such a man cannot withhold his assent, when he considers 
 the excellent nature of the soul itself, the eternity of existence 
 to which it is destined, and the surprising proofs of the esti- 
 mate at which it is held by higher intellects than ours. 
 
 As God pervades the universe, directing and controlling its 
 complicated operations; so the human soul, in a far lower 
 sphere, it is true, and with far inferior, yet similar powers, 
 rules with absolute dominion that tabernacle of clay in which 
 it dwells. Is God infinitely superior to the universe of matter 
 which he governs ? In like manner, though not in equal degree, 
 is the soul of man superior to the frame which it inhabits, and 
 to the kindred earth, from which that frame was formed. 
 
 The soul also contains within itself a principle of immortal- 
 ity, which adds immeasurably to its excellence. Every thing 
 else in our world is subject to decay. The fairest flower 
 must wither ; the tallest oak of the forest must waste away 
 and fall ; man's own body must sink into the grave, and return 
 to its kindred dust ; the proudest palace that his hands have 
 built, must crumble into ruins ; the fame which we vainly call 
 immortal, must fade and be forgotten; the earth itself must 
 cease its revolutions, and perish in the final conflagration. But 
 the soul, more noble, more excellent than all, shall never die ; 
 ignorant of decay, it shall live on throughout the boundless 
 ages of eternity ! 
 
 Why is it that the hosts of heaven continue still to bend an 
 attentive eye on this far distant planet? Is it to mark with 
 what precise exactness it accomplishes its days and months and 
 years ? Is it to observe the dreary stillness that pervades its 
 depopulated regions, or contemplate the hue of universal death 
 that has gathered on its aspect, and deformed its beauties? 
 No; it is an object of still greater interest that attracts their 
 eager gaze ; it is that single soul, more valuable in itself than 
 
130 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 all that earth possesses of beauty and of grandeur, which 
 causes them to stoop from their exalted thrones in fixed atten- 
 tion. That soul repents ; it casts its load of unshared misery, 
 the intolerable burden of unpardoned sin, at the foot of the 
 cross; it receives the promised rest; immediately there is joy 
 in the celestial courts ; a new emotion of delight pervades the 
 bosoms of the heavenly host, from the lowest scale of angelic 
 being to Gabriel who standeth in the presence of God. What, 
 then, must be the value of that soul whose progress can attract 
 the scrutiny of angels ; whose safety can create a jubilee in 
 heaven ! GEirriN. 
 
 LESSON XLVIII. 
 
 PROMISES or RELIGION TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 In every part of Scripture, it is remarkable with what singu- 
 lar tenderness the season of youth is always mentioned, and 
 what hopes are afforded to the devotion of the young. It is 
 to that age, that some of the most direct promises are addressed, 
 and of individuals of that age, much interesting incident is re- 
 corded. It was at that age, that God visited the infant Samuel, 
 while he ministered in the temple of the Lord, "in days when 
 the word of the Lord was precious, and when there was no 
 open vision." It was at that age, that his spirit fell upon 
 David, while he was yet the youngest of his father's sons, 
 and wheij among the mountains of BethleHem, he fed his 
 father's sheep. 
 
 It was at that age, also, " that they brought young children 
 unto Christ, that he should touch them : and his disbiples 
 rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he 
 was much displeased and said to them. Suffer little children 
 to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the 
 kingdom of Heaven." If these, then, are the effects and 
 promises of youthful piety, rejoice, young man, ia thy youth ! 
 Rejoice in those days which are never to return, wheii religion 
 comes to thee in all its charms, and when the God of nature 
 reveals himself to thy soul, like the mild radiance of the morn- 
 ing sun, when he rises amid the blessings of a grateful world 
 
 If already devotion hath taught thee her secret pleasures ; if 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 131 
 
 when nature meets thee in all its magnificence or beauty, thy 
 heart humbleth itself in adoratjbn before the hand which made 
 it, and rejoiceth in the contemplation of the wisdom by which it 
 is maintained; if, when revelation unvails her mercies, and the 
 Son of God comes forth to give peace and hope to fallen man, 
 thine eye follows with astonishment the glories of his path, and 
 pours at last over his cross those pious tears which it is a de- 
 light to shed ; if thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over 
 the grave, and entereth on the wings of faith into that heaven 
 "where he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on High," 
 and seeth the "society of angels and of the spirits of just men 
 made perfect," and listeneth to the " everlasting song which is 
 sung before the throne ;" if such are,the meditations in which 
 thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, for all that life 
 can offer thee in exchange, these solitary joys. 
 
 The world which is before thee, the world which thine imagi- 
 nation painte.i^ such brightness, has no pleasures to bestow 
 that can compare with these. And all that its boasted wisdom 
 can produce, has^thing so acceptable in the sight of Heaven, 
 as this pure offeripg of thy soul. In these days, " the Lord 
 himself is thy shepherd, and thou dost not want. Amid the 
 green pastures, and by the stiU waters" of youth, he now 
 makes " thy soul to repose." 
 
 But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its trials; 
 the evil days are on the wing, when " thou shalt say thou hast no 
 pleasure in them ;" and, as thy steps advance, " the valley of 
 the shadow of death opens," through which thou must pass at 
 last. It is then thou shalt know what it is to " remember thy 
 Creator in the days of thy youth." In these days of trial or 
 of awe, "his Spirit shall be with you," and thou shalt fear no 
 ill ; and, amid every evil which surrounds you, " he shall re- 
 store thy soul. His goodness and mercy shall follow thee all 
 the days of thy life;" and when at last the " silver cord is loosed, 
 thy spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt 
 dwell m the house of the Lord for ever." Arisosr. 
 
132 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON XLIX. 
 
 INVITATION TO THE 'VOUNG. 
 
 Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. 
 While the evil days come not, 
 Nor the years draw nigh, 
 
 When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them. 
 While the sun, or the light, 
 Or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened. 
 Nor the clouds return after a rain : 
 
 In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble. 
 And the strong men shall bow themselves. 
 And the grinuers shall cease because they are few. 
 And \^hose that look out of the windows be darkened ; ^ 
 And the doors shall be shut in the streets, 
 When the sound of the grinding is low, 
 And he shall rise up at the voice of the bird. 
 And all the daughters of music shall be brought low. 
 
 Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, 
 And fears shall be in the way, 
 And the alni^nd tree shall flourish. 
 And the grasshopper shall be a burden. 
 And desire shall fail : because man goeth to his long home 
 And the mourners go about the streets. 
 
 Or ever the silver cord be loosed. 
 Or the golden bowl be broken. 
 Or the pitcher be broken at the fountain. 
 Or the wheel broken at the cistern. 
 Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was. 
 And the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. 
 
 ECCLESIASTES. 
 
 " They that seek me early shall find me.'' 
 Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest. 
 
 Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery rtiaze, 
 Come, while the resstless heart is bounding lightest. 
 
 And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways; 
 Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer-buds unfolding, 
 
 Waken rich feelings in the careless breast. 
 While yet thy hand the ephfemeral wreath is holding. 
 
 Come, and secure interminable rest. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 133 
 
 Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, 
 
 A.n(i thy free hJfoyancy of soul be flown ; 
 Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover 
 
 Will to the embraces of the worm have gone ; 
 Those who now love thee, will have passed forever 
 
 Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee ; 
 Thou v^ilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever. 
 
 As thy sick heart bloods over years to be. 
 
 Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing. 
 
 Ere the dim phaSioms thou art chasing, die ; 
 Ere th^ gay s^ll which earth is round thee throwing, 
 
 Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky : 
 Life hath but shadows, save a promise given. 
 
 Which lights the future with a fadeless ray ; 
 Oh, touch the scepter ! win a hope in heaven ; 
 
 Come, turn thy spirit from the world away ! 
 
 Then will the crosses of this brief, existence 
 
 Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul. 
 And shining brightly in the forward distance. 
 
 Will of thy patient race appear the ^6al :^ 
 Home of the weary ! where in peace reposing. 
 
 The spirit lirfgers in unclouded blis'^ 
 Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing ; 
 
 Who would not, early, choose a lot like this ? 
 
 W. G. Clahk. 
 
 LESSON L. 
 prisoner's evening service. 
 
 A Scene nf the French Revolution. 
 Scene. Prison of the Litxembourg. 
 D'AuBiGifE, an aged royalist, and Blanche, his daughter. 
 Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms 
 I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. 
 Tell me the sentence. Could our judges look 
 Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? 
 Was there not mercy, father I Will they not 
 Restore us to our home ? 
 
 D'Auhigne. Yes, my poor child ! 
 They send us home. 
 
 B. Oh ! shall we gaze again 
 
 On the brieht Loire 1 Will the old hamlet spire, 
 
1 34 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And the gray turret of our own chateau, 
 
 Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms ? 
 
 Will the kind voices of our villagers, 
 
 The loving laughter in their children's eyes, 
 
 Welcome us back at last ? But how is this ? 
 
 Father ! thy glance is clouded ; on thy brow 
 
 There sits no joy ! 
 
 D'A. Upon my brow, dear girl, 
 There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace 
 As may befit the Christian, who receives 
 A.nd recognizes, in submissive awe, 
 The summons of his God. 
 
 B. Thou dost not mean — 
 No, no ! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say. 
 They sent us home ? 
 
 jyji. Where is the spirit's home ? 
 Oh ! most of all, in these dark, evil days. 
 Where should it be, but in that world serene, 
 Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power? 
 Where, but in heaven 1 
 
 B. My Father ! 
 
 D'A. We must die ! 
 We must look up to God, and calmly die. 
 Come to my heart, and weep there ! For awhile, 
 Give nature's passion way, then brightly rise 
 In the still courage of a woman's heart. 
 Do I not know thee ? Do I ask too much 
 From mine own noble Blanche? 
 
 B. Oh ! clasp me fast ! 
 Thy trembling child ! Hide, hide me in thine arms . 
 Father ! 
 
 D'A. Alas ! my flower, thou'rt young to go ; 
 Young, and so fair ! Yet were it worse, inethinks, 
 To leave thee where the gentle and the brave. 
 And they that love their God, have all been swept, 
 Like the sear leaves away. The soil is steeped 
 In noble blood, the temples are gone down ; 
 The sound of prayer is hushed, or fearfully 
 Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live ? 
 Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, 
 To quit forever the dishonored soil, 
 The burdened air 1 , Our God upon the cross, 
 Our king upon the scaffold ; let us think 
 Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts. 
 And bravely die ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 135 
 
 S. A dark and fearful way ! 
 
 An evil doom for thy dear honored head ! 
 
 Oh ! thou, the kind, and gracious ! whom all eyes 
 
 Blessed, as they looked upon ! Speak yet again ! 
 
 Say, will they part us ? 
 
 D'A. No, my Blanche ; in death 
 
 We shall not be divided. 
 B. Thanks to God I 
 
 He, by thy glance, will aid me. I shall see 
 
 His light before me to the last. And when — 
 
 Oh ! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child ! 
 
 When shall the hour befall ? 
 B'Jt. Oh ! swiftly now, 
 
 And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, 
 
 Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour 
 
 As yet I know not. Each low, throbbing pulse 
 
 Of the quick pendulum may usher in 
 
 Eternity. 
 £. My father ! lay thy hand 
 
 On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again 
 
 Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness, 
 
 Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul 
 
 Ere we are called. 
 D'.5. If I may speak through tears. 
 
 Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently, 
 
 Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on me 
 
 With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love ! 
 
 Thou that hast been a brightness in my path, 
 A guest of Heaven unto my lonely sou), 
 
 A stainless lily in my widowed house, 
 
 There springing up, with soft light round thee shed. 
 
 For immortalitj' ! Meek child of God ! 
 
 I bless thee ! He will bless thee ! In his love 
 
 He calls thee now from this rude, stormy world, 
 
 To thy Redeemer's breast. And thou wilt die, 
 
 As thou hast lived, my duteous, holy Blanche, 
 
 In trusting and serene submissiveness, 
 
 Humble, yet full of heaven. 
 
 S. Now is there strength 
 Infused through all my spirit. I can rise 
 And say, " Thy will he done !" 
 D'M. Seest thou, my child. 
 Yon faint light in the west ? The signal star , 
 Of our due evening service, gleaming in 
 Through the close dungeon grating? Mournfully 
 
136 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 It seems to quiver ; yet shall this night pass, 
 
 This night alone, without the lifted voice 
 
 Of adoration in our najrow cell, 
 
 As if unworthy fear, or wavering faith, 
 
 Silenced the strain ? No ! let it waft to Heaven 
 
 The prayer, the hope of poor mortality, 
 
 In its dark hour once more ! And we will sleep — 
 
 Yes — calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed. 
 
 Evening Hymn. 
 
 We see no more in thy pure skies, 
 
 How soft, O God ! the sunset dies : 
 
 How every colored hill and wood 
 
 Seems melting in the golden flood : 
 
 Yet, by the precious memories won 
 
 From bright hours now forever gone, 
 
 Father ! o'er all thy works, we know. 
 
 Thou still art shedding beauty's glow : 
 
 Still touching every cloud and tree 
 
 With glory, eloquent of Thee : 
 
 Still feeding all thy flowers with light. 
 
 Though man has barred it from our sight. 
 We know thou reign'st, the unchanging One, th' All Just ! 
 And bless thee still with free and boundless trust ! 
 
 We read no more, O God ! thy ways 
 
 On earth, in these wild, evil days ; 
 
 The red sword in th' oppressor's hand 
 
 Is ruler o'er the weeping land ; 
 
 Fallen are the faithful and the pure, 
 
 No shrine is spared, no hearth secure ; 
 
 Yet, by the deep voice from the past, 
 
 Which tells us these things cannot last ; 
 
 And by the hope which finds no ark. 
 
 Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark ; 
 
 We trust thee I As the sailor knows. 
 
 That, in its place of bright repose 
 
 His pole-star burns, though mist and oloud 
 
 May vail it with a midnight shroud. 
 We know thou reign'st ! All Holy One, All Just ! 
 And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust. 
 
 We feel no more that aid is nigh. 
 When our faint hearts within us die. 
 We suffer ; and we know our doom 
 Must be one suffering till the tomb. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. ' 137 
 
 Yet, by the anguish of thy Son 
 
 When his last hour came darkly on ; 
 
 By his dread cry, the air which rent 
 
 In terror of abandonment ; 
 
 And by his parting word, which rose, 
 
 Through faith, victorious o'er all woes ; 
 
 We know that thou may'st wound, may'st break 
 
 The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake. 
 
 Sad suppliants, whom our brethren spurn, 
 
 In our deep need to thee we turn ! 
 To whom but thee ? All Merciful, All Just ! 
 In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust. 
 
 Mas. Hbiuaks. 
 
 LESSON LI. 
 
 GOOD SENSE AND BEAUTY. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lessons of moralists, and thedeclama 
 rions of philosophers, it cannot be denied that all mankind have 
 a natural love, and even respect, for external beauty. In vain 
 do they^ represent it as a thing of no value iri itself, as a frail 
 and pgrjihable flower ; in vain do they exhaust all the depths 
 of argument, all the stories of fancy, to prove the worthlessness 
 of this amiable gift of nature. However persuasive their rea- 
 sonings may appear, and however we may, for a time, fancy 
 ourselves convinced by them, we have in our breasts a certain 
 instinct, which never fails to tell us, that all is not satisfactory ; 
 and though we may not be able to prove that they are wrong, 
 we feal a convictionthat it is impossible they should be right. 
 
 They are certainly right in blaming those, who are rendered 
 vain by the possession of beauty, since vanity is, at all times, a 
 fault. But there is a great difference between being vain of 
 a thing, and being happy that we have it ; and that beauty, 
 however little merit a woman can claim to herself for it, is 
 really a quality which she may reasonably rejoice to possess, 
 demands, I think, no vei-y labored proof. Every one naturally 
 wishes to please. To this end we know how important it is, 
 that the first impression we produce should be favorable. 
 
 Now, this first impression is commonly produced through the 
 medium of the eye ; and this is frequently so powerful as to 
 13 
 
138 ' YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 resist, tor a long time, the opposing evidence of subsequen 
 observation. Let a man of even the soundest judgment be pre- 
 Bsnted to two women, equally strangers to him, but the one ex- 
 h-emely handsome, the other without any remarkable advan- 
 tages of person, and he will, without deliberation, attach himself 
 first to the former. All men seem in this to be actuated by the 
 same principle as Socrates, who used to say when he saw a 
 beautiful person, he always expected to see it animated by a 
 beautiful soul. 
 
 The ladies, however, often fall into the fatal error of imagin- 
 ing that a fine person is, in our eyes, superior to every other 
 accomplishment ; and those, who are so happy as to be endow- 
 ed with it, rely with vain confidence on its irresistible power to 
 retain hearts, as well as to subdue them. Hence the lavish 
 care bestowed on the improvement of exterior and perishable 
 charms, and the neglect of solid and durable excellence ; hence 
 the long list of arts that administer to vanity and folly, the 
 countless train of glittering accomplishments, and the scanty 
 catalogue of truly valuable acquirements, which compose for the 
 most part, the modern system of fashionable female education. 
 Yet so far is beauty from being, in our eyes, an excuse for the 
 want of a cultivated mind, that the women who are blessed 
 with it, have, in reality, a much harder task to perform, than 
 those of their sex who are not so distinguished. Even out 
 self-love here takes part against them; we feel ashamed of 
 having suffered ourselves to be caught like children, by mere 
 outside, and perhaps even fall into the contrary extreme. 
 
 Could " the statue that enchants the world," — the Venus ds 
 Medicis, — at the prayer of some new Pygmalion, become* sud- 
 denly animated, how disappointed would he be, if she were not 
 endowed with a soul answerable to the inimitable perfection of 
 her heavenly form ! Thus it is with a fine woman, whose only 
 accomplishment is external excellence. She may dazzle for a 
 time ; but when a man has once thought, " What a pity that 
 such a masterpiece should be but a walking statue !" her em- 
 pire is at an end. On the other hand, when a woman, the plain- 
 ness of whose features prevented our noticing her at first, is found 
 upon nearer acquaintance, to be possessed of the more solid and 
 valuable perfections of the mind, the pleasure we feel in being so 
 agreeably undeceived, makes her appear to stiU greater advantage: 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 139 
 
 and as the min 1 of man, when left to itself, is naturally an enemy 
 to all injustice, we, even unknown to ourselves, strive to repair 
 the wrong we 1 ave involuntarily done her, by a double portion 
 of attention and regard. 
 
 If these observations be founded in truth, it will appear, that 
 though a woman with a cultivated mind may justly hope to 
 please, without even any superior advantages of person, the 
 loveliest creature that ever came from the hand of her Creator 
 can hope only for a transitory empire, unless she unite with 
 her beauty the more durable charm of intellectual excellence. 
 
 The favored child of nature, who combines in herself these 
 united perfections, may be justly considered as the masterpiece 
 of creation ; as the most perfect image of the Divinity here 
 below. Man, the proud lord of creation, bows willingly 
 his haughty neck beneath her gentle rule. Exalted, tender, 
 beneficent, is the love that she inspires. Even time himself 
 shall respect the all-powerful magic of her beauty. Her charms 
 may fade, but they shall never wither ; and memory still, in the 
 evening of life, hanging with fond affection over the blanched 
 rose, shall view through the vale of lapsed years, the tender bud, 
 the dawning promise, whose beauties once blushed before the 
 beams of the morning sun. Anosymocs. 
 
 LESSON LII. 
 
 ON CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Contentment produces, in some measure, all those effects 
 which are usually ascribed to what is called the philosopher's 
 stone ; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, 
 by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the dis- 
 quietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes 
 him easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the 
 soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related. 
 It extinguishes all murmuring, repining, and ingratitude towards 
 that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. 
 It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to cor- 
 ruption, with regard to ths community wherein he is placed 
 
140 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity 
 to all his thoughts. Among the many methods virhich might 
 be made use of for acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only 
 the two following. First of all, a man should always consider 
 how much he has, more than he wants ; and secondly, how 
 much more unhappy he might be than he really is. 
 
 First, a man should always consider how much he has, more 
 than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which 
 Aristippus made to one, who condoled with him upon the loss 
 of a farm: " Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and 
 you have but one ; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you, 
 than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are more apt 
 to consider what they have lost, than what they possess ; and 
 to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, 
 rather than on those who are under greater difficulties. AU the 
 rpal pleasures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; 
 but it is the humor of mankind to be always looking forward, 
 and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth 
 and honor. 
 
 For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who 
 have not more than they want, there are few rich men in any 
 of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, 
 who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more 
 wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher 
 rank, live in a kind of splendid poverty ; and are perpetually 
 wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures 
 of life, they endeavor to outvie one another in shadows and 
 appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a 
 great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over their 
 heads; and, by contracting their desires, they enjoy all that 
 secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The 
 truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures cannot 
 be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils 
 which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it 
 may, he is a poor man if he does not live within it; and 
 naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his 
 price. 
 
 When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who left him 
 a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king 
 of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness; but told him, he 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 141 
 
 had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In 
 short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty ; 
 or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, " Content is 
 natural wealth," says Socrates ; to which I shall add, luxury 
 is artificial poverty. I shall therefore recommend to the con- 
 sideration of those who are always aiming at superfluous and 
 imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble of 
 contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion, the phi- 
 losopher, namely, " That no man has so much care, as he 
 who endeaVors after the most happiness." 
 
 In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much 
 more unhappy he might be than he really is. The former 
 consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided 
 with the means to make themselves easy ; this regards such as 
 actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may 
 receive great alleviation, from such a comparison as the un- 
 happy person may make between himself and others; or 
 between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfor- 
 tunes which might have befallen him. I like the story of the 
 honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the 
 main-mast, told the standers by, it was a great mercy that it 
 was not his neck. To which, give me leave to add the saying 
 of an old philosopher, -who, after having invited some of his 
 friends to dine with him, was ruffled by a person that came into 
 the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood be- 
 fore him: "Every one," says he, "has his calamity; and he 
 is a happy man that has no greater than this." 
 
 I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there 
 never was any system, besides that of Christianity, which 
 could effectually produce in the mind of man, the virtue I have 
 been hitherto speaking of. In order to make us contented 
 with our condition, many of the present philosophers tell us, 
 that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being able to 
 make any alteration in our circumstances ; others, that whatever 
 evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which 
 superior beings themselves are subject; while others, very 
 gravely, tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary 
 he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the universe ; and 
 that the scheme of Providence would be troubled and pervert- 
 ed, were he otherwise. 
 
142 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy 
 a man. They may show him that his discontent is unreason 
 able, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They 
 rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might 
 reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend 
 who advised him not to grieve for the death of a person whom 
 he loved, because his grief could not fetch him back again : "It 
 is for that very reason," said the emperor, " that I grieve." On 
 the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to human 
 nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of 
 bettering his condition : nay, it shows him, that bearing his 
 afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the removal 
 of them. It makes him easy here, because it can make him 
 happy hereafter. Abdisow. 
 
 LESSON LIII. 
 
 SELECT PARAGRAPHS. 
 
 Cheerfulness. 
 
 Fair gualdlan of domestic life! 
 
 Kind bani^er of home-bred strife ! 
 
 Nor sullen lip, nor trembling eye, 
 
 Defojfms the scene, when thou art by : 
 
 No sickening' husband mourns the hour 
 
 Which bound his joys to female power ; 
 
 No pinfhg mother weeps the cares 
 
 Which parents waste on thankless heirs ; 
 
 The ready daughters, pleased attend ; 
 
 The brother adds the name of friend ; 
 
 By thee with flowers their board is crowned ; 
 
 With songs from thee their walks resouiid ; 
 
 The morn with welcome luster shines ; 
 
 And evening unperceived declines. Akekside 
 
 Content. 
 Content ! the good, the golden mean, 
 The safe estate that sits between 
 The sordid poor and miserable great. 
 The humble tenant of a rural seat ! 
 
YOUNG LABiES' READER. 145 
 
 In vain we wealth and treasure heap ; 
 He 'mid his thousand kingdoms still is poor, 
 
 That for another crown does weep ; 
 'Tis only he is rich, that wishes for no more. 
 
 ANOS"TMtti»S. 
 
 Gayety. 
 
 Whom call we gay ■? that honor has oeen 'jong 
 The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
 The innocent are gay. The lark is gay, 
 That dries his feathers, saturate with dew. 
 Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams 
 Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. 
 The peasant, too, a witness of his song. 
 Himself a songster, is as gay as he. 
 But save me from the gayety of those. 
 Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed ; 
 And save me, too, from theirs, whose haggard eyes 
 Flash desperation, and betray their pangs 
 For property stripped off by cruel chance : 
 From gayety, that fills the bones with pain. 
 The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. 
 
 COWPEK. 
 
 Hope, 
 Primeval Hope! the Aonian Muses say, 
 When man and nature mourned their first decay ; 
 When every form of death, and every woe, 
 Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; 
 When Murder bared her arm, and rampant war 
 Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ; 
 When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain. 
 Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again ; 
 All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind. 
 But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. 
 
 Cakpbeli 
 
 Fortitude. 
 Be hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns 
 
 When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
 Be strong as the rock of the ocean, that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore. 
 Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, 
 
 May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate, 
 Yea, even the name I have worshiped in vain ^ 
 Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again : 
 
 To hear is to conquer our fate. Campbell 
 
144 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Perseverance. 
 
 Vigor from toil, from trouble patience grows. 
 
 The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower. 
 Some tints of transient beauty may disclose, 
 
 But, ah ! it withers in the chilling hour. 
 Mark yonder oaks ! Superior to the power 
 
 Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, 
 And from the stormy promontory tower. 
 
 And toss their giant arms amid the skies. 
 While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies. 
 
 Beattib 
 
 LESSON LIV. 
 
 THE ftUIET MIND. 
 
 Though low my lot, my wish is won, 
 
 My hopes are few and staid. 
 All I thought life would do, is done. 
 
 The last requ^t is made. 
 If I have fods, no foes I fear. 
 
 To God I live resignted'i 
 I have a friend, I value here. 
 
 And that's a quiet mind. 
 
 1 wish not it were mine to wear 
 
 Flushed honor's sunny crown ; ^ 
 I wish not I were Fortune's heii^ 
 
 She frowns, and let her frown. 
 I have no taste for pomp and strife, 
 
 Which others love to find : 
 I only wish the blis^ of life, 
 
 A meek and quiet mind 
 
 The trumpet's taunt in battle-field. 
 
 The great man's pedfg^eS, 
 What peace can all their honors yield ' 
 
 And what are they to me ? 
 Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife, 
 
 Rave like a mighty wind ; 
 What are they to the calm of life, 
 
 A still and quiet mind % 
 
 I see the world pass heedless by, 
 And pride above me tower; 
 
OUNG LADIES' READER. 146 
 
 It costs me not a single sigh 
 
 For either wealth or power ; 
 They are hut men, and I'm a man 
 
 Of quite as great a kind, 
 Proud, too, that life gives all she can, 
 
 A calm and quiet mind. 
 
 And come what will of care or woe, 
 
 As some must come to all, 
 I'll wish not that they were not so. 
 
 Nor mourn that they befall : 
 If tears for sorrow start at will. 
 
 They're comforts in their kind ; 
 And I am blest, if with me still 
 
 Remains a quiet mind. 
 
 When friends depart, as part we must, 
 
 And love's true joys decay. 
 That leave us like the summer dust. 
 
 Which whirlwinds puff away. 
 While life's allotted time I brave. 
 
 Though left the last behind ; 
 A prop and friend I still shall have, 
 
 If I've a quiet mind. Johit Ciahe. 
 
 LESSON LV. 
 
 ON POLITENESS. 
 
 Politeness is the just medium between form and rudeness. 
 It is the consequence of a benevolent nature, which shows 
 itself to general acquaintance in an obliging, unconistrained 
 civility, as it does to more particular ones in distinguished acts 
 of kindness. This good nature must be directed by a justness 
 of sense, and a quickness of disceteraent, that knows how to 
 use every opportunity of exercising it, and to proportion the 
 instances of it to every character and situation. It is a restraint 
 laid by reason and benevolence upon every irregularity of the 
 temper, which, in obedience to them, is forced to accommodate 
 itself even to the fantastic cares, which custom and fashion 
 have established, if, by these means, it can procure, in any 
 degree, the satisfaction or good opinion of any part of man 
 13 
 
146 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 kind; thus paying an obliging deference to their judgment, so 
 far as it is not inconsistent with the higher obligations of virtue 
 and religion. 
 
 This must be accompanied with an elegance of taste, and a 
 delicacy observant of the least trifles, which tend to please or 
 to oblige ; and, though its foundation must be rooted in the 
 heart, it can scarce be perfect without a complete knowledge of 
 the world. In society, it is the medium that blends all difierent 
 tempers into the most pleasing harmony; while it imposes 
 sUeuce on the loquacious, and inclines the most reserved to 
 furnish their share of the conversation. It represses the desire 
 of shining alone, and increases the desire of being mutually 
 agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy 
 to wit. 
 
 To superiors, it appears in a respectful freedom. No great- 
 ness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink it into 
 a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself in an 
 unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, not 
 to let you down to them. It at once maintains the dignity of 
 your station, and expresses the goodness of your heart. To 
 equals, it is every thing that is charming ; it studies their in- 
 clinations, prevents their desires, attends to every little exact- 
 ness of behavior, and all the time appears perfectly disengaged 
 and careless. 
 
 Such and so amiable is true politeness ; by people of wrong 
 heads and unworthy hearts, disgraced in its two extremes ; and, 
 by the generality of mankind, confined within the narrow 
 bounds of mere good breeding, which, in truth, is only one 
 instance of it. 
 
 There is a kind of character, which does not, in the least, 
 deserve to be reckoned polite, though it is exact in every 
 punctilio of behavior ; such as would not, for the world, omit 
 paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the least circum- 
 stance of decorum. But then these people do this merely 
 for their own sake : whether you are pleased or embarrassed 
 with it, is little of their care. They have performed their 
 own parts, and are satisfied. Miss Talbot. 
 
YOU^G LADIES' READER. 147 
 
 LESSON LVI. 
 
 ON CONVERSATION. 
 
 Though Nature weigh our talents, and dispense 
 To every man liis modicum of sense, 
 And conversation, in its better part. 
 May be esteemed a gift, and not an art, 
 Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil, 
 On culture and the sowing of the soil. 
 Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse. 
 But talking is not always to converse ; 
 Not more distinct from harmony divine. 
 The constant creaking of a country sign. 
 
 Ye powers, who rule the tongue, — if such there are, — 
 
 And make colloquial happiness your care, 
 
 Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
 
 A duel in the form of a debate. 
 
 Vociferated logic kills me quite ; 
 
 A noisy man is always in the right ; 
 
 I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 
 
 Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare. 
 
 And, when I hope his blunders are all out, 
 
 Reply discreetly ; " To be sure, no doubt !" 
 
 ■. . ^. " 
 
 JDubius is such a scrupulous, good man ; 
 
 Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. 
 
 He would not, with a peremptory tone. 
 
 Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 
 
 With hesitation admirably slow, 
 
 He humbly hopes, presumes, it may be so. 
 
 His evidence, if he were called by law 
 
 To swear to some enormity he savp. 
 
 For want of prominence and just relief, 
 
 Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 
 
 Through constant dread of giving truth oifense, 
 
 He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 
 
 Knows what he knows as if he knew it not ; 
 
 What he remembers seems to have forgot ; 
 
 His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall. 
 
 Centering, at last, in having none at all. 
 
 A story, in which native humor reigns, 
 Is often useful, always entertains : 
 A graver fact, enlisted on your side. 
 May furnish illustration, well applied ; 
 
548 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 But sedentary weavers of long tales 
 
 Give lUP th« fidgets, and my patience fails. 
 
 'Tis the most asinine employ on earth, 
 
 To hear them tell of parentage and birth, 
 
 4nd echo conversations, dull and dry, 
 
 Embellished with, " He said," and " So said I." 
 
 A.t every interview their route the same, 
 
 The repetition makes attention lame : 
 
 We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed, 
 
 And, in the saddest part, cry, " Droll indeed !" 
 
 I pity bashful men, who feel the pain 
 Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain. 
 And bear the marks, upon a blushing face. 
 Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace. 
 Our sensibilities are so acute. 
 The fear of being silent makes us route. 
 True modesty is a discerning grace, 
 And only blushes in the proper place ; 
 But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear. 
 Where "tis a shame to he ashamed t' appear; 
 Humility the parent of the first. 
 The last by vanity produced and nursed. 
 
 The circle formed, we sit in silent state. 
 Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate ; 
 " Yes, ma'am," and " No, ma'am," uttered softly, show, 
 Ev'ry five minutes, how the minutes go ; 
 Each individual, suffering a constraint 
 Poetry may, but colors cannot paint. 
 As if in close committee on the sky. 
 Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 
 And finds a changing clime a happy source 
 Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. 
 We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth. 
 Like conservators of the public health, 
 Of epidemic throats, if such there are, 
 And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh. 
 That theme exhausted, a wide gap ensues. 
 Filled up, at last, with interesting news. 
 
 And now, let no man charge me that I mean 
 To clothe in sable every social scene ; 
 To find a medium asks some share of wit. 
 And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. Cowpeb. 
 
yOUNG LADIES' READER. 149 
 
 LESSON LVII. 
 
 ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE. 
 
 Good people all, with one accord, 
 
 Lamfent for Madam Blaize ; 
 Who never wanted a good word — 
 
 From those who spoke her praise. 
 
 The needy seldom passed her door, 
 
 And always found her kind ; 
 She freely lent to all the poor — 
 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighborhood to please 
 
 With manner wondrous wirming ; 
 And never followed wicked ways — 
 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silks and satins new. 
 
 With hoop of moifetrous size, 
 She never slurmiered in her pew — 
 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver. 
 
 By twenty beaux, and more ; 
 The king himself has followed her — 
 
 When she has walked before. 
 
 But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
 
 Her hangers-on cut short all, 
 Her doctors foijnd, when she was dead — 
 
 Her last disorder morlal. 
 
 Let us lament, in sorrow sore ; 
 
 For Kent-Street well may say, 
 That, had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
 
 She had not died to-day. GoinsitiTH. 
 
 LESSON LVIII. 
 
 THE COTTAGE OF MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man ; and he had been a poor 
 man all the days of his life, which were not few, for his thin 
 
150 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 hair was now waxing gray. He had been born and bred on 
 the small moorland farm which he now occupied ; and he 
 hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather had done 
 before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants 
 of this world. Labor, hard and unremitting, had been his lot 
 m life ; but although sometimes severely tried, he had never 
 repined ; and through all the mist, and gloom, and even the 
 etorms, that had assailed him, he had lived on, from year to 
 year, in that calm and resided contentment, which uncon- 
 sciously cheers the hearth-stone of the blameless poor. 
 
 With his own hand he had plowed, sowed, and reaped 
 liis often scanty harvest ; assisted, as they grew up, by three 
 eons, who, even in boyhood, were happy to work along with 
 their father in the fields. Out of doors, or in, Gilbert Ainslie 
 was never idle. The spade, the shears, the plow-shaft, the 
 sickle, and the flail, all' came readily to hands that grasped them 
 well; and not a morsel of food was eaten under his roof, or a 
 garment worn there, that was not honestly, severely, and nobly 
 earned. GUbert Ainslie was a slave, but it was for them he 
 loved with a sober and deep affection. The thralldom under 
 which he lived, God had imposed, and it only served to give 
 his character a shade of silent gravity, but not aust6:ity ; to make 
 his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt ; to calm his soul at grace, 
 before and after meals; and to kindle it in morning and 
 evening prayer. 
 
 There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a 
 man. Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal, her 
 heaven was in her house ; and her gentler and weaker hands 
 helped to bar the door against want. Of ten children that 
 had been born to them, they had lost three ; and, as they had 
 fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they give 
 those who died a respectable funeral. The living did not 
 grudge to give up, for a while, some of their daily comforts, for 
 the sake of the dead ; and bought with the little sums, which 
 their industry had saved, decent mournings, worn on Sabbath, 
 and then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two 
 sons were farm-servants in the neighborhood, while three 
 daughters aiid two sons remained at home, growing, or gi-own 
 up, a small, happy, hard-working household. 
 
 Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, and 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 151 
 
 many such humble and virtuous cottagers as were now beneath 
 its roof of straw. The eye of the passing traveler may mark 
 them, or mark them not, but they stand peacefully, in thousands, 
 over all the land ; and most beautiful do they make it, through 
 all its wide valleys and narrow glens; its low holms, encircled 
 by the rocky walls of some bonny burn ; its green mounts, 
 elated with their little crowning groves of plane trees ; its yel- 
 low corn-fields ; its bare pastoral hiU-sides ; and all its heathy 
 moors, on whose black bosom lie, shining or concealed, glades 
 of excessive verdure, inhabited by flowers, and visited only by 
 the far-flying bees. 
 
 Moss-side was not beautiful to a careless or hasty eye ; but 
 when looked on and surveyed, it seemed a pleasant dwelling. 
 Its roof, overgrown with grass and moss, was almost as green 
 as the ground out of which its weather-stained walls appeared 
 to grow. The moss behind it was separated from a little gar- 
 den by a narrow slip of ardlsle land, the dark color of which 
 showed that it had been won from the wild by patient industry, 
 and by patient industry retained. It required a bright, sunny 
 day to make Moss-side fair ; but then it was fair indeed ; and 
 when the little brown moor-land birds were singing their short 
 songs among the rushes and the heafiier, or a lark, lui'ed thither, 
 perhaps, by some green barley-field, for its undisturbed nest, rose 
 ringing all over the enlivened solitude, the little bleak farm 
 smiled like the paradise of poverty, sad and aflfecting in its 
 lone and extreme simplicity. 
 
 The boys and girls had made some plofe of flowers among 
 the vegetables that the little garden supplied for their homely 
 meals ; pinks and carnations, brought from walled gardens of 
 rich men further down in the cultivated strath, grew here with 
 somewhat diminished luster ; a bright show of tulips had a 
 strange beauty in the midst of that moor-land ; and the smell 
 of roses mixed well with that of the clover, the beautiful, fair 
 clover, that loves the soil and the air of Scotland, and gives 
 the rich and balmy milk to the poor man's lips. 
 
 In this cottage, Gilbert's youngest child, a girl about nine 
 years of age, had been lying, for a week, in a fever. It was 
 now Saturday evening, and the ninth day of the disease. Was 
 she to live or die? It seemed as if a very few hours were 
 between the innocent creature and Heaven. All the symptdms 
 
152 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 were those of approaching death. The parents knew well the 
 change that comes over the human face, whether it be in infdncy, 
 youth, or priihe, just before the departure of the spirit ; and 
 as they stood together by Margaret's bed, it seemed to them 
 that the fatal shadow had fallen upon her features. 
 
 The surgeon of the parish lived some miles distant, but they 
 expected him now every moment, and many a wistful look was 
 directed by tearful eyes along the nioOr. The daughter, who 
 was out at service, came anxiously home on this night, the 
 only one that could be allowed her, for the poor must work in 
 their grief, and hired servants must do their duty to those 
 whose bread they eat, even when nature is sick, sick at heart. 
 Another of the daughters came in from the potato-field beyond 
 the brste, with what was to be their frugal supper. The calm, 
 noiseless spirit of life was in and around the house, while death 
 seemed dealing with one who, a few days ago, was like light 
 upon the floor, and like the sound of music, that always breathed 
 up when most wanted ; glad and joyous in common talk ; sweet, 
 silvery, and mournful, when it joined in hymn or psalm. 
 
 One after the other, they all continued going up to the bed- 
 side,^ and then coming away sobbing or silent, to see their 
 meiry litfle sister, who used to keep dancing all day like a 
 butterfly in a meadow field, or like a butterfly with shut wings 
 on a flower, trifling for a while in the silenc^ of her joy, now 
 tossing restlessly on her bed, and scarcely sensible to the words 
 of endearment whispered around her, or the kisses dropt with 
 tears, in spite of themselves, on her burning forehead. 
 
 Utter poverty often kills the affections ; but a deep, constant, 
 and common feeling of this world's hardships, and an equal 
 ^participation in all those struggles by which they may be soft- 
 ened, unite husband and wife, parents and children, brothers 
 and sisters, in thoughtful and subdued tenderness, making them 
 happy indeed while the circle round the fire is unbroken, and 
 yet preparing them every day to bear the separation, when 
 some one or other is taken slowly or suddenly away. Their 
 souls are not moved by fits and starts, although, indeed, nature 
 sometimes will wrestle with necessity; and there is a wise 
 moderation both in the joy and the grief of the intelligent poor, 
 which keeps lasting trouble away from their earthly lot, and 
 prepares them silently and unconsciously for Heaven. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 153 
 
 " Do you think the child is dying ?" said Gilbert, with a 
 calm voice, to the surgeon, who, on his wearied horse, had 
 just arrived from another sick-bed, over the misty range of 
 hiUs, and had been looking steadfastly for some minutes on 
 the little patient. The humane man knew the family well, in 
 the midst of whom he was standing, and replied, " While 
 there is life there is hope ; but my pretty little Margaret is, 1 
 fear, in the last extrethity." There was no loud lamentation 
 at these words ; all had before known, though they would not 
 confess it to themselves, what they now were told ; and 
 though the certainty that was in the words of the skiUful man, 
 made their hearts beat, for a little, with sicker throbbings, made 
 their pale faces paler, and brought out from some eyes a greater 
 gush of tears ; yet death had been before in this house, and in 
 this case he came, as he always does, in awe, but not in terror, 
 ,- There were wandering, and wavering, and dreamy, delirioiis 
 fantasies in the brain of the innocent child ; but the few words 
 she indistinctly uttered were affecting, not rending to the heart, 
 for it was plain that she thought herself herding her sheep in 
 the green, silent pastures, and sitting wrapped in her plaid upon 
 the sunny side of the Birk-knowe. She was too much ex- 
 hausted, there was too little life, too little breath in her heart, 
 to frame a tune ; but some of her words seemed to be from 
 favorite old songs ; and at last her mother wept, and turned 
 aside her face, when the child, whose blue eyes were shut, and 
 her lips almost still, breathed out these lines of the beautiful 
 twenty-third psalm : 
 
 The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want: 
 
 He makes me down to lie 
 In pastures green : he leadeth me 
 
 The quiet waters by. 
 
 The child was now left with none but her mother by the 
 bed-side, for it was said to be best so ; and GUbert and his 
 family sat down round the kitchen fire, for a while, in silence. 
 In about a quarter of an hour, they began to rise calmly, and to 
 go each to his allotted work. One of the daughters went forth 
 with the pail to milk the cow, and another began to set out the 
 table in the middle of the floor for supper, covering it with a 
 white cloth. Gilbert viewed the usual household arrangements 
 
154 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 with a solemn and untroubled eye ; and there was almost the 
 faint light of a grateful smile on his cheek, as he said to the 
 worthy surgeon, "You will partake of our fare after your 
 day's travel and toil of humanitj^." 
 
 In a short, silent half hour, the potatoes and oat-cakes, 
 butter and milk, were on the board ; and Gilbert, lifting up 
 his toil-hardened, but manly hand, with a slow motion, at 
 which the room was as hushed as if it had been empty, closed 
 ills eyes in reverence, and asked a blessing. There was a 
 litde stool, on which nps one sat, by the old man's side. It had 
 been put there unwittiiigly, when the other seats were all 
 placed in their usual order; but the golden head, that was wont 
 to rise at that part of the table, was now wanting. There was 
 silence; not a word was said; their meal was before them; 
 God had been thanlied, and they began eat. j. Wiisos 
 
 LESSON LIX. 
 
 THE SAME, CONCLUDED. 
 
 While they were at their silent meal, a horseman came gal- 
 loping to the door, and, with a loud voice, called out that he 
 had been sent express with a letter to Gilbert Ainslie ; at the 
 same time rudely, and with an oath, demanding a dram for his 
 trouble. The eldest son, a lad of eighteen, fiercely seized the 
 bridle of his horse, and turned his head away from the door. 
 The rider, somewhat alarmed at the flushed face of the power- 
 ful stripling, threw down the letter, and rode off. 
 
 Gilbert took the^letterfrom his son's hand, casting, at the same 
 time, a half upbraifeg look on his face, that was returning to 
 its former color. " I feared," said the youth, with a tear in 
 his eye, " I feared that the brute's voice and the trampling of 
 the horse's feet would have disturbed her." Gilbert held the 
 letter hesitatingly in his hand, as if afraid, at that moment, to 
 read it; at length, he said aloud to the surgeon : " You know 
 that I am a poor man, and debt, if justly incur?ed, and punctu- 
 ally paid when due, is no dishonor." Both his hand and his 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 155 
 
 voice shook slightly as he spoke ; but he opened the letter from 
 the lawyer, and read it in silence. 
 
 At this moment his wife came from her child's bed-side, and 
 looking anxiously at her husband, told him "not to mind about 
 the money, ihat no man, who knew him, would arrest his 
 goods, or put him into prison. ^ Though, dear me, it is cruel to 
 be put to it thus, when our bairn* is dying, when, if so it be 
 the Lord's will, she should have a decent burial, poor innocent, 
 .ike them that went before her." Gilbert continued reading 
 the letter with a face on which no emotion could be discovered ; 
 and then, folding it up, he gave it to his wife, told her she 
 might read it if she chose and then put it into his desk in the 
 room, beside the poor deai bairn. She took it from him, with- 
 out reading it, and crushed it into her bosom; for she turned 
 her ear toward her child, and, thinking she heard it Stir, ran 
 out hastily to its bed-side. 
 
 Another hour of trial passed, and the child was still swim- 
 ming for its life. The very dogs knew there was grief in the 
 house, and lay without stirring, as if hiding themselves, below 
 the long table at the window. One sister sat with an unfinish- 
 ed gown on her knees, that she had been sewingt for the dear 
 child, and still continued at the hopeless work, she scarcely 
 knew why ; and often, often, puttiog up her hand to wipe away 
 a tear. " What is that ?" said the old man to his eldest daugh- 
 ter : "What is that you are laying on the shelf?" She could 
 scarcely reply that it was a ribbon and an ivory comb that she 
 had brought for little Margaret, against the night of the dancing- 
 school ball. 
 
 And, at these words, the father could not restrain a longj 
 deep, and bitter groan ; at which the boy, nearest in age to his 
 dying sister, looked up, weeping in his face, and letting the 
 tattered book of old ballads, which he had been poring on, 
 but not reading, fall out of his hand, he rose from his seat, and, 
 going into his father's bosom, kissed him, and asked God to 
 bless him ; for the holy heart of the boy was moved within 
 him ; and the old man, as he embraced him, felt that, in his 
 innocence and simplicity, he was indeed a comforter. " The 
 Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," said the old man ; 
 "blessed be the name of the Lord," 
 
 •Child. tPron. sowing. 
 
156 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The outer door gently opened, and he, whose presence had, 
 in former years, brought peace and resignation hither, when 
 their hearts had been tried, even as they now were tried, 
 stood before them. On the night before the Sabbath, the min- 
 ister of Auchindown never left his Mailse,* except as now, to 
 visit the sick or dying bed. Scarcely could Gilbert reply to 
 his first question about his child, when the surgeon came from 
 the bed-room, and said, "Margaret seems lifted up by God's 
 hand above death and the grave: I think she will recover. 
 She has fallen asleep ; and when she wakes, I hope, I believe, 
 .that the danger wiU be past, and that your child will hve." 
 
 They were all prepared for death; but now they were 
 found unprepared for life. One wept that had till then locked 
 up all her tears within her heart; another gave a short pal- 
 pitating shriek ; and the tender-hearted Isabel, who had nursed 
 the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The youngest 
 brother gave way to gladsome smiles ; and calling out his dog 
 Hector, who used to sport with him and his little sister on the 
 moor, he told the tidings to the dumb, irrational creature, 
 whose eyes, it is certain, sparkled with a sort of joy. 
 
 The clock, for some days, had been prevented from striking 
 the hours ; but the silent fingers pointed to the hour of nine ; 
 and that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour 
 of family worsjiip. His own honored minister took the book: 
 He waled a portion with judicious care : 
 And let us worship God, he said, with solemn air. 
 A chapter was read ; a prayer said ; and so, too, was sung a 
 psalm; but it was sung low, and with suppressed voices, lest 
 the child's saving sleep might be broken ; and now and then, 
 the female voices trembled, or some one of them ceased alto- 
 gether : for there had been tribulation and anguish, and now 
 hope and faith were tried in the joy of thanksgiving. 
 
 The child still slept; and its sleep seemed more sound and 
 deep. It appeared almost certain that the crisis was over, and 
 that the flower was not to fade. "Children," said Gilbert, 
 "our happiness is in the love we bear to one another; and our 
 duty is in submitting to, and serving God. Gracious, indeed, 
 has he been unto us. Is not the recovery of our little, darHngi 
 dancing, singing Margaret, worth all the gold that ever was 
 
 *Mamse, the parsonage, or iniiiisler's house. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 157 
 
 mined ? If we had had thousands of thousands, would we not 
 have filled up her grave with the worthless dross of gold, rather 
 than that she should have gone down there, with her sweet 
 face, and all her rosy smiles?" There was no reply, but a 
 joyful sobbing all over the room. 
 
 "Never mind the letter, nor the debt, father," said the eldest 
 daughter. " AVe have all some little things of our own — a few 
 pounds — and we shall be able to raise as much as will keep 
 arrest and prison at a distance. Or if they do take our furniture 
 out of the house, all except Margaret's bed, who cares ? We 
 wUl sleep on the floor ; and there are potatoes in the field, and 
 clear water in the spring. We need fear nothing, want nothing ; 
 blessed be God for all his mercies." 
 
 Gilbert went into the sick room , and got the letter from his wife, 
 who was sitting at the head of the bed, watching, with a heart 
 blessed beyond all bliss, the calm and regular breathings of her 
 child. "This letter," said he mildly, "is not from a hard creditor. 
 Come with me while I read it aloud to our children." The 
 letter was read aloud, and it was well fitted to difiuSe pleasure 
 and satisfaction through the dwelling of poverty. It was from 
 an executor to thejwUl of a distant relative, who had left Gilbert 
 Ainslie fifteen hundred~peunds. "The sum," said Gilbert, "is 
 a large one to folks like us, but not, I hope, large enough to 
 turn our heads, or make us think ourselves all lords and ladies. 
 It will do more, far more, than put me fairly above the world 
 at last. I believe that, with it, I may buy this very farm, on 
 which my forefathers have^ toiled. But may God, whose 
 Providence has sent this tempbral blessing, send wisdom and pru- 
 dence how to use it, and humble and grateful hearts to us all." 
 
 " You will be able to send me to school all the year round 
 now, father," said the youngest boy. "And you may leave the 
 flail to your sons now, father," said the eldest. " You may 
 hold the plow still, for you draw a straighter furrow than any 
 of us; but hard work for young sinews; and you may sit now 
 oftener in your arm-chair by the ingle, You will not need to 
 rise now in the dark, cold, and snowy winter mornings, and 
 keep thrashing corn in the barn for hours, by candle-light, 
 before the late dawning." 
 
 There was silence, gl.adness, and soitow, and but little sleep 
 in Moss-side, between the rising and setting of the stars, thai 
 
158 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 were now out in thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling 
 over the unclouded sky. Those who had lain down, for an 
 hour or two, in bed, could scarcely be said to have slept ; and 
 when, about morning, little Margaret awoke, an altered crea- 
 ture, pale, languid, and unable to turn herself on her lowly 
 bed, but with meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affec- 
 tion in her heart, and coolness in aU her veins, a happy group 
 were watching the first faint smile that broke over her features ; 
 and never did one who stood there forget that Sabbath morning, 
 on which she seemed to look round upon them all with a gaze 
 of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one half conscious of 
 
 having been rescued from the power of the grave. 
 
 J. Wiisoir. 
 
 LESSON LX. 
 
 nature's farewell 
 
 A. voUTH rode forth from his childhood's home. 
 Through the crowded paths of the world to roam ; 
 And the green leaves whispered as he passed, 
 " Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast 1 
 
 ' Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here. 
 Long wouldst thou linger in doubt a.nd fear ; 
 Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours, 
 Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wild flowois. 
 
 " Under the arch, by our mirigling made. 
 Thou and thy brother have gayly played ; 
 Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore. 
 But, as ye have met there, — oh ! never more "' 
 
 On rode the youth, and the boughs among 
 Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
 " Wherefore so fast unto life away 1 
 Thou art leaving forever thy joy in our lay ! 
 
 " Thou mayst come to the summer woods again. 
 And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
 Afar from the foliage its love will dwell ; 
 A change must pass o'er thee,' — farewell ! farewell '" 
 
 r:. ■ • 
 
 On rode the youth, and the founts and streams 
 Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
 
YOUNG LADIES READER. IS^) 
 
 " We have been thy playmates throug'h many a day, 
 Wherefore thus leave us ■? oh ! yet delay ! 
 
 " Listen but once tOvthe sound of our mirth ! 
 For thee 'tis a meTody passing from earth, 
 Never again wilt thou find in its flow, 
 The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 
 
 " Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee, 
 With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
 Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred, 
 And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 
 
 " Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part ; 
 What should it do for a burning heart ? 
 Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, 
 Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 
 
 " Farewell ! vphen thou comest again to thine own, 
 Thou wilt miss from a ir music its loveliest tone ; 
 Mournfully true is the tale we tell ; . 
 
 Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell ! farewell !" 
 
 And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed. 
 As he caught the last sounds of his native shade ; 
 But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke. 
 How deep were the oracles Nature spoke. 
 
 / Mrs. HEMiifS. 
 
 LESSON LXI. 
 
 THE RET URN . 
 
 " Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back • 
 
 The free, the pure, the kind?" 
 So murmured the trees in my homeward track 
 
 As they played to the mountain-wind. ~ 
 
 » Hath thy soul been true to its early love 1" 
 
 Whispered my native streams ; 
 " Hath thy spirit, nursed amid hill and grove. 
 
 Still revered its first high dreams ?" 
 
 " Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 
 
 Of the child in his parent halls'?" 
 Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, 
 
 From the old ancestral walls. 
 
160 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 " Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead 
 
 Whose place of rest is nigh? 
 With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 
 
 With the mother's trusting eye V 
 
 Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 
 
 As I answered, " Oh ye shades I 
 I bring not my childhood's heart again 
 
 To the freedom of your glides. 
 
 'i^ have turned from my first,pure love aside, 
 
 bright and happy streams ! 
 Light after light, in my soul have died 
 
 The day-spring's glorious dreams. 
 
 " And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath passed. 
 
 The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
 Darkened and troubled, I come at last. 
 
 Home of my boyish glee ! 
 
 V But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears. 
 
 To soften and atone ;' 
 And oh, ye scenes of those blessed years ! 
 
 They shall make me again your own." 
 
 Mils. Hemans 
 
 LESSON LXII. 
 
 THE ADIE U. 
 
 We'll miss' her at 'the morning hour,' 
 /When leaves and eyes'unclose;' 
 When sunshine calls' the dewy flower ' 
 ' To waken fromVeposef 
 For, like the singing of a bird. 
 
 When first the sunbeams fall, 
 "The gladness oP'her'voice'was''heard 
 The earliest of us all. 
 
 We'll miss her at th^ evening time, 
 vFor then her voice 4.nd lute ^ 
 
 Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme. 
 When other sounds were mute. 
 
 Twined round' the ancient window-seat, 
 While she was singing there, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 161 
 
 The jasmin from outside would meet, 
 ^And wreathe^ her fragrant hair. 
 
 We'll miss her when we gather round 
 
 Our blazing hearth at night, 
 When ancient memories abound," 
 
 Or hopes where all unite, 
 And pleasant talk of years to come. 
 
 Those years our fancies frame. 
 Ah ! she has now another home. 
 
 And bears another name. 
 
 Her heart is not with our old hall, 
 
 Nor with the things of yore ; 
 And yet, methinks she must recall 
 
 What was so dear before. 
 She wept to leave the fond roof where 
 
 She had been loved so long. 
 Though glad the peal upon the air, 
 
 And gay the bridal throng. 
 
 Yes, memory "has honey cells, 
 
 And some of them are ours ; 
 For in the sweetest of them dwells 
 
 The dream of early hours. 
 The hearth, the hall, the window-seat, 
 
 Will bring us to her mind ; 
 In yon wide world she cannot meet 
 
 All that she left behind. 
 Loving, and loved, her own sweet will 
 
 It was, that made her fate ; 
 She has a fairy home ; but still 
 
 Our own seems desolate. 
 We may not wish her back again. 
 
 Not for her own dear sake ; 
 Oh, Jove ! to form one happy chain, 
 
 How many thou must break ! L-E. Law do\. 
 
 LESSON LXIII. 
 
 THE BRIDE 
 
 1 Came, — ^but she was gone. 
 
 In her fair home, 
 There Jay her lute, just as she touched it last, 
 14 
 
1 62 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups 
 Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat 
 Lay the still open work-box, and that book 
 Which last she read, its penciled margin marked 
 By an ill-quoted passage, traced, perchance, 
 With hand unconscious, while her lover spake 
 That dialect, which brings forgetfulness 
 Of all beside. It was the cherished home, 
 Where from her childhood she had been the star 
 Of hope and joy. 
 
 I came, — and she was gone. 
 Yet I had seen her from the altar led. 
 With silvery vail but slightly swept aside, 
 The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek, 
 And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought 
 Of one who gives a priceless gift away. 
 And there was silence 'mid the gathered throng. 
 The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw 
 Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip 
 Tarn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire 
 Shrink as with smothered sorrow, when he g£ 'e 
 His darling to an untried guardianship. 
 And to a far off clime. 
 
 Haply his thought 
 Traversed the grass-grown prairies, and the shore 
 Of the cold lakes ; or those o'erhan^ng cliffs 
 And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar 
 Her log-reared mansion from the anxious eye 
 Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt 
 How strong and beautiful is woman's love, 
 That, taking in its hand its thornless joys, 
 The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, 
 Yea! and its own life also, lays them all. 
 Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast, 
 Reserving naught, save that unspoken hope 
 Which hath its root in God. 
 
 Mock not with mirth 
 A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones ! 
 The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel, 
 What do they here ? 
 
 Joy, serious and sublime. 
 Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer. 
 Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 163 
 
 Filled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdetli on 
 
 That harness, which th^ ministry of Death 
 
 Alone unlooseth, but w^ose fearful power 
 
 May stamp the sentence of Eternity. Mrs. Sigouhnest. 
 
 LES/SON LXIV. 
 
 THE BiRli)E's FAREWELL 
 
 Why do I weep I — To leave the vine 
 
 Whose ^sters o'ei me bend ; 
 The myrtle, yet, oh ! call it mine ! 
 
 The flowers 1 loved to tend. 
 A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 
 
 Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
 I leave my sunny childhood here ; 
 
 Oh, therefore let me weep ! 
 
 I leave thee, sister I We have played 
 
 Through many a joyous hour, 
 Where the silvery green of the oliTe shade 
 
 Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
 Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 
 
 In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
 Have been, as we may be no more ; 
 
 Kind sister, let me weep ! 
 
 I leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 
 
 Must now light other feet, 
 With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune. 
 
 Thy homeward step to greet. 
 Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child 
 
 Lay tones of love so deep, 
 Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled ; 
 
 I leave thee ! let me weep ! 
 
 Mother ! I leave thee ! On thy breast, 
 
 Pouring out joy and woe, 
 I have found that holy place of rest 
 
 Still changeless — yet I go ! 
 Lips, that have lulled me with your strain, 
 
 Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
 Will earth give love like yours again? 
 
 Sweet mother ! let me weep ! Mrs. Hbmabs 
 
164 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON LXV. 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETING. 
 
 We are a]l here ! 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother. 
 All who hold each other dear. 
 Each chair is filled ; we're all at home : 
 To-night, let no cold stranger come : 
 It is not often thus around 
 Our old familiar hearth we're found : 
 Bless then the meeting and the spot; 
 For once, be every care forgot ; 
 Let gentle Peace assert her power, 
 And kind Affection rule the hour ; 
 
 We're all — all here. 
 
 We're not all here ! 
 Some are away, the dead ones dear, 
 Who thronged with us this ancient hearth 
 And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. 
 Fate, with a stern relentless hand. 
 Looked in and thinned our little band : 
 Some, like a night-flash, passed away, 
 And some sank lingering day by day ; 
 The quiet grave-yard — some lie there — 
 And cruel Ocean has his share ; 
 
 We're not all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 Even tfiey, the dead — though dead, so aear, 
 Fond Memory, to her duty true. 
 Brings back their faded forms to view. 
 How life-like through the mist of years. 
 Each well-remembered face appears ! 
 We see them as in times long past, 
 From each to each kind looks are cast; 
 We hear their words, their smiles behold, 
 They're round us, as they were of old — 
 We are all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 Father, mother. 
 Sister, brother, 
 You that I love with love so dear. 
 This may not Ions of us be said : 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 165 
 
 Soon must we join the gathered dead, 
 And hy the hearth we now sit round, 
 Some other, circle will be found. 
 Oh ! then, that wisdom may we know. 
 Which yields a life of peace below ; 
 So, in the world to follow this. 
 May each repeat, in words of bliss, 
 
 We're all — all — here ! — C. Spkaoob. 
 
 LESSON LXVI. 
 
 UNWRITTEN MUSIC. 
 
 There is unwritten music. The world is full of it. I hear 
 it every hour that I wake, and my waking sense is surpassed 
 by my sleeping, though that is a mystery. There is no sound 
 of simple nature that is not music. It is all God's work, and 
 therefore harmony. You may mingle, and divide, and 
 strengthen the passages of its great anthem, and it is stiK 
 melody— melody. 
 
 The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the 
 brooks, and bring their voices to your ear, as if their sweet- 
 ness were linked by an accurate finger ; yet the wind is but a 
 fitful player ; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and 
 hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the 
 long grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn 
 monotony over all, — and the dimple of that same brook, and 
 the waterfall's unaltered base shall still reach you in the intfer- 
 vals of its pojver, as much in harmony as before, and as much 
 a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. There is no accident 
 of nature's causing which can bring in discord. The loosened 
 rock may fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down 
 through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully 
 in the sky ; and sudden and violent as these changes seem, 
 their tumult goes up with the sound of winds and waters, and 
 the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar. 
 
 It is not mere poetry to talk of the " voices of summer." 
 It is the day time of the year, and its myriad influences are 
 audibly at work. Even by night, you may lay your ear to the 
 ground, and hear that faintest of murmurs, the sound of grow 
 
166 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 ing things. I used to think, when I was a child, that it was 
 fairy music. If you have been used to early rising, you have 
 not forgotten how the stillness of the night seems increased by 
 the timid note of the first bird. It is the only time when I 
 would lay a finger on the lip of nature, the deep hush is so 
 very solemn. By and by, however, the birds are all up, and 
 the peculiar holiness of the hour declines, but what a world of 
 music does the sun shine on ! — the deep lowing of the cattle 
 blending in with the capricious warble of a thousand of God's 
 happy creatures, and the stir of industry coming on the air 
 like the under tones of a choir, and the voice of man, heard in 
 the distance over all, like a singer among instruments, giving 
 them meaning and language '. 
 
 But if you would hear one of nature's most various and 
 delicate harmonies, lie down in the edge of the wood when the 
 evening breeze begins to stir, and listen to its coming. It 
 touches, first, the silver foliage of the birch, and the slightly 
 hung leaves, at its merest breath, wiU lift and rustle like a 
 thousand tiny wings ; and then it creeps up to the tall fir, and 
 the fine tassels send out a sound like a low whisper ; and as 
 the oak feels its influence, the thick leaves stir heavily, and a 
 deep tone comes sullenly out like the echo of a far ofi" bassoon. 
 They are all wind harps of diiferent power; and, as the breeze 
 strengthens and sweeps equally over them all, their united 
 harmony has a wonderful grandeur and beauty. 
 
 There is a melancholy music in autumn. The leaves float 
 sadly about with a look of peculiar desolation, waving capri- 
 ciously in the wind, and falling with a just audible sound, that 
 is a very sigh for its sadness. And then, when the breeze is 
 fresher, though the early autumn months are mostly still, they 
 are swept on with a cheerful rustle over the naked harvest 
 fields, and about in the eddies of the blast ; and though I have, 
 sometimes, in the glow of exercise, felt my life securer in the 
 triumph of the brave contest, yet, in the chiU of evening, 
 or when any sickness of mind or body was on me, the 
 moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down my heart 
 like a sorrow, and the cheerful fire, and the voices of my many 
 sisters, might scarce remove it. 
 
 Then for the music of winter. I love to listen to the falling 
 of the snow. It is an unobtrusive and sweet music. You may 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 1(37 
 
 temper your heart to the serenest mood, by its low murmur. 
 It is that kind of music, that only obtrudes upon your ear when 
 your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it, if your 
 mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where 
 music is intuitive like a thought, and comes only when it is 
 remembered. 
 
 And the frost too has a melodious " ministry." You will 
 hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the 
 moon-beams were splintering like arrows on the ground ; and 
 you listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on 
 of one of the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep 
 mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a 
 crystal. God has hidden its principle as yet from the inquisi- 
 tive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on 
 its exquisite beauty, and listen, in mute wonder, to the noise 
 of its invisible workmanship. It is too fine a knowledge for 
 us. We shall comprehend it, when we know how the morning 
 stars sang together. 
 
 You would hardly look for music in the dreariness of early 
 winter. But, before the keener frosts set in, and while the 
 warm winds are yet stealing back occasionally, like regrets of 
 the departed summer, there wiU come a soft rain or a heavy 
 mist, and when the north wind returns, there will be drops 
 suspended like ear-ring jewels between the filaments of the 
 cedar tasseLs, and in the feathery edges of the dark green hem- 
 locks, and, if the clearing up is not followed by the heavy 
 wind, they will all be frozen in their places like well set gems. 
 The next morning, the warm sun comes out, and, by the middle 
 of the calm, dazzling forenoon, they are all loosened from the 
 close touch which sustained them, and they will drop at the 
 lightest motion. If you go along upon the south side of the 
 wood at that hour, you will hear music. The dry foliage of 
 the summer's shedding is scattered over the ground, and the 
 round, hard drops ring out clearly and distinctly, as they are 
 shaken down with the stirring of the breeze. It is something 
 like the running of deep and rapid water, only more fitful and 
 merrier ; but to one who goes out in nature with his heart open, 
 it is a pleasant music, and, in contrast with the stem charactei 
 of the season, delightfiil. N. P. Willis. 
 
'68 YOUNG LADIKS' READER. 
 
 LESSON LXVII. 
 
 THE SAME, CONCLUDED. 
 
 Hitherto I have spoken only of the sounds of irrational and 
 inanimate nature. A better than those, and the best music 
 under heaven, is the music of the human voice. I doubt 
 whether all voices are not capable of it, though there must be 
 degrees in it, as in beauty. The tones of affection in all child 
 ren are sweet, and we know not how much their unpleasantness 
 in after life may be the effect of sin and coarseness, and the 
 consequent habitual expression of discordant passions. But 
 we do know that the voice of any human being becomes 
 touching by distress, and that even on the coarse-minded and 
 the low, religion and the higher passions of the world have 
 sometimes so wrought, that their eloquence was like the 
 strong passages of an organ. 
 
 I have been much about in the world, and with a boy's 
 unrest, and a peculiar thirst for novel sensations, have mingled, 
 for a time, in every walk of life ; yet never have I known man 
 or woman that was not utterly degraded, whose voice, under 
 the influence of any strong feeling, did not deepen to a chord 
 of grandeur, or soften to cadences to which a harp might have 
 swept pleasantly. It is a perfect instrument as it comes from 
 the hand of its Maker, and though its strings may relax with 
 the atmosphere, or be injured by misuse and neglect, it is 
 always capable of being re-strung to its compass, till its frame 
 is shattered. 
 
 A sweet voice is indispensable to a woman. I do not think 
 I can describe it. It can be, and sometimes is, cultivated. It 
 is not inconsistent with great vivacity, but it is oftener the gift of 
 the quiet and unobtrusive. Loudness or rapidity of utterance 
 is incompatible with it. It is low, but not guttural; deliberate, 
 but not slow. Every syllable is distinctly heard, but they 
 follow each other like drops of water from a fountain. It is a 
 glorious gift in woman. I should be won by it more than by 
 beauty ; more, even, than by talent, were it possible to separate 
 them. But I never heard a deep, sweet voice from a weak 
 woman. It is the organ of strong feeling, and of thoughts 
 which have lain in the bosom till their sacredness almost hushes 
 utterance. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 169 
 
 1 remember listening in the midst of a crowd, many years 
 hgo, to the voice of a girl, a mere child of sixteen summers, till 
 I was bewildered. She was a pure, high-hearted, impassioned 
 creature, without the least knowledge of the world, or of her 
 peculiar gift ; but her own thoughts had wrought upon<her like 
 the hush of a sanctuary, and she spoke low, as if with an un- 
 conscious awe. I could never trifle in her prdfe'lnce. My 
 nonsense seemed out of place, and my practiced atfeurance for- 
 sook me utterly. She is changed now. She has been admired, 
 and has found out her beauty, and the music of her tone is gone. 
 She will recover it by and by, when the deUrium of the world 
 is over, and she begins to rely, once more, upon her own 
 thoughts for company ; but her extravagant spirits have broken 
 over the thrilling timidity of childhood, and the charm is 
 unwound. 
 
 The music of church bells has become a matter of poetry. 
 Thomas Moore has sung "Those evening bells," in some of 
 the most melodious of his elaborate stanzas. There is some- 
 thing exceedingly impressive in the breaking in of church bells 
 on the' stillness of the Sabbath. I doubt whether it is not 
 more so in the heart of a populous city, than anywhere else. 
 The presence of any single, strong feeling, in the midst of a 
 great people, has something of awfulness in it which exceeds 
 even the impressiveness of nature's breathless Sabbath. 
 
 I know few things more imposing, than to walk the streets 
 of a city, when the peal of the early bells is just beginning. The 
 deserted pavements, the closed windows of places of business, 
 the decent gravity of the solitary passenger, and, over all, the 
 feeling in your own bosom, that the fear of God is brooding, 
 like a great shadow, over the thousand human beings who are 
 sitting still in their dwellings around you, were enough, if there 
 were no other circumstances, to hush the heart into a religious 
 fear. But when the bells peal out suddenly, with a summons to 
 the temple of God, and their echoes roll on through the desolate 
 streets, and are unanswered by the sound of any human voice, 
 or the din of any human occupation, the effect has sometimes 
 seemed to me far more solemn than the near thunder. 
 
 Far more beautiful, and, perhaps, quite as salutary as a 
 religious influence, is the sound of a distant Sabbath bell in the 
 country. It comes floating over the hills like the going abroad 
 15 
 
170 YOUNG LADIES' READEK. 
 
 of a spirit"; and, as the leaves stir with its vibrations, and drops 
 of dew-fremble in the cups of the flowers, you could almost 
 believe nhere was a Sabbath in nature, and that the dumb 
 worlds qf God rendered visible worship for his goodness. The 
 eflept of nature alone is purifying, and its thousand evidences 
 of -wis'dom are too eloquent of their Maker, not to act as a 
 continual if Sson ; but combined with the instilled piety of child- 
 hood, and ilSe knowledge of the inviolable holiness of the time, 
 the mellow cadences of a church bell give to the hush of the 
 country Sabbath a holiness, to which, only a desperate heart 
 could be insensible. N. P. Willis. 
 
 LESSON LXVIII. 
 
 Lorenzo and Jessica. 
 
 Lor. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
 And they did make no noise ; in such a night, 
 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls. 
 And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents. 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Jes. In such a night, 
 
 Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew ; 
 And saw the lion's shadow ere himself. 
 And ran dismayed away. 
 
 Lor. In such a night. 
 
 Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand. 
 Upon the wild sea-bank, and waved her love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Jes. In such a night, 
 
 Medea gathered the enchanted herbs 
 That did renew old jEson. 
 
 Lor. In such a night. 
 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew ; 
 And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, 
 As far as Belmont. 
 
 Jes. In such a night, 
 
 Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well ; 
 Stealing her soul with many vows of faith. 
 And ne'er a true one. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 171 
 
 Lor In such a night, 
 
 Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
 Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 
 
 * # * 
 
 Lor. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank f ' ■ 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of hright gold : 
 There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim ; 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But, while this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 Enter Musicians. 
 Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
 With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear. 
 And draw her home with music. [^Muaic, 
 
 Jea. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 
 Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive ; 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd. 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
 If they but hear, perchance, a trumpet sound. 
 Or any air of music touch their ears, 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
 Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, 
 By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and flood-- 
 Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage. 
 But music for the time doth change his nature. 
 The man that hath no music in himself, 
 And is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night. 
 And his affections dark as Erebus : 
 Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music. 
 Enter Portia and Nerisaa at a distance. 
 
 For. That light we see, is burning in my hall. 
 How far that little candle throws his beams ! 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 
172 YOUNG LADIES' EEADKR. 
 
 Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 
 
 Pc^. So doth the greater glory dim the less : 
 A substitute shines brightly as a king, 
 Until a king be by ; and then his state 
 Empties itself, as does an inland brook 
 Into th^main of waters. Music ! hark ! 
 
 Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house. 
 
 For. "Nothing is good, I see, without respect ; 
 MethinkS^ it sounds much sweeter than by day. 
 
 Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. 
 
 For. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, 
 When neither is attended ; and, I think, 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 How many things by season seasoned are 
 To their right praise, and true perfection ! 
 Peace, hoa ! the moon sleeps with Endymion, 
 And would not be awaked ! Shakspeahe. 
 
 LESSON LXIX. 
 
 THE FREED BIRD. 
 
 Return, return, my bird ! 
 
 I have dressed thy cage with flowers, 
 'T is lovely as a violet bank 
 
 In the heart of forest bowers. 
 
 " I am free, I am free ; I return no more ! 
 The weary time of the cage is o'er ! 
 Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high. 
 The sky is around me, the blue, bright sky ! 
 
 "The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear. 
 With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer, 
 I see the waves flash on the sunny shore ; 
 I am free, I am free; I return no more !" 
 
 Alas, alas, my bird ! 
 
 Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
 Wert thou not blest in thy little bower. 
 
 When thy song breathed naught but glee ? 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 173 
 
 " Did my song of summer breathe naught but glee ? 
 Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee f 
 Oh ! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, 
 It had tales of a burning heart to tell. 
 
 " From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 
 Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 
 And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, 
 Sighed for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 
 
 Was it with thee thus, my bird ? 
 
 Yet thine eye flashed clear and bright , 
 I have seen the glance of the sudden joy 
 
 In its quick and dewy light. 
 
 " It flashed with the fire of a tameless race, 
 With the soul of the wild wood, my native place ; 
 With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar ; 
 Woo me not back ; I return no more ! 
 
 " My home is high, amid rocking trees, 
 My kindred things are the star and breeze. 
 And the fount unchecked in its lonely play. 
 And the odors that wander afar away !" 
 
 Farewell, farewell, then, bird ! 
 
 I have called on spirits gone. 
 And it may be they joyed like thee, to part. 
 
 Like thee, that wert all my own. 
 
 " If they were captives a«d pined like me. 
 Though love might guard them, they joyed to be free ; 
 They sprung from the earth with a burst of power, 
 To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour 
 
 " Call them not hack when the chain is riven, 
 When the way of the pinion is all through heaven. 
 Farewell ! With my song through the clouds I soar. 
 [ piej-ce the blue skies : I am earth's no more !" 
 
 Mna. Hemahs. 
 
174 yOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON LXX. 
 
 BEAUTY,— HEALTH, HAPPINESS. 
 
 Beauty. 
 
 A NATIVE grace 
 Sat fair-proportioned on her polished form, 
 Vailed in a simple robe, its best attire, 
 Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
 But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. 
 Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, 
 Recluse amid the close-embowering woods ; 
 As in the hollow breast of Apennine, 
 Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 
 A myrtle rises far from human eye. 
 And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild ; 
 So flourished, blooming, and unseen by all, 
 - The sweet Lavinia. Thomioh 
 
 Never yet hath bride or maid 
 
 In Araby's gay harems smiled, 
 Whose boasted brightness would not fade 
 
 Before Al Hassan's blooming child. 
 Light as the angel shapes that bless 
 An infant's dream, yet not the less 
 Rich in all woman's loveliness ; 
 With eyes so pure, that from their ray 
 Dark vice would turn abashed away, 
 Blinded like serpents when they gaze 
 Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ; 
 Yet filled with all youth's sweet desires. 
 Mingling the meek and vestal fires 
 Of other worlds, with all the bliss. 
 The fond, weak tenderness of this; 
 A soul, too, more than half divine. 
 
 When, through some shades of earthly feeling, 
 Religion's softened glories shine. 
 
 Like light through summer foliage stealing. 
 Shedding a glow of such mild hue, 
 So warm, and yet so shadowy, too. 
 As makes the very darkness there 
 More beautiful than. light elsewhere. Moobb. 
 
 Health. 
 Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
 When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 175 
 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given ? 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
 And exercise, of health. 
 
 Oh who can speak the vigorous joys of health ? 
 Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind ; 
 The morning rises gay; with pleasing stealth 
 The temperate evening falls serene and kind. 
 In health the wiser brutes true gladness find ; 
 See how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
 As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind ; 
 Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds : 
 Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasure breeds ? 
 
 THOMSOlf. 
 
 Happiness. 
 With thee conversing, I forget all time. 
 All seasons and their change; all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of morn ; her rising sweet. 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun. 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower. 
 Glistening with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful evening mild, and silent night 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon. 
 And these the gems of heaven, her starry train. 
 
 Milton 
 
 LESSON LXXI. 
 
 THE WISE AND AMIABLE WOMAN. 
 
 The woman, whom I would exhibit to your view, possesses 
 a sound understanding. She is virtuous, not from impulse, 
 instinct, and a childish simplicity; for she knows that evil 
 exists, as well as good; but she abhors the former, and reso- 
 lutely chooses the latter. As she has carefully weighed the 
 nature and consequences of her actions, her moral principles 
 are fixed; and she has deliberately formed a plan of life, to 
 which she conscientiously adheres. Her character is her 
 own; her knowledge and virtues are original, and are not 
 the faint copies of another character. Convinced that the 
 duty of every human being, consists in performing well the 
 
176 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 part which is assigned by divine Providence, she diiects her 
 principal attention to this object; and, whether as a wife, a 
 mother, ot the head of a family, she is always diligent and 
 discreet. 
 
 She is exempt from affectation, the folly of little minds. 
 Far from her heart is the desire of acquiring a reputation, oi 
 of rendering herself interesting, by imbecilities and imperfec- 
 tions. Thus she is delicate, but not timid: she has too much 
 good sense, ever to be afraid where there is no danger ; and 
 she leaves the affectation of terror to women, who, from the 
 want of a correct education, are ignorant of what is truly 
 becoming. She is stiU fu ther removed from the affectation 
 of sensibility ; she has sympathy and tears for the calamities 
 of her friends ; but there is no artificial whining on her tongue ; 
 nor does she ever manifest more grief than she really feels. 
 
 In so enlightened an understanding, humility appears with 
 peculiar grace. Every wise woman must be humble ; because 
 every wise woman must know, that no human being has any- 
 thing to be proud of. The gifts, which she possesses, she has 
 received; she cannot therefore glory in them, as if they were 
 of her own creation. There is no ostentation in any part of 
 her behavior : she does not affect to conceal her virtues and 
 talents, but she never ambitiously displays them. She is still 
 more pleasingly adorned with the graces of mildness and 
 gentleness. 
 
 Her manners are placid, the tones of her voice are sweet, 
 and her eye benignant ; because her heart is meek and kind. 
 From the combination of these virtues arises that general 
 effect, which is denominated loveliness ; a quality which ren- 
 ders her the object of the complacence of all her friends, and 
 the delight of every one who approaches her. Believing that 
 she was born, not for herself only, but for others, she endea- 
 vors to communicate happiness to all who are around her. 
 
 Her children, those immortal beings, who are committed 
 to her care, that they may be formed to knowledge and virtue, 
 are the principal objects of her attention. She sows in their 
 minds the seeds of piety and goodness ; she waters them with 
 the dew x)f heavenly instruction; and she eradicates every 
 weed of evil, as soon as it appears. Thus does she benefit 
 the church, her country, and the world, by training up sincere 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 177 
 
 Christians, useful citizens, and good men. It is scarcely 
 necessary to observe, that, with so benevolent a heart, she 
 remembers the poor, and that she affords them, not only pity 
 but substantial relief. 
 
 As she is a wise woman, who is not afraid to exercise hei 
 understanding, her experience and observation soon convince 
 her, that the world, though it abounds with many pleasures 
 is not an unmixed state of enjoyment. While, therefore, she 
 is carefiil to bring no misfortunes on herself by imprudence 
 folly, and extravagance, she looks with a calm and steady eye 
 on the unavoidable afHictions through which she is doomed 
 to pass ; and she arms her mind with fortitude, that she may 
 endure, with resolution and cheerfulness, the severest trials. 
 
 When sickness and distress at last come, she submits to 
 them with patience and resignation. A peevish complaint 
 does not escape from her lips; nor does she once murmur 
 because the hand of her heavenly Father lies heavy upon 
 her. She is, if possible, more serene, more mild, more gentle, 
 on the bed of disease, than she was in the seasons of health 
 and felicity. So affectionate is she to her surrounding friends 
 and so grateful for the attentions which they pay to her, that 
 they almost forget that she suffers any pain. 
 
 The love of God crowns all her virtues : religion is deeply 
 fixed in her heart ; biit here, as in all her behavior, she is with- 
 out parade. Her piety is sincere and ardent, but humble and 
 retired. « * A. mind, in which strength and 
 
 gentleness are thus united, may be compared to the soft light 
 of the moon, which shines with the perpetual rays of the sun. 
 We are, at first view, ready to imagine that it is more lovely 
 than great, more charming than dignified; but we soon be- 
 come convinced, that it is filled with true wisdom, and endowed 
 with noble purposes. Fheeman 
 
 LESSON LXXII. 
 
 MRS. SIGOTTRNEY. 
 
 Respecting the talents and merits of Mrs. Sigourney, there 
 will be no doubt nor cavil. She has nobly won her high place 
 
178 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 in the literature of our country. In all her works, varied as 
 they are in style and subject, one purpose, the purpose of 
 doing good, is recognized as the governing motive. In her 
 prose writings, this zeal of heart is the great charm. She 
 alvfays describes, nature with a lover's feelings for its beauties, 
 and with much delicacy and taste ; still we think her talent for 
 description is much more graceful and at home in the meas- 
 ured lines of her poetry, than in her best prose. Her 
 genius brightens in the Muses' smile, and she can command by 
 that spell, as Prospero could with his staff, the attendance 
 of the " delicate spirit" of Fancy, which,like Ariel, brings 
 
 " Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not :" 
 
 and those " solemn breathing strains" that move conscience to 
 its repentant work, or lift the trusting and contrite soul to 
 heaven. 
 
 "Who can describe Niagara ?" exclaimed Mrs. Butler, in the 
 agony of her admiration. Mrs. Sigourney has described it, and 
 worthily too ; and this single poem would be sufficient to 
 establish her fame. It does more and better, it stamps her as 
 the devoted Christian ; for except faith in the "dread Invisible" 
 had sustained her genius, and trust in the Savior had kept 
 warm the fount of sympathy in her heart, she could not have 
 surrounded a theme so awful, strange, and lonely, with such 
 images of beauty and hope. 
 
 Female poetic writers owe their happiest efforts to religious 
 feeling. Devotion seems to endow them with the martyr's 
 glowing fervency of spirit. In the actual world the path of 
 woman is very circumscribed, but in that " better land," her im- 
 agination may range with the freedom of an angel's wing. And 
 there the genius of Mrs. Sigourney delights to expatiate. This 
 constant uplifting of her spirit has given a peculiar cast to her 
 language and style ; rendering the stately blank verse measure 
 the readiest vehicle of her fancies. She has a wonderful com- 
 mand of words, and the fetters of rhyme check the free expres- 
 sion of her thoughts. She is also endowed with a fine per- 
 ception of the harmonious and appropriate, and lience the 
 smooth flow of the lines, and the perfect adaptation of the lan- 
 guage to the subject. These qualities eminently fit her to be 
 the eulogist of departed worth, and incline her to elegiac 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 179 
 
 poetry. To her tender feeling and naturally contemplative 
 mind, every knell that summons the mourner to vi^eep, awakens 
 her sympathy, and the dirge flows as would her tears, to com- 
 fort the bereaved were she beside them. Nor is the death song 
 of necessity melancholy. Many of hers sound the notes of 
 holy triumph, and awaken the brightest anticipations of felicity; 
 —ay, 
 
 " Teach us of the melody of heaven." 
 She " leaves not the trophy of death at the tomb," but shows 
 us the "Resurrection and the Life." Thus she elevates the 
 hopes of the Christian, and chastens the thoughts of the worldly 
 minded. This is her mission, the true purpose of her heaven 
 endowed mind ; for the inspirations of genius are from heaven 
 and, when not perverted by a corrupt wiU, rise as naturally 
 upward as the morning dew on the flower is exhaled to the 
 skies. The genius of Mrs. Sigoumey, like the " imperial Pas- 
 sion Flower," has always been 
 
 " Consecrate to Salem's peaceful king; 
 Though fair as any gracing beauty's bower. 
 Yet linked to sorrow like a holy thing." 
 
 Mns. S. J. Hale. 
 
 LESSON LXXIII. 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 The mother sat beside her fire. 
 Well trimmed it was, and bright. 
 
 While loudly moaned the forest-pines, 
 Amid that wintry night. 
 
 She heard them not, those wind-swept pines. 
 
 For o'er a scroll she hung, 
 That bore her husband's voice of love, 
 
 As when that love was young. 
 
 And thrice her son, beside her knee. 
 
 Besought her favoring eye. 
 And thrice her lisping daughter spoke. 
 
 Before she made reply. 
 
180 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 " 0, little daughter, many a kiss 
 
 Lies in this treasured line, 
 And boy, a father's counsels fond. 
 
 And blessed prayers are thine. 
 
 "Thou hast his high and arching brow. 
 
 Thou hast his eye of flame. 
 And be the purpose of thy soul. 
 
 Thy sun-bright course the same." 
 
 Then as she drew them to her arms, 
 Down her fair cheek would glide 
 
 A. tear, that shone like diamond spark, 
 A tear of love and pride. 
 
 She took the baby from its rest. 
 
 And laid it on her knee, 
 " Thou ne'er hast seen thy sire, she said. 
 
 But he'll be proud of thee ; 
 
 " Yes, he'll be proud of thee, my dove, 
 
 The lily of our line, 
 I know what eye of blue he loves, 
 
 And such an eye is thine." 
 
 " Where is my father gone, mamma ? 
 
 Why does he stay so long?" 
 " He's far away in Congress-hall, 
 
 Amid the noble throng. 
 
 " He's in the lofty Congress-hall, 
 
 To swell the high debate, 
 And help to frame those righteous laws, 
 
 That make our land so great. 
 
 " But ere the earliest violets bloom. 
 
 You in his arms shall be. 
 So, go to rest, my children dear, 
 
 And pray for him and me." 
 
 The snow-flakefe reared their drifted mound, 
 
 To hury Nature deep, 
 But naught, amid that peaceful home, 
 
 Disturbed the dews of sleep : 
 
 For lightly, as an angel's dream, 
 
 The trance of slumber fell. 
 Where innocence, and holy love, 
 
 Maintained their guardian spell. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 18] 
 
 Another eve, — another scroll ! 
 
 Wist ye, what words it said ? 
 Two words, — two awful words it bore, 
 
 The duel! and the dead! 
 
 The duel ? and the dead ? How dark 
 
 Was that young mother's eye, 
 How fearful was her lengthened swoon. 
 
 How wild her frantic cry! 
 
 There's many a wife, whose bosom's lord 
 
 Is in his prime laid low. 
 Engulfed beneath the watery mam, 
 
 Where bitter tempests blow ; 
 
 Or crushed amid the battle-field, 
 
 Where crimson rivers flow, 
 Yet knew they not that deadly pang,, 
 
 Which-drugged her cup of woe. 
 
 Who lies so powerless on her couch, 
 
 Transfixed by sorrow's sting? 
 Her infant in its nurse's arms, 
 
 Like a forgotten thing 1 
 
 A dark-haired boy is at her side, 
 
 He lifts his eagle eye, 
 " Mother! they. say my father's dead. 
 
 How did my father die?" 
 
 Again the spear-point in her breast ! 
 
 Again, that shriek of pain ! 
 " Boy, thou hast riven thy mother's heart, 
 
 Speak not those words again ; 
 
 "Speak not those words again, my son!" 
 
 What boots that fruitless care ? 
 They're written wheresoe'er she^turns. 
 
 On ocean, earth, and air. 
 
 They're seared upon her shrinking heart. 
 
 That bursts beneath its doom, 
 " The duel! and the dead!" they mark. 
 
 The threshold of her tomb. 
 
 Through all her weary, widowed years. 
 
 That broken heart she bore. 
 And on her pale and drooping brow, 
 
 The smile sat never more. M»»- SiaouHirBr. 
 
182 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXIV, 
 
 BURIAI, OF THB YOUNG. 
 
 There was an open grave, and many an eye 
 Looked down upon it. Slow the sable hearse 
 Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare 
 The young, unwearied form to that cold couch, 
 Which age and sorrow render sweet to man. 
 There seemed a sadness in the humid air, 
 Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounda 
 Where slumber multitudes. 
 
 lliere was a train 
 Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom, 
 And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came, 
 And stood upon the brink of that dark pit. 
 In pensive beauty, waiting the approach 
 Of their companion. She was wont 'to fly, 
 And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring, 
 Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers. 
 And breathing mirth and gladness. iVbw,she came 
 With movements fashioned to the deep-toned bell : 
 She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend. 
 And tears of those, who at her side were nursed 
 By the same mother. 
 
 Ah ! and one was there. 
 Who, ere the fading of the summer rose. 
 Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death 
 Arose between them. The pale lover watched 
 So close her journey through the shadowy vale, 
 That almost to his heart the ice of death 
 Entered from hers. There was a brilliant flush 
 Of youth about her, and her kindling eye 
 Poured such unearthly light, that hope would hang 
 Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropped 
 Deep poison. Many a restless night she toiled 
 For that slight breath which held her from the tomb. 
 Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun 
 Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast, 
 Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. 
 
 Oft, o'er the musings of her silent couch. 
 Came visions of that matron form, which bent 
 With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless 
 Her cradle dream : and her emaciate hand 
 
yOUNG LADIES' READER. 183 
 
 In trembling praye? she raised, that He, who saved 
 
 The sainted mother, would redeem the child. 
 
 Was the orison* lost? Whence, then, that peace 
 
 So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved 
 
 Earth and its pleasures ' Whence that angel smile. 
 
 With which the allurements of a world so dear 
 
 Were counted and resigned ? that eloquence, 
 
 So fondly urging those, whose hearts were full 
 
 Of sublunary happiness, to seek 
 
 A better portion } Whence that voice of joy, 
 
 Which, from the marble lip, in life's last strife. 
 
 Burst forth, to bail her everlasting home ? 
 
 Cold reasoners, be convinced. And when ye stand 
 
 Where that fair brow and those unfrosted locks 
 
 Return to dust ; where the young sleeper waits 
 
 The resurrection morn ; oh! lift the heart 
 
 In praise to Him, who gave the victory. 
 
 Mrs. Si(}ovitN£T 
 
 LESSON LXXV. 
 
 THE HERMIT OF NIAGARA. 
 
 About fifteen years since, in the glow of early sumniei, 
 a young stranger, of pleasing countenance and person, made his 
 appearance at Niagara. It was at first conjectured that he 
 might be an artist, as a large portfolio, and books and musical 
 instruments, were observed among his baggage. He was 
 deeply impressed by the majesty and sublimity of the cataract 
 and its surrounding scenery, and expressed an intention to 
 remain a week, that he might examine it accurately. But the 
 fascination which all minds of sensibility feel in the presence 
 of that glorious work of the Creator, grew strongly upon him, 
 and he was heard to say, that six weeks were inadequate to 
 become acquainted with its outlines. 
 
 At the end of that period, he was still unable to tear himself 
 away, and desired to "build there a tabernacle," that he might 
 indulge both in his love of solitary musings, and of nature's 
 ' sublimity. He applied for a spot upon the island of the 
 "Tlree Sisters," where he might construct a cottage after his 
 own model, which comprised, among other peculiarities, isola- 
 tion, by means of a drawbridge. Circumstances forbidding a 
 
 * Pronounced or'-i-znn 
 
184 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 compliance with his request, he took up his residence in an old 
 house upon Iris Island, which he rendered as comfortable as 
 the state of the case would admit. Here he continued about 
 twenty months, until the intrusion of a family interrupted his 
 recluse habits. He then quietly withdrew, and reared for him- 
 self a less commodious shelter, near Prospect Point. His 
 simple and favorite fare of bread and milk, was readily pur- 
 chased, and whenever he required other food, he preferred to 
 prepare it with his own hands. 
 
 When bleak winter came, a cheerful fire of wood blazed 
 upon his hearth, and by his evening lamp he beguiled the 
 hours with the perusal of books in various languages, and with 
 sweet music. It was almost surprising to hear, in such depth 
 of solitude, the long-drawn, thrilling tones of the viol, or the 
 softest melodies of the flute, gushing forth from that low- 
 browed hut, or the guitar, breathing out so lightly amid the 
 rush and thunder of the never-slumbering torrent. 
 
 Yet, though the world of letters was familiar to his mind, 
 and the living world to his observation, — for he had traveled 
 widely, both in his native Europe and the East, — he sought 
 not association with mankind, to unfold or to increase his stores 
 of knowledge. Those who had heard him converse, spoke 
 with surprise and admiration of his colloquial powers, his 
 command of language, and the spirit of eloquence that flowed 
 from his lips. But he seldom, and sparingly, admitted this 
 intercourse, studiously avoiding society, though there seemed 
 in his nature nothing of moroseness or misanthropy. On the 
 contrary, he showed kindness to even the humblest animal. 
 Birds instinctively learned it, and freely entered his dwelling, 
 to receive from his hands crums or seeds. 
 
 But the absorbing delight of his existence was communion 
 with the mighty Niagara. Here, at every hour of the day or 
 night, he might be seen, a fervent worshiper. At gray dawn 
 he went to visit it in its fleecy vail : at high noon he banqueted 
 on the full splendor of its glory ; beneath the soft tinting of the 
 lunar bow, he lingered, looking for the angel's wing whose 
 pencil had painted it; and at solemn midnight, he knelt, soul- ' 
 subdued, as on the footstool of Jehovah. Neither storms, nor 
 the piercing cold of winter, prevented his visits to this great 
 temple of his adoration 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. l85 
 
 When the frozen mists, gathering upon the lofty trees, 
 seemed to have transmuted them to columns of alabaster; 
 when every branch, and shrub, and spray, glittering with 
 transparent ice, waved in the sun-beam its coronet of diamonds, 
 he gazed, unconscious of the keen atmosphere, charmed and 
 chained by the rainbow-cinctured cataract. His feet had worn 
 a beaten path from his cottage thither. There was, at that 
 time, an extension of the Terrapin Bridge, by a single shaft of 
 timber, carried out ten feet over the fathomless abyss, where 
 it hung tremulously, guarded only by a rude parapet. To this 
 point he often passed and repassed, amid the darkness of night. 
 He even took pleasure in grasping it with his hands, and thus 
 suspending himself over the awful gulf ; so much had his mor- 
 bid enthusiasm learned to feel, and even to revel amid the 
 terribly sublime. 
 
 Among his favorite daily gratifications was that of bathing. 
 The few who interested themselves in his welfare, supposed 
 that he pursued it to excess, and protracted it after the severity 
 of the weather rendered it hazardous to health. He scooped 
 out, and arranged for himself, a secluded and romantic bath, 
 between Moss and Iris Islands. Afterward, he formed the 
 habit of bathing below the principal fall. One bright, but 
 rather chill day, in the month of June, 1831, a man employed 
 about the ferry saw him go into the water, and, a long time 
 after, observed his clothes to be still lying upon the bank. 
 
 Inquiry was made. The anxiety was but too well founded. 
 The poor hermit had indeed taken his last bath. It was sup- 
 posed that cramp might have been induced by the unwonted diill 
 of the atmosphere or water. Still the body was not found ; the 
 depth and force of the current just below being exceedingly 
 great. In the course of their search, they passed onward to the 
 whirlpool. There, amid those boiling eddies, was the pallid 
 corpse, making fearful and rapid gj'rations upon the face of the 
 black waters. At some point of suction, it suddenly plunged 
 and disappeared. Again emerging, it was fearful to see it 
 leap half its length above the flood, and with a face so deadly 
 p"a]e, play among the tossing billows, then float motionless, as 
 if exhausted, and anon, returning to the encounter, spring, 
 struggle, and contend, like a maniac battling with mortal foes. 
 
 It was strangely painful to think that he was not permitted 
 16 
 
186 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 to find a grave, even beneath the waters he had loved; that 
 all the gentleness and charity of his nature should be changed 
 by death to the fury of a madman ; and that the king of terrors, 
 who brings repose to the despot and the man of blood, should 
 teach warfare to him who had ever worn the meekness of the 
 lamb. For days and nights this terrible purgatory was pro- 
 longed. It was on the 21st of June that, after many efforts, 
 they were enabled to bear the weary dead back to his desolate 
 cottage. 
 
 There they found his faithful dog guarding the door. 
 Heavily must the long period have worn away, while he 
 watched for his only friend, and wondered why he delayed 
 his coming. He scrutinized the approaching group sus- 
 piciously, and would not willingly have given them admittance, 
 save that a low, stifled wail at length announced his intuitive 
 knowledge of the master, whom the work of death had effectu- 
 ally disguised from the eyes of men. 
 
 In his chair lay the guitar, whose melody was probably the 
 last that his ear heard on earth. There were, also, his 
 flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scattered and open, 
 as if recently used. On the spread table was the untasted 
 meal for noon, which he had prepared against his return from 
 that bath which had proved so fatal. It was a touching sight, 
 — the dead hermit mourned by his humble retainers, the poor 
 animals who loved him, and ready to be laid by stranger hands 
 in a foreign grave. 
 
 So fell this singular and accomplished being, at the early age 
 of twenty-eight. Learned in the languages, in the arts and 
 sciences, improved by extensive travel, gifted with personal 
 beauty, and a feeling heart, the motives for this estrangement 
 from his kind are still enveloped in mystery. It was, however, 
 known that he was a native of England, where his father was 
 a clergyman; that he received from thence ample remittances 
 for his comfort; and that his name was Francis Abbot. These 
 facts had been previously ascertained; but no written papers 
 were found in his cell, to throw additional light upon the ob- 
 scurity in which he had so effectually wrapped the history 
 of his pilgrimage, Mns. Sigodiutet. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 187 
 
 LESSON LXXVI. 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO NIAGARA. 
 
 Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty ! God hath set 
 His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to spealc of him 
 Eternally : bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar, pour 
 Incense of awe-struck praise. 
 
 And who can dare 
 To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
 Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime 
 Of thy tremendous hymn ? Even ocean shrinks 
 Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild waves 
 Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 
 To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
 His wearied billows from their vexing play. 
 And 1 uU them to a cradle calm : but thou, 
 With everlasting, undecaying tide, 
 Dost rest not night or day. 
 
 The morning stars. 
 When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, 
 Heard thy deep anthem, and those wrecking fires 
 That wait the Archangel's signal to dissolve 
 The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 
 fSraven, as with a thousand diamond spears. 
 On thine unfathomed page. Each leafy bough 
 That lifts itself within thy proud domain, 
 Ooth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
 And tremble at the baptism. 
 
 Lo ! yon birds 
 Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing 
 4.mid thy foam and mist. 'Tis meet for them 
 To touch thy garment's hem, or lightly stir 
 The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, 
 Who sport unharmed upon the fleecy cloud, 
 And listen at the echoing gate of heaven. 
 Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 
 Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak 
 Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 
 
188 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, 
 Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 
 Were profanation. 
 
 Thou dost make the soul 
 A wondering witness of thy majesty ; 
 And while it rushes with delirious joy 
 To tread the vestibule, dost chain its step, 
 And check its rapture with the humbling view 
 Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
 In the dread presence of the Invisible, 
 A.S if to answer to its God through thee. 
 
 Mrs. Sigoubnbt 
 
 LESSON LXXVII. 
 
 STORY OF THE ARK AND DOVE. 
 
 "Tell me a story, please," my little girl 
 Lisped from her cradle. So I bent me down. 
 And told her how it rained, and rained, and rained. 
 Till all the flowers were covered, and the trees 
 Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood. 
 And people dwelt, a fearful deluge rolled ; 
 Because the world was wicked, and refused 
 To heed the words of God. But one good man. 
 Who long had warned the wicked to repent. 
 Obey, and live, taught by the voice of Heaven 
 Had built an Ark : and thither, with his wife, 
 And children, turned for safety. Two and two, 
 Of beasts and birds, and creeping things he took 
 With food for all ; and when the tempest roared. 
 And the great fountains of the sky poured out 
 A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drowned, 
 They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure. 
 
 And so the mighty waters bare them up. 
 And o'er the bosom of the deep they sailed 
 For many days. But then a gentle dove 
 'Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread 
 Her lonely pinion o'er that boundless wave. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 189 
 
 All, all was desolation. Chirping nest, 
 
 Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw, 
 
 For all the people of the earth were drowned. 
 
 Because of disobedience. Naught she spied 
 
 Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky. 
 
 Nor found her weary foot a place of rest. 
 
 So with a leaf of olive in her mouth, 
 
 Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance. 
 
 Upon some wrecking billow floated by. 
 
 With drooping *ing the peaceful ark she sought. 
 
 The righteous man that wandering dove received 
 
 And to her mate restored. 
 
 Then I looked 
 Upon the child, to see if her young thought 
 Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye 
 Was a glad listener, and the eager breath 
 Of pleased attention curled her parted lip. 
 And so I told her how the waters dried. 
 And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds 
 Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove 
 Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds 
 Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired ark 
 Upon the breezy breast of Ararat 
 Reposed, and Noah, with glad spirit, reared 
 An altar to his God. 
 
 Since, many a time. 
 When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star. 
 That little one is laid, with earnest tone, 
 And pure cheek pressed to mine, she fondly asks 
 " The Ark and Dove." 
 
 Mothers can tell how oft, 
 In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up 
 From a sealed lip ; and tenderly hath blent 
 With the warm teaching of the sacred tale 
 A voiceless wish, that when the timid soul, 
 Now in the rosy mesh of infancy 
 Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world. 
 Like that exploring dove, and find no rest, 
 A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming hand 
 May gently guide it to the'ark of peace. 
 
 Mns. SieouBiTET. 
 
190 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON LXXVIII. 
 
 GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. 
 
 The principal virtues or vices of a vifoman, must be of a 
 private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own 
 family and dependents lies her sphere of action, the scene 
 of almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine 
 her character and her fate, here and hereafter. Reflect, for a 
 moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children, and 
 servants, must depend on her temper, and you wiU see that the 
 greatest good or evil, which she ever may have in her power to 
 do, may arise from her correcting or indulging its infirmities. 
 
 It is true, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions ; 
 but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivatingevery 
 good inclination, and in checking and subduing every pro- 
 pensity to evil. If you had been born with a bad temper, it 
 might have been made a good one, at least with regard to its 
 outward effects, by education, reason, and principle; and, 
 though you are so happy as to have a good one while young, 
 do not suppose it will always continue so, if you neglect to 
 maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, dis- 
 appointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and imbitter 
 the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason 
 and religion. 
 
 It is observed that every temper is inclined, in some degree, 
 either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so 
 unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn: it 
 is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, and 
 to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which we 
 are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to 
 society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female charac- 
 ter, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient to 
 preserve a young woman from giving way to it ; for i' is as 
 unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill-behavior by 
 passion as by intoxication ; and she ought to be ashamed of 
 the one as much as of the other. Gentleness, meekness, and 
 patience are peculiar distinctions ; and an enraged woman is 
 one of the most disgusting sights in nature. 
 
 It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate people 
 can command themselves, when they have a motive sufficiently 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 191 
 
 Strong, such as the presence of those they fear, or to whom 
 they particularly desire to recommend themselves. It is, there- 
 fore, no excuse to persons, whom you have injured by unkind 
 reproaches and unjust aspersions, to tell them you were in a 
 passion. The allowing yourself to speak to them in a passion, 
 is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which the meanest of your 
 fellow-creatures would have a right to resent. 
 
 When once you find yourself heated so far, as to desire to 
 say what you know would be provoking and wounding to 
 another, you should immediately resolve either to be silent, 
 or to quit the room, rather than give utterance to any thing 
 dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then 
 unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason from others. 
 It is, therefore, your part to retire from such an occasion to 
 sin ; and wait tiU you are cool, before you presume to judge 
 of what has passed. 
 
 By accustoming yourself thus to conquer and disappoint 
 your anger, you wiU, by degrees, find it grow weak and 
 manageable, so as to leave your reason at liberty. You wUI 
 be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and your looks and 
 gestures from all expressions of violence and ill-wiU. Pride, 
 which produces so many evils in the human mind, is the great 
 source of passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a proper 
 humility, a due sense of his own faults and insufficiences, and 
 a due respect for others, wiU find but small temptation to vio- 
 lent or unreasonable anger. 
 
 In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for resent 
 ment, there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a proper and 
 necessary part of our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or 
 degrading. I would not wish you insensible to this ; for the 
 person, who feels not an injury, must be incapable of being 
 properly affected by benefits. With those who treat you ill, 
 without provocation, you ought to maintain your own dignity. 
 
 But, in order to do this, while . you show a sense of their 
 improper behavior, you must preserve calmness, and even 
 good-breeding; and thereby convince them of the impotence, 
 as well as inj\istice, of their malice. You must also weigh 
 every circumstance with candor and charity, and consider 
 whether your showing the resentment deserved, may not 
 produce ill consequences to innocent persons ; and wheth<;T 
 
192 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 it may not occasion the breach of some duty, or necessary 
 connection, to which you ought to sacrifice even your just 
 resentments. 
 
 Above all things, take care that a particular offense to you 
 does not make you unjust to the general character of the offend- 
 ing person. Generous anger does not preclude esteem for 
 whatever is really estimable, nor does it destroy good-will to 
 the person of its object; it even inspires the desire of over- 
 coming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punish- 
 ment, than the regret of having injured one who deserved his 
 kindness ; it is always placable, and ready to be reconciled, as 
 soon as the offender is convinced of his error; nor can any 
 subsequent injury provoke it to recur to past disobligations, 
 which had been once forgiven. 
 
 The consciousness of injured innocence naturally produces 
 dignity, and usually prevents excess of anger. Our passion 
 is most unruly, when we are conscious of blame, and when 
 we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to contempt. 
 Where we know we have been wrong, the least injustice in the 
 degree of blame imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; 
 but, where we know ourselves faultless, the sharpest accusa- 
 tion excites pity or contempt, rather than rage. 
 
 Mbs. Chafone. 
 
 LESSON LXXIX. 
 
 THE DAUGHTER AT HER MOTHEr's GRAVE. 
 
 It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a 
 long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sabred 
 nibund, beneath which I had seen her buried. ,. Since that 
 mournful period, a great change had come over me. My 
 childish years had passed away, and with them my youthful 
 character. The world was altered too ; and, as I stood at my 
 mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same 
 thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed 
 in an excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen 
 years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. 
 It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday ; as if the blessed 
 sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gav 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 193 
 
 dreams of my infiincy and childhood were brought back so 
 distinctly to my mind, that, had it not been for one bitter 
 recollection, the tears I shed would have been gentle and 
 refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one ; but 
 the thought of it now pains my heart, and I relate it, that those 
 children who have parents to love them, may learn to value 
 them as they ought. 
 
 My mother had been ill a long time, and I had become so 
 accustomed ^to her pale face and weak voice, that I was not 
 frightened at them as children usually are. At first, it is true, 
 I sobbed violently ; but when, day after day, I returned from 
 school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would 
 always be spared to me ; but they told me she would die. 
 
 One day when I had lost my place in the class, and done 
 my work wrong side outward, I came home discouraged and 
 fretful I went to my mother's chamber. She was paler than 
 usual, but she met me with the same affectionate smUe that 
 always welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back, 
 through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must 
 have been stone, not to have been melted. She requested me 
 to go down stairs, and bring her a glass of water ; I pettishly 
 asked why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a look 
 of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be a 
 hundred years old, she said, " and wiU not my daughter bring a 
 glass of water for her poor sick mother?" 
 - I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. 
 Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set 
 the glass down very quickly, and left the, room. After playing 
 a short time, I went to bed, without bidding my mother good 
 night ; but when alone in my room, in darkness and silence, 
 I remembered how pale she looked, and how her voice trembled 
 when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of water 
 for her poor sick mother?" I could not sleep. I stole into 
 her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy 
 slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I did not 
 tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, 
 resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry 
 I was for my conduct. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying 
 on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was 
 
 17 
 
194 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 dead! she never spoke more; never smiled upon me again; 
 and when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head 
 in blessing, it was so cold that it made me start. I bowed 
 down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. 
 I thought then I wished I might die, and be buried with her; 
 and, old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to 
 give, could my mother but have lived to teU me that she 
 forgave my chUdish in^titude. But I cannot call her back ; 
 and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her 
 manifold kindness, the memory of that repltoachml l()ok she 
 gave me, will bite like a serpent, and sting like an adde'r._ ,< 
 
 AwowTMoirs. 
 
 LESSON LXXX, 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Give me my old seat, mother. 
 
 With my head upon thy knee : 
 I've passed through many a changing scene. 
 
 Since thus I sat by thee. 
 O ! let me look into thine eyes ; 
 
 Their meek, soft, loving Ught 
 Falls like a gleam of holiness. 
 
 Upon my heart, to-night. 
 
 I've not been long away, mother ; 
 
 Few suns have risen and set. 
 Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek 
 
 My lips in kisses met. 
 'Tis but a little time, I know, 
 
 Bnt very long it seems ; 
 Though every night I came to thee. 
 
 Dear mother, in my dreams. 
 
 The world has kindly dealt, mother. 
 
 By the child thou lov'st so well ; 
 Thy prayers have circled round her path ; 
 
 And 'twas their holy spell 
 Which made that path so dearly bright ; 
 
 Which strewed the roses there ; 
 Which gave the light, and cast the balm 
 
 On every breath of air. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER 195 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother ; 
 
 A happier never beat ; 
 And, even now, new buds of hope 
 
 Are bursting at my feet. 
 Oh ! mother! life may be a dream ; 
 
 But if such dreams are given, 
 While at the portals thus we stand. 
 
 What are the trutka of Heaven ! 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother ! 
 
 Yet, when fond eyes I see, / 
 And hear soft tones and winning words, 
 
 I ever think of thee. 
 And theii, the tears my spirit weeps 
 
 Unbidden fill my eye ; 
 And, like a houseless dove, I long 
 
 Unto thy breast to fly. 
 
 Then I am very sad, mother, 
 
 I'm very sad and lone ; . ^ 
 O I there's no heart whose inmost fold 
 
 Opes to me like thine own ! 
 Though sunny smiles wreathe blooming lips. 
 
 While love-tones meet my ear ; 
 My mother, one fond glance of thine 
 
 Were thousand times more dear. 
 
 Then with a closer clasp, mother, 
 
 Now hold me to thy heart ; 
 I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own. 
 
 Once more before we part. 
 And, mother, to this love-lit spot, 
 
 When I am far away. 
 Come oft — too oft thou canst not come ! 
 
 And for thy darling pray. FAiraT Foebsteb 
 
 LESSON LXXXI. 
 
 FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. 
 
 " And where have you been, my Mary, 
 And where have you been from me?" 
 
 " I've been at the top of the Caldon-Low, 
 The Mid^mmer night to see." 
 
196 YOUNG LADIES' KEADER. 
 
 " And what did you see, my Mary, 
 All up on the Caldon-Low V 
 
 " I saw the blithe sunshine come down, 
 And I saw the merry winds blow." 
 
 " And what did you hear, my Mary, 
 
 All up on the Caldon-Hill?" 
 " I heard the drops of the water made. 
 
 And the green corn ears to fill." 
 
 " Oh tell me all, my Mary, 
 
 All, all that ever you know ; 
 For you must have seen the fairies. 
 
 Last night, on Caldon-Low." 
 
 " Then take me on your knee, mother. 
 
 And listen, mother of mine : 
 A hundred fairies danced last night. 
 
 And the harpers they were nine. 
 
 " And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, 
 And their dancing feet so small ; 
 
 But, oh, the sound of their talking 
 Was merrier far than all !" 
 
 " And what were the words, -my Mary, 
 That you did hear them say V 
 
 "I'll tell you all, my mother. 
 But let me have my way. 
 
 'And some, they played with the water. 
 And rolled it down the hill ; , 
 
 ' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 
 The poor old miller's mill ; 
 
 " ' For there has been no water. 
 
 Ever since the first of May ; 
 And a busy man-shall the miller be 
 
 By the dawhing of the day. 
 
 ' Oh, the miller, how he will laugh. 
 When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
 The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 
 Till the tears fill both his eyes !' 
 
 " And some, they seized the little, winds. 
 That sounded over the hill. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 197 
 
 And each put a horn into his mouth, 
 And blew so sharp and shrill. 
 
 " 'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go. 
 
 Away from every horn ; ' 
 And those shall clear the mildew dank, 
 
 From the blind old widow's corn. 
 
 " ' Oh, the poor, blind old widow. 
 
 Though she has been blind so long. 
 She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone 
 
 And the corn stands stiff and strong,' 
 
 "And some, they brought the brown lintiseed, 
 
 And flung it down from the Low ; 
 - And this,' said they, ' by the sun-rise, 
 
 In the weaver's croft shall grow. 
 
 " ' Oh, the poor, lame weaver,^" 
 
 How will he laugh putrignt. 
 When he sees his dwinaling flax field 
 
 All full of flowers by night !' 
 
 " And then upspoke a brownie. 
 
 With a long beard on his chin , 
 ' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 
 
 ' And I want some more to spin. 
 
 " ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 
 
 And I want to spin another ; 
 A little sheet for Mary's bed, 
 
 And an apron for her mother !' 
 
 *' And with that I could not help but laugh. 
 
 And I laughed out loud and free ; 
 And then on the top of the Caldon-Low 
 
 There was no one left but me. 
 
 "And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, 
 
 The mists were cold and gray, 
 And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 
 
 That round about me lay. 
 
 " But as I came down from the hill-top, 
 
 I heard a jar below ; 
 how busy the jolly miller was. 
 
 And how merry the wheel did go ! 
 
198 you;>fG ladies' reader. 
 
 Y 
 
 " And I peep'd into the widow's field. 
 
 And, sure enough, were seen 
 The yellow ears of the mildewed corn 
 
 All standing stiff and green. 
 
 "And down by the weaver's croft I stole, 
 
 To see if the flax were high ; 
 But I saw the weaver at his gate, 
 
 With the good news in his eye. 
 
 " Now, this is all I heard, mother. 
 
 And all that I did see; 
 So, prythee, make my bed, mother, 
 
 For I am tired as I can be." Mabi Howitt 
 
 LESSON LXXXII 
 
 {^ElKptical.') 
 
 Q^ [In the following lesson, and some others, ellipses are left to be filled up 
 by the pupil. Let the reader supply the words whlcji are omitted. In this les- 
 Bon the rhyme will assist in suggesting the proper word. Such an exercise 
 will be found interesting and very useful. It will give to the learner a ready 
 command of language, and thus promote fluency in conversation, a very impor- 
 tant and desirable accomplishment, and will contribute to the formation of a 
 habit of ease and readiness in composition. The memory, the imagination, 
 and the judgment are called into exercise, while at the same time all the 
 more immediate objects of a reading lesson are equally well secured. The 
 proper word can be written with a pencil in the vacant place within the 
 brackets, or can be supplied by the pupil at the time of reading.] 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride, / 
 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world ( /./^.'. , );~ 
 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 
 And milder moons mparadise'the ( - . '; ) ; 
 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor,' truth, 
 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted' (...), 
 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting (...), 
 
 Views not a realm so beautiful and fair, 
 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer (...); 
 
 In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
 
 Touched by remembrance, trembles to that (...)• 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 199 
 
 For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
 
 The heritage of Nature's noblest ( . . ), 
 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blessed, 
 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the (.,,), 
 
 Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 
 His sword and scepter, pageantry and (...), 
 
 While' in his softened looks benignly blend 
 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, (...); 
 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. 
 
 Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of ( . . ' : 
 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. 
 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces (...); 
 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet. 
 
 And iireside pleasures gambol at her (...). 
 
 " Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found f" 
 
 Art thou a man ? a patriot I look (...); 
 
 Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,. 
 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy ( . /^.< k. )' 
 
 J. MONTGOMERT 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath {.'^'' '<■ "'f^, 
 
 This is my own, my native land T 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath (...), 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
 [f such there breathe, go mark him well ; 
 For him no minstrel raptures (...); 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can (...); 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentered all in ( . . . ), 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And, doubly dying, shall go ( . . . ) 
 To the vile dust from whence he sprung. 
 Unwept, unhonored, and (...). W. Scott 
 
200 YOUNG LADIES' READKR. 
 
 LESSON LXXXIII. 
 
 ON THE NATURE OF CLOUDS. 
 
 CLOUDS^e collections of vapor in the air, rendered visible 
 by condensation. They seldom rise very high. Sometimes 
 they rest upon the earth's surface, constituting what is termed 
 fog. Sometimes they are a mile above the surface of the earth, 
 sometimes more; but they seldom rise higher than tveo or 
 three miles. Very thin, fleecy clouds, hovi^ever, sometimes 
 rise to the hight of four or five miles. But why do fliey not 
 rise tojjje surface of the atmosphere ? The density of the 
 atmo^)here rapiidly diminishes upward. One half of the whole 
 qdantity of air is within about three miles of the earth. Above 
 this hight, the air is unable to support any considerable 
 quantities of vapor. Hence we see the reason why clouds rise 
 no higher, and why the thinnest and lightest rise highest. 
 
 To an attentive observer, the clouds present many interesting 
 subjects of contemplation^^ Their ever-varying forms, their 
 beautiful and richly variegated colors, and their silent motion, 
 varying often in velocity and direction, while they furnish the 
 poet with a field in which his fancy may rove delighted^.'also 
 afibrd to the student of nature many an interesting theme for 
 reflection. At one time, dark, and portentous fancy might 
 easily imagine them the ruins of some a:ncieut castle, or time- 
 worn tower ; at another, they gather in beautiful and glorious 
 forms around the path of the descending sun, and seem to vie 
 with that luminary itself in splendor. Sometimes they move 
 swiftly over the face of the heaven, and soon recede from our 
 view ; sometimes they seem to meet each other, and soon, like 
 hastv travelers, pass each other by, without a sign of recogni- 
 tion. At one time, while we gaze upon them, they vanish ; at 
 another, they gather into darker and heavier masses of settled 
 gloom. 
 
 The principal circumstances which influence the form of 
 clouds are, the motion of the air, and the formation and con- 
 densation of vapor. Substances so light as clouds, readUy 
 change form, when subjected to greater atmospheric pressure 
 on one side than on the other. Different portions of the air 
 move with different degrees of velocity. Hence, clouds situ- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 201 
 
 ated in these portions of air, divide, collect, and change form, 
 according to the force acting upon them. Water-spouts are 
 usually attended by a thick, black cloud, formed, probably, by 
 the vapor condensed by opposite currents of air meeting. New 
 accessions of vapor often change the form of clouds ; also, the 
 dissolving of vapor, or a diminution of their density. Some- 
 times, probably, a cloud meets vrith a stratum of air sufficiently 
 warm to dissolve it. In this case, it will vanish by degrees. 
 Different parts of a cloud may be in strata of air of different 
 warmth or density. The cloud will then partly dissolve, and 
 the part dissolved will, perhaps, rise, and become visible in a 
 higher portion of the air, where the heat is not sufficient to 
 render it visible. In the spring, it is often cloudy in the morn- 
 ing, and clear toward noon. The heat of the sun dissolves 
 the moisture, which arose in great quantities from the damp 
 earth of the morning. 
 
 Clouds often move in opposite directions. Different portions 
 of air often move in different directioim-above one another, on 
 account of their being unequally rarefied by heat. They, of 
 course, carry the clouds with them. This may be readily 
 illustrated. If, in cold weather, the door of a warm room be 
 opened a little, and a candle be held near the bottom of the 
 opening, and another near the top, the flame wUl often be blown 
 in opposite directions. The cold rushes in at the bottom, and 
 the warm air, being lighter, goes out at the top. 
 
 The color of clouds depends m. the rays of light which they 
 reflect. Dark clouds often pr^^e wind. But, although they 
 are seen before the wind is felt, they are not the cause, but the 
 effect, of the wind. As the wind moves on, it presses upon 
 that portion of the air which has a velocity less than its own, 
 and by this pressure, and, perhaps, by its greater coldness, 
 condenses the vapor contained in it, and thus forms a cloud. 
 This cloud, being so detise that little or no light can pass 
 through it, appears . black. And the degree of darkness 
 depends on the density of the vapor, or, in other words, on the 
 velocity of the wind, and the quantity of water in the portion 
 of air compressed. 
 
 The beautiful colors that often adorn the sky at sunset, 
 are caused by the clouds reflecting the sun's light. That red- 
 ness of the sky in the morning, which is often regarded as the 
 
202 YOUNG LADIES' READER 
 
 precursor of a storm, probably results from the red rays of the 
 sun passing through the vapor collected in the air. Light is 
 composed of seven different-colored rays, possessing different 
 degrees of force. These may be seen, separate from each 
 other, m the rauAow. Of these, the red rays have the greatest 
 force or mon^tum. Hence, when the air is very full of • 
 vapor, the red rays have sufficient power to penetrate it, while 
 the others have not. Many of the red rays, however, do 
 not come directly from the sun, but are scattered in various 
 directions on striking the vapor, and thus the redness is dif- 
 fused over a considerable space. 
 
 Thunder clouds exhibit an appearance peculiarly striking. 
 To many they are objects of terror. In a greater or less degree, 
 they arrest the attention of almost every one. These clouds 
 are collections of vapor strongly electrified. They are gener- 
 ally very dense, and very near the earth. Frequently two 
 clouds rise in different parts of the horizon, and move toward 
 each other till they meet, at the same time rising up toward 
 the zenith. When clouds in different electrical states approach 
 each other, or when a strongly electrified cloud approaches 
 near to the earth, the electricity is discharged in vast quantities, 
 and with tremendous violence, thus constituting what is called 
 lightning; while the concussion given to the surrounding air 
 by its force, and the rushing together of the portions of air 
 separated by its motion, causes thunder. This sound, reflected 
 and reverberated among the clouds, produces the long-continued 
 and solemn roll, which forms one of the sublimest character- 
 istics of a thunder-storm. 
 
 It is often imagined that lightning always moves toward the 
 earth. But there is reason to suppose that discharges are some- 
 times made from the earth to the clouds, as well as from the 
 clouds to the earth. It is not difficult to measure the distance 
 of thunder-clouds from the earth. Sound moves at the rate of 
 eleven hundred and forty-two feet in a second ; light at the 
 rate of about two hundred thousand miles in a second. The 
 time in which light traverses so small a space as that between 
 a thunder-cloud and any place from which the thunder can be 
 heard, is so short that it need not be estimated. If, then, we 
 multiply the number of seconds between the flash and the 
 thunder by eleven hundred and forty-two, we have the distaucr 
 
yOUNG LADIES' READER. 203 
 
 of the cloud in feet. Hence, when a very short time elapses 
 between the flash and the thunder, the cloud is very near. 
 
 There is a peculiar sublimity attending thunder-storms in 
 mountainous regions. The traveler among the Andes fre- 
 quently hears the thunder roll, and sees the lightning flash 
 from the clouds that gather around the hiUs far .beneath him, 
 while around his path, and on the hights above him, the sun 
 is shining with unclouded splendor. Anonymods 
 
 LESSON L XXXIV. 
 
 THE BEAUTY^'qF CLOUDS. 
 
 The clouds ! the clouds ! they are beautiful. 
 
 When they sleep on the soft, blue sky. 
 As if the sun to rest could lull 
 
 Their snowy company ; 
 And, as the wind springs up, they start. 
 
 And career o'er the azure plain ; 
 And before the course of the breezes dart. 
 
 To scatter their balmy rain. 
 
 The clouds I the clouds ! how change their forms 
 
 With every passing breath ; 
 And now a glancing sunbeam warms. 
 
 And now they look cold as death. 
 Oh, often and often have I escaped 
 
 From the stir of the noisy crowd. 
 And a thousand fanciful visions shaped 
 
 On the face of a passing cloud. 
 
 The clouds ! the clouds ! round the sun at night 
 
 They come like a band of slaves. 
 That are only bright in the master's light. 
 
 And each in his glory lave?. 
 Oh, they are lovely, lovely then. 
 
 When the heaven around them glows ; 
 Now touched with a purple and amber stain. 
 
 And now with the hue of the rose. 
 
 The clouds ! the clouds ! in the starlit sKy, 
 How they float on the light wind's wings ; 
 
 Now resting an instant, then glancing by, 
 In their fickle wanderings ! 
 
204 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Now they hide the deep blue firmament : 
 Now it shows their folds between, 
 
 As if a silver vein were rent 
 
 From the jeweled brow of a queen. 
 
 The clouds ! the clouds ! they are the lid 
 
 To the lightning's flashing eye ; 
 And in their flefecy fold is hid 
 
 The thunder's majesty. 
 Oh, how their warning is proclaimed 
 
 By the shrill blast's battle song ; 
 And the tempest's deadliest shjjfts are aimed 
 
 From the midst of the dark clouds' throng. 
 
 The clouds ! the clouds ! my childish days 
 
 Are past ; my heart is old ; 
 But here and there a feeling stays, 
 
 That never can grow cold : 
 And the love of nature is one of these, 
 
 That time's wave never shrouds ; 
 And oft and oft doth my soul find peace 
 
 In watching the passing clouds. 
 
 Miss M. A. Bhowke. 
 
 LESSON LXXXV. 
 
 THE zephyr's SOLILOaUY. 
 
 Though from whence I came, or whither I go. 
 My end or my nature I ne'er may know, 
 I will number o'er to myself a few 
 Of the countless things I am born to do. 
 
 I flit in the days of the joyous Spring, 
 Through field and forest, and freight my wing 
 With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear 
 Where I know that man will inhale the air. 
 And while I hover o'er beauty's lip, 
 I part her locks with my pinion's tip ; 
 Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress, 
 And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress. 
 I love to sport with the silken curl 
 On the lily neck of the laughing girl ; 
 To dry the tear of the weeping boy. 
 Who's breaking his heart for a broken toy ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 205 
 
 To fan the heat of his brow away, 
 And over his mother's heart-strings play, 
 Till, his grief forgotten, he looks around. 
 For the secret hand that has waked the sound. 
 
 I love, when the warrior mails his breast, 
 To toss the head of his snow-white crest ; 
 To take the adieu that he turns to leave. 
 And the sigh that his lady retires to heave ! 
 When the sultry sun, of a summer's day. 
 Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away, 
 And the flowers are left to thirst to death, 
 I love to come and afford them breath ; 
 And, under each languid drooping thijjg^ -^ 
 
 To place my balmy and cooling wing. 
 
 When the bright fresh showers have just gone by. 
 And the rainbow stands in the evening sky. 
 Oh ! then is the merriest time for me. 
 And I and my race have a jubilee ! 
 We fly to the gardens, and shake the drops 
 From the bending boughs, and the floweret tops ; 
 And revel unseen in the calm star-light. 
 Or dance on the moonbeams the live-long night. 
 These, ah, these are my hours of gladness ! 
 But, I have my days and my nights of sadness ! 
 
 When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose, 
 And 't is turning as white as the mountain snows. 
 While the eye of beauty must soon be hid 
 Forever beneath its sinking lid, 
 Oh ! I'd give my whole self but to spare that gasp. 
 And save her a moment from death's cold grasp ! 
 And when she is borne to repose alone 
 'Neath the fresh cut sod, and the churoh-yard stone, 
 I keep close by her, and do my best 
 To lift the dark pall from the sleeper's breast ; 
 And linger behind with the beautiful clay. 
 When friends and kindred have gone their way ! 
 
 When the babe whose dimples I used to fan, 
 1 see completing its earthly span, 
 1 long, with a spirit so pure, to go 
 From the scene of sorrow and tears below, 
 Till I rise so high I can catch the song 
 Of welcome that bursts from the angel throng, 
 
206 YOUNG LADIES' READER 
 
 As it enters its rest; but alas ! alas ! 
 I am only from death to death to pass. 
 
 I hasten away over mountain and flood, 
 And find I'm alone on a field of blood. 
 The soldier is there, but he breathes no more ; 
 And there is the plume, but 't is stained with gore ; 
 1 flutter and strive in vain, to place 
 The end of his scarf on his marble face ; 
 And find not even a sigh, to take 
 To her, whose heart is so soon to break ! 
 I fly to the flowers I loved so much ; 
 They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch. 
 The earth is in ruins ! I turn to the sky ; 
 It frowns ! — and what can I do, but die ? 
 
 Miss H. F. Gotjid. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVI. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF PRAIRIES. 
 
 The attraction of the prairie consists in its extent, its carpet 
 of verdure and flowers, its undulating surface, its groves, and 
 the fringe of timber by which it is surrounded. Of all these, 
 the latter is the most expressive feature. It is that which 
 gives character to the landscape, which imparts the shape, and 
 marks the boundary of the plain. If the prairie be small, its 
 greatest beauty consists in the vicinity of the surrounding 
 margin of woodland, which resembles the shore of a lake, 
 indented with deep vistas, like bays and inlets, and throwing 
 out long points, like capes and headlands ; while occasionally 
 these points approach each other so close, that the traveler 
 passes through a narrow avenue or strait, where the shadows 
 of the woodland fall upon his path, and then again emerges 
 into another prairie. 
 
 Where the plain is large, the forest outline is seen in the far 
 perspective, like the dim shore when beheld at a distance from 
 the ocean. The eye sometimes roams over the green meadow, 
 without discovering a tree, a shrub, or any object in the im- 
 mense expanse, but the wilderness of grass and flowers ; -while 
 at another time, the prospect is enlivened by the groves, which 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 207 
 
 are seen interspersed like islands, or the solitary tree, which 
 stands alone in the blooming desert. 
 
 If it is in the spring of the year, and the young grass has 
 just covered the ground with a carpet of delicate green, and 
 especially if the sun is rising from behind a distant swell of 
 the plain, and glittering upon the dew-drops, no scene can be 
 more lovely to the eye. The deer is seen grazing quietly 
 upon the plain ; the bee is on the wing ; the wolf, with his 
 tail drooped, is sneaking away to his covert with the felon tread 
 of one who is conscious that he has disturbed the peace of 
 nature ; and the grouse feeding in flocks, or in pairs, Uke the 
 domestic fowl, cover the whole surface. 
 
 When the eye roves off from the green plain, to the groves, 
 or points of timber, these also are found to be at this season 
 robed in the most attractive hues. The rich undergrowth is in 
 full bloom. The red-bud, the dog-wood, the crab-apple, the 
 wild plum, the cherry, the wUd rose, are abundant in all the 
 rich lands ; and the grape vine, though its blossom is unseen, 
 fiUs the air with fragrance. The variety of the wild fruit, and 
 flowering shrubs, is so great, and such the profusion of the 
 blossoms with which they are bowed down, that the eye is 
 regaled almost to satiety. 
 
 The gayety of the prairie, its embellishments, and the 
 absence of the gloom and savage wildness of the forest, all 
 contribute to dispel the feeling of lonesomeness, which usually 
 creeps over the mind of the solitary traveler in the wilderness. 
 Though he may not see a house, nor a human being, and is 
 conscious that he is far from the habitations of men, he can 
 scarcely divest himself of the idea that he is traveling through 
 scenes embellished by the hand of art. The flowers, so fragile, 
 so delicate, and so ornamental, seem to have been tastefully 
 disposed to adorn the scene. The groves and clumps of trees 
 appear to have been scattered over the lawn to beautify the 
 landscape, and it is not easy to avoid that illusion of the fancy, 
 which persuades the beholder, that such scenery has been 
 created to gratify the refined taste of civilized man. 
 
 Europeans are often reminded of the resemblance of this 
 scenery to that of the extensive parks which they have been 
 accustomed to admire, in the old world. The lawn, the avenue, 
 the grove, the copse, which are there produced by art, are here 
 
208 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 prepared by natuie ; a splendid specimen of massy architec- 
 ture, and the distant view of villages, are alone wanting to 
 render the similitude complete. 
 
 In the summer, the prairie is covered with long, coarse grass, 
 which soon assumes a golden hue, and waves in the wind like 
 a ripe harvest. Those who have not a personal knowledge of 
 the subject, would be deceived by the accounts which are pub- 
 lished of the hight of the grass. It is seldom so tall as 
 travelers have represented, nor does it attain its highest growth 
 in the richest soil. In the low, wet prairies, where the sub- 
 stratum of clay lies near the surface, the center or main stem 
 of this grass, which bears the seed, acquires great thickness, 
 and shoots up to the hight of eight or nine feet, throwing out 
 a few, long, coarse leaves or blades, and the traveler often finds 
 It higher than his head, as he rides through it on horseback. 
 
 The first coat of grass is mingled with small flowers, the 
 violet, the bloom of the strawberry, and others of the most 
 minute and delicate texture. As the grass increases in size, 
 these disappear, and others, taller and more gaudy, display 
 their brDliant colors upon the green surface, and still later, a 
 larger and coarser succession rises with the rising tide of 
 verdure. The whole of the surface of these beautiful plams, 
 is clad throughout the season of verdure, with every imaginable 
 variety of color, "from grave to gay." It is impossible to 
 conceive a more infinite diversity, or a richer profusion of hues, 
 or to detect any predominating tint, except the green, which 
 forms the beautiful ground, and relieves the exquisite brilliancy 
 of aU the others. 
 
 In the winter, the prairies present a gloomy and desolate 
 scene. The fire has passed over them, and consumed every 
 vegetable substance, leaving the soil bare, and the surface per- 
 fectly black. That gracefully waving outline, which was so 
 attractive to the eye when clad in green, is now disrobed of all 
 its ornaments; its fragrance, its notes of joy, and the graces of 
 its landscape, have all vanished, and the bosom of the cold 
 earth, scorched and discolored, is alone visible. The wind 
 sighs mournfully over the black plain; but there is no object 
 to be moved by its influence ; not a tree to wave its long arms 
 in the blast, nor a reed to bend its fragile stem ; not a leaf, nor 
 even a blade of grass to tremble in the breeze 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 209 
 
 There is nothing to be seen but tlie cold, dead earth and the 
 bare mound, which move not ; and the traveler with a singular 
 sensation, almost of awe, feels the blast rushing over him, 
 while not an object visible to the eye, is seen to stir. Accus- 
 tomed as the mind is to associate with the action of the wind 
 its operation upon surrounding objects, and to see nature 
 bowing and trembling, and the fragments of matter mounting 
 upon the wind, as the storm passes, there is a novel effect pro- 
 duced on the mind of one who feels the current of air rolling 
 heavily over him, while nothing moves around. James Hali. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVIl. 
 
 * THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 These are the garden's of the desert, these 
 The unshorn fields, boundless and heautiful. 
 
 For which the speech of England has no name ; 
 
 The Prairies. I behold them for the first. 
 
 And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
 
 Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
 
 In airy undulations, far away. 
 
 As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell. 
 
 Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed. 
 
 And motionless for ever. Motionless ? 
 
 No, they are all unchained again. The clouds 
 
 Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath. 
 
 The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 
 
 Dark hollows seem to glide along, and chase 
 
 The sunny ridges. 
 
 Breezes of the South ! 
 Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers. 
 And pass the prairie-hawk, that, poised on high, 
 Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not ! ye have played 
 Among the palms Of Mexico, and vines 
 Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
 That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
 Into the calm Pacific ; have ye fanned 
 A nobler or a lovlier scene than this ? 
 Man hath no part in all this glorious work: 
 The hand that built the flrmSnent hath heaved 
 And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes 
 
 18 
 
210 YOUNG IJtDIES' READER. 
 
 With herbage, planted them with island groves, 
 
 And hedged them round with forests. Fitting flooi 
 
 For this magnificent temple of the sky, 
 
 With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
 
 Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
 
 Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love ; 
 
 A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 
 
 Than that which bends above the eastern hilla. 
 
 As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed. 
 Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides, 
 The hollow beating'of his footsteps seems 
 A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
 Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here, 
 The dead of other days ? And did the dust 
 Of these fair solitudes once stir with life. 
 And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds 
 , That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
 
 [n the dim forest, crowded with old oaks. 
 Answer. 
 
 A race that long has passed away 
 Built them ; a disciplined and populous race 
 Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek 
 'Vas hewing the Pentelicus to forms 
 Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
 The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 
 Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed. 
 When haply by their stalls the bison lowed. 
 And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 
 All day this desert murmured with their toils. 
 Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed 
 In a forgotten language, and old tunes. 
 Prom instruments of unremembered form. 
 Give the soft winds a voice. 
 
 The red man came. 
 The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce. 
 And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. 
 The solitude of centuries untold 
 Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf 
 Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den 
 Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground 
 Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone ; 
 All, — save the piles of earth that hold their bones ; 
 The platforms where they worshiped unknown gods ; 
 
VOUNG LADIES' READER 211 
 
 The barriers which they builded from the soil 
 
 To keep the foe at bay, till o'er the walls 
 
 The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, 
 
 The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped 
 
 With corpses. 
 
 The brown vultures of the wood 
 Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchers, 
 A.nd sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 
 Haply, some solitary fugitive, 
 Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 
 Of desolation and of fear became 
 Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 
 Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly words 
 Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude conquerors 
 Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 
 A. bride among their maidens, and, at length, 
 Seemed to forget — yet ne'er forgot — the wife 
 Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 
 Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. 
 
 Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise 
 Races of living things, glorious in strength. 
 And perish, as the quickening breath of God 
 Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, 
 Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long. 
 And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought 
 A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
 N^o longer by these streams, but far away. 
 On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back 
 The white man's face ; among Missouri's springs. 
 And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, 
 He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
 The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues 
 Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, 
 Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
 The earth with thundering steps ; yet here I meet 
 His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. 
 
 Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
 Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
 They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds. 
 And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man. 
 Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
 Startlingly beautiful. "The graceful deer 
 Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
 
212 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 A more adventurous colonist than man. 
 
 With whom he came across the eastern deep, 
 
 Fills the savannas with his murmurings, 
 
 And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 
 
 Within the hollow oak. I listen long 
 
 To his domestic hum, and think I hear 
 
 The sound of that advancing multitude 
 
 Which soon shall fill the deserts. From the ground 
 
 Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 
 
 Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 
 
 Of Sabbath worshipers. The low of herds 
 
 Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 
 
 Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 
 
 A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, 
 
 And I am in the wilderness alone. w. C. Bbtatjt. 
 
 LESSON LXXXVIII. 
 
 GOD SEEN IN NATURE'S WORKS. 
 
 Whatever leads our minds habitually to the Author of the 
 universe ; whatever mingles the voice of nature with the reve- 
 lation of the Gospel ; whatever teaches us to see, in all the 
 changes of the world, the varied goodness of Him, in whom 
 "we live, and move, and have our being," brings us nearer to 
 the spirit of the Savior of mankind. But it is not only as en- 
 couraging a sincere devotion, that these reflections are favora- 
 ble to Christianity; there is something moreover peculiarly al- 
 lied to its spirit in such observations of external nature. 
 
 When our Savior prepared himself for his temptation, his 
 agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judea,to inhale, 
 we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amid its solitary 
 scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion with his Father 
 amid the sublimest of his works. It is with similar feelings, 
 and to worship the same Father, that the Christian is permitted 
 to enter the temple of nature ; and, by the spirit of his religion, 
 there is a language infused into the objects which she presents, 
 unknown to the worshiper of former times. 
 
 To all, indeed, the same objects appear, the same sun shines, 
 the same heavens are open; but to the Christian alone it is 
 permitted to know the Author of these things ; to see his spirit 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 213 
 
 " move in the breeze,and blossom in the spring;" and to read, in 
 the changes which occur in the material world, the varied 
 expression of eternal love. It is from the influence of Chris- 
 tianity, accordingly, that the key has been given to the signs of 
 nature. It was only when the spirit of God moved on the face 
 of the deep, that order and beauty were seen in the world. 
 
 It is, accordingly, peculiarly well worthy of observation, that 
 the beauty of nature, as felt in modern times, seems to have 
 been almost unknown to the writers of antiquity. They de- 
 scribed occasionally the scenes in which they dwelt ; but, 
 if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems to have antici- 
 pated, in this instance, the influence of the Gospel, never with 
 any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, as now, the citadel of 
 Athens looked upon the evening sun, and her temples flamed in 
 his setting beam ; but what Athenian writer ever described the 
 matchless glories of the scene ? Then, as now, the silvery clouds 
 of the jEgean Sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in 
 the azure vault of heaven ; but what Grecian poet has been in- 
 spired by the sight? 
 
 The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless sky, 
 and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around them ; yet 
 even Eustace tells us, that a few detached lines is all that is left 
 in regard to them by the Roman poets. The Alps themselves, 
 
 " The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps. 
 And throned eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sabllraity, where forms and falls 
 The avalanche, the thunderbolt of snow;" 
 
 even these, the most glorious objects which the eye of man can 
 behold, were regarded by the ancients with sentiments only of 
 dismay or horror; as a barrier from hostile nations, or as the 
 dwelling of barbarous tribes. The torch of religion had not 
 then lighted the face of nature. They knew not the language 
 which she spoke, nor felt that holy spirit, which to the Chris- 
 tian, gives the sublimity of these scenes. 
 
 There is something, therefore, in religious reflections on the 
 objects, or the changes of nature, which is peculiarly appropriate 
 in a Christian teacher. No man will impress them on his heart 
 without becoming happier and better ; without feeling warmer 
 gratitude for the beneficence of nature., and deeper thankfulness 
 
214 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 for those means of knowing the Author of this beneficence which 
 revelation has afforded. " Behold the lilies of the field," says 
 our Savior; "they toil not, neither do they spin: yet, verily 
 I say unto you, that even Solomon, in all his glory, vi^as not 
 arrayed like one of these." In these words we perceive the 
 deep sense which he entertained of the beauty even of the 
 minutest of the works of nature. If the admiration of external 
 objects is not directly made the object of his precepts, it is not 
 on that account, the less allied to the spirit of religion. It 
 springs from the revelation which he has made, and grows with 
 the spirit which he inculcates. 
 
 ■' The cultivation of this feeling, we may suppose, is purposely 
 left to the human mind, that man may be induced to foUow it 
 from the charms which novelty confers; and the sentiments 
 which it awakens are not expressly enjoined as the spontaneous 
 growth of our own imagination. While they seem, however, 
 to spring up unbidden in the mind, they are, in fact, produced 
 by the spirit of religion ; and those who imagine that they are 
 not the fit subject of Christian instruction, are ignorant of the 
 secret workings, and finer analogies, of the faith which they 
 profess. Ahohtmous 
 
 LESSON L XXXIX. 
 
 THE MIRACLE. 
 
 One day in spring, Solomon, then a youth, sat under the 
 palm-trees, in the garden of the king, his father, with his eyes 
 fixed on the ground, and absorbed in thought. Nathan, his 
 preceptor, went up to him and said, " Why sittest thou thus, 
 musing under the palm-trees?" The youth raised his head, and 
 answered, « Nathan, I am exceedingly desirous to behold a 
 miracle." "A wish," said the prophet, with a smile, "which 
 I entertained myself in my juvenile years." « And was it 
 granted?" hastily asked the prince. 
 
 "A man of God," answered Nathan, "came to me, bringing 
 in his hand a pomegranate seed. Observe, said he, what this 
 seed will turn to. He thereupon made with his fingers a hole 
 in the earth, and put the seed into the hole, and covered it. 
 Scarcely had he drawn back his hand when the earth parted, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 215 
 
 and I saw two small leaves shoot forth, but no sooner did 1 per- 
 ceive them, than the leaves separated, and from between them 
 arose a round stem, covered with bark, and the stem became 
 every moment higher and thicker. The man of God there- 
 upon said to me, ' take notice!' And while I observed, seven 
 shoots issued from the stem, like the seven branches on the 
 candlestick of the altar. I was astonished, but the man of 
 God motioned to me, and commanded me to be silent, and to 
 attend. ' Behold,' said he, 'new creations will soon make their 
 appearance.' 
 
 " He thereupon brought water in the hollow of his hand 
 from the stream which flowed past ; and lo ! all the branches 
 were covered with green leaves, so that a cooling shade was 
 thrown around us, together with a delicious odor. ' Whence,' 
 exclaimed I, 'is this perfiime amid the refreshing shade?' 
 ' Seest thou not,' said the man of God, ' the scarlet blossom, 
 as, shooting forth from among the green leaves, it hangs down 
 in clusters ?' I was about to answer, when a gentle breeze 
 agitated the leaves, and strewed the blossoms around us, as the 
 autumnal blast scatters the withered foliage. No sooner had 
 the blossoms fallen, than the red pomegranates appeared sus- 
 pended among the leaves, like the almonds on the rod of 
 Aaron. The man of God then left me in profound amaze- 
 ment." 
 
 Nathan ceased speaking. " What is the name of the god-like 
 man ?" asked Solomon, hastily. " Doth he yet live ? Where 
 doth he dwell?" "Son of David," replied Nathan, " I have 
 related to thee a vision." When Solomon heard these words, 
 he was troubled in his heart, and said, " How cajist thou deceive 
 me thus?" "I have not deceived thee, son of David," rejoined 
 Nathan. " Behold, in thy father's garden thou mayest see all 
 that I have related to thee. Doth not the same thing take 
 place with every pomegranate, and with the other trees ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Solomon, " but imperceptibly, and in a long 
 time." Then Nathan answered, " Is it therefore the less a 
 divine work, because it takes place silently and insensibly ? 
 Study nature and her operations ; then wilt thou easily believe 
 those of a higher power, and not long for miracles wrought by 
 a human hand." F. A. KmrmiiAcaEs. 
 
216 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON XC. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF SINAI. 
 
 Our road now lay between wild and rugged mountains, and 
 the valley itself was stony, broken, and gullied by the washing 
 of the winter torrents ; and a few straggling thorn-bushes 
 were all that grew in that region of desolation. I had remark- 
 ed for some time, and every moment impressed it more and 
 more forcibly upon my mind, that every thing around me 
 seemed old and in decay. The valley was barren, and devas- 
 tated by torrents ; the rocks were rent ; the mountains cracked, 
 broken, and crumbling into thousands of pieces; and we 
 encamped at night between rocks which seemed to have been 
 torn asunder by some violent convulsion, where the stones had 
 been washed down into the valley, and the drifted sand almost 
 choked up the passage. 
 
 At every step the scene became more solemn and impres- 
 sive. The mountains became more and more striking, venera- 
 ble, and interesting. Not a shrub, nor blade of grass grew on 
 their naked sides, deformed with gaps and fissures ; and they 
 looked as if by a slight jar or shake they would crumble into 
 millions of pieces. It is impossible to describe correctly the 
 singularly interesting appearance of these mountains. Age, 
 hoary and venerable, is the predominant character. They 
 looked as if their Creator had made them higher than they 
 are, and their summits, worn and weakened by the action of 
 the elements for thousands of years, had cracked and fallen. 
 
 The last was by far the most interesting day of my journey 
 to Mount Sinai. We were moving along a broad valley, 
 bounded by ranges of lofty and crumbling mountains, forming 
 an immense rocky rampart on each side of us. We were 
 moving, the whole day, between parallel ranges of mountains, 
 receding in some places, and then again contracting, and about 
 mid-day, entered a narrow and rugged defile, bounded on each 
 side with precipitous granite rocks more than a thousand feet 
 high. We entered at the .very bottom of this defile, moving 
 for a time along the dry bed of a torrent, now obstructed with 
 sand and stones, the rocks on every side shivered and torn, 
 and the whole scene wild to sublimity. Our camels stumbled 
 
Missing Page 
 
218 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The depths have covered them : 
 They sank into the bottom as a stone. 
 Thy right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power ; 
 Thy right hand, O Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. 
 And in the greatness of thine excellency, 
 Thou hast overthrown them that rose up against thee : 
 Thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. 
 And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered to- 
 gether, 
 The floods stood upright as an heap, 
 And the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea. 
 
 The enemy said, 
 I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil ; 
 My lust shall be satisfied upon them ; 
 1 will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them. 
 Thou didst blow upon them with thy wind, 
 The sea covered them ; 
 They sank as lead in the mighty waters. 
 Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods ? 
 Who is like thee, 
 
 Glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders t 
 Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, the earth swallowed them. 
 Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which thou hast re- 
 deemed ; 
 Thou hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habitation. 
 
 The people shall hear, and be afraid : 
 Sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina. 
 Then the dukes of Edom shall be amazed ; 
 The mighty men of Moab, trembling shall take hold upon them , 
 All the inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away. 
 Fear and dread shall fall upon them ; ^ 
 By the greatness of thine arm they shall be still as a stone, 
 Till thy people pass over, Lord, 
 Till thy people pass over, which thou hast purchased. 
 
 Thou shalt bring them in. 
 And plant them in the mountain of thine inheritance. 
 In the place, O Lord, which thou hast made for them to dwell in. 
 In the sanctuary, O Lord, which thy hands have established. 
 Jehovah shall reign forever and ever. Exonus. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER, 219 
 
 LESSON XCII . 
 
 HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 God of the earth's extended plains ! 
 
 The dark, green fields contented lie : 
 The mountains rise like holy towers, 
 
 Where earth holdsgoimnune with the sky : 
 The tall cliff challenges the storm 
 
 That lowers upon the vale below, 
 Where shaded fountains send their streams, 
 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
 God of the dark and heavy deep ! 
 
 The waves lie sleeping on the sands. 
 Till the fierce^rumpet of the storm 
 
 Hath sumtaoned up their thundering bands; 
 Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 
 
 Or hurry, trembling o'er the seas, 
 TilljCalmed by thee, the sinking gale 
 
 Serenely breathes, " Depart in peace." 
 
 God of the jbrest's solemn shade ! 
 
 The grandeur of the lonely tree. 
 That wrestles singly with the gale. 
 
 Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
 But more majestic far they stand. 
 
 When, side by side, their ranks they form. 
 To wave on high their plumes of green, 
 
 And fight their battles with the storm. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 
 How gloriously above us springs 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue. 
 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
 Each brilliant star that sparkles through. 
 
 Each gilded cloud that wanders free 
 [n evening's purple radiance, gives 
 
 The beauty of its praise to thee. 
 
 God of the world ! the hour must come. 
 And Nature's self to dust return ; 
 
 Her crumbling altars must decay ; 
 Her incense fires shall cease to burn ; 
 
220 yOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 But still her grand and lovely scenes 
 Have made man's vrarmest praises flow ; 
 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace-'"'' 
 The beauty of the world below. W. 0. P. Peabody. 
 
 LESSON XCIII. 
 
 THE PRESENCE OF GOD. 
 
 O, THOU who fling'st so fair a robe 
 
 Of clouds around the hills untrod ; 
 Those mountain-pillars of the globe 
 
 Whose peaXs sustain thy throne, O GffeD ! 
 All glittering round the sunset skies, 
 
 Their fleecy wings are lightly furled, 
 As if to shade from mortal eyes 
 
 The glories of yon upper world ; 
 There, while the evening star upholds, 
 In one bright spot, their purple folds, 
 My spirit lifts its silent prayer, 
 For Thou, O God of love, art there. 
 
 The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet, 
 
 Up-springing freely from the sod, 
 [n whose soft looks we seem to meet 
 
 At every step, thy smiles, O God ! 
 The humblest soul their sweetness shares. 
 
 They bloom in palace-hall, or cot. 
 Give me, Lord, a heart like theirs. 
 
 Contented with my lowly lot. 
 Within their pure, ambrosial bells,., 
 In odors sweet thy spirit dwells. 
 Their breath may seem to scent the air ; 
 'Tis thine, O God ! for thou art there. 
 
 The birds, among the summer blooms. 
 
 Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love, 
 When, trembling on uplifted plumes, 
 
 They leave the earth and soar above ; 
 We hear their sweet familiar airs. 
 
 Where'er a sunny spot is found ; 
 How lovely is a life like theirs. 
 
 Diffusing sweetness all around ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. £21 
 
 From clime to clime, from pole to pole, 
 Their sweetest anthems softly roll ; 
 Till, melting on the realms of air, 
 They reach thy throne in grateful prayer. 
 
 The stars, those floating isles of light, 
 
 Round which the clouds unfurl their sails. 
 Pure as a woman's robe of white 
 
 That trembles round the form it vails, 
 They touch the heart as with a spell, 
 
 Yet set the soaring fancy free : 
 And, O ! how sweet the tales they *ell 
 
 Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee. 
 Each raging storm that wildly blows, 
 Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose. 
 Sublimely grand, or softly fair. 
 They speak of thee, for Thou art there. 
 
 Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread. 
 
 Where soaring fancy oft hath been. 
 There is a land where thou hast said 
 
 The pure in heart shall enter in ; 
 There, in those realms so calmly bright, - 
 
 How many a loved and gentle one 
 Bathe their soft plumes in living light, 
 
 That sparkles from thy radiant throne ! 
 There, souls once soft and sad as ours 
 Look up and sing 'mid fadeless flowers; 
 They dream no more of grief and care. 
 For Thou, the God of peace, art there. 
 
 Mne. A. B. Wslbt. 
 
 LESSON XCIV. 
 
 PLANBTARY AND TERRESTRIAL WORLDS. 
 
 To us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most 
 extensive orb that our eyes can anywhere behold. It is also 
 clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with 
 a variety of beautiful decorations; whereas, to a spectator 
 placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect, looks 
 all luminous, and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell 
 at stiU greater distances, it entirely disappears. The planets. 
 
222 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 that SO wonderfully nary their mystic dance, are in themselves 
 dark bodies, and shine only by reflection; have fields, and 
 seas, and skies of their own, are furnished with all accommoda- 
 tions for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes 
 of intellectual Hfe ; all which, together witli our earthly habita 
 tion, are dependent on that grand dispenser of divine muniii- 
 cence, the sun ; receive their light from the distribution of his 
 rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. 
 
 The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through 
 the sky, is in this respect fixed and immovable. It is the great 
 axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other 
 more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, 
 though seemingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abun- 
 dantly larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty 
 mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line, extending 
 from side to side through the center of that resplendent orb, 
 would measure more than eight hundred thousand miles ; a 
 girdle formed to go round its circumference, would require a 
 length of millions. 
 
 This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little 
 part of the grand machine of the universe. Every star, though 
 in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a 
 lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in 
 glory; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant 
 source of the day. Thus every star is not barely a world, 
 but the center of a magnificent system ; has a retinue of worlds, 
 irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influ- 
 ence, all which are lost to our sight in unmeasurable wilds of 
 ether. That the stars appear like so many diminutive and 
 scarce distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and 
 inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it 
 is, since a ball, shot from a loaded cannon, and flying with 
 unabated rapidity, must travel at this impetuous rate almost 
 seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the nearest 
 of those twinkling luminaries. 
 
 While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme 
 meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all 
 terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostentatious 
 scenes, compared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the 
 skies 1 What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 223 
 
 of the universe ? It is observed by a very judicious writer, 
 that if the sun himself, which enhghtens this part of the crea- 
 tion, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds, 
 which move about him, were annihilated, they would not be 
 missed by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, 
 any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. If then, 
 not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminu- 
 tive, what is a kingdom or a country ? What are the largest 
 possessions of those who are styled wealthy ? Compared 
 with the universe as a standard, how scanty is their size, how 
 contemptible their figure ! They shrink into pompous nothings. 
 
 Hehvet 
 
 LESSON XCV 
 
 ESCAPE FROM A PANTHER. 
 
 ( Elizabeth Temple and Louisa Grant had gained the summit 
 of the mountain,^here they left the highway, and pursued their 
 course, under the shade of the stately trees) that crowned the 
 eminence. The day Was becoming warm ; and the girls 
 plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its invigora- 
 ting coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they 
 had experienced in their ascent. The conversation, as if by 
 mutual consent, was entirely changed to the little incidents and 
 scenes of their walk ; and every tall pine, and every shrub or 
 flower, called forth some simple expression of admiration.- 
 
 In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the 
 precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, 
 or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds 
 of hammers, that rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of 
 men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly 
 startled, and exclaimed, " Listen ! there are the cries of a child 
 on this mountain ! Is there a clearing near us ? or can some 
 little one have strayed from its parents ?" " Such things fre- 
 quently happen," returned Louisa. "Let us follow the sounds, 
 it may be a wanderer, starving on the hill." Urged by this 
 consideration, the females pursued the low, mournful sounds, 
 that proceeded from the forest, with quick and impatient steps 
 
224 YOUNG LADIES' READER 
 
 More than once the ardent EUzabeth was on the point of an- 
 nouncing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by 
 the arm, and, pointing behind them, cried, "Look at the dog !" 
 
 The advanced age of Brave had long before deprived him 
 of his activity ; and when his companions stopped to view the 
 scenery, or to add to their bouquets,* the mastiff would lay his 
 huge frame on the ground, and await their movements, with 
 his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded 
 with the character of a protector. But when, aroused by this 
 cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with 
 his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near 
 the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, either 
 through fright or anger. It was most probably the latter ; for 
 he was growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his 
 teeth, in a manner that would have terrified his mistress, had 
 she hot so well known his good qualities. 
 
 "Brave!" she said, "be quiet. Brave! what do you see, 
 fellow?" At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, 
 instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly increased. 
 He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet 
 of his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally 
 giving vent to his ire by a short, surly barking. " What, does 
 he see?" said Elizabeth; "there must be some animal in 
 sight." Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Tem- 
 ple turned her head and beheld Louisa, standing with her 
 face whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing 
 upward, with a sort of flickering, convulsed motion. The 
 quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated by 
 her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of 
 a female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, and threat- 
 ening instant destruction. 
 
 "Let us fly!" exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm of 
 Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow, and sunk life- 
 less to the earth. There was not a single feeling in the tem- 
 perament of Elizabeth Temple, that could prompt her to 
 desert a companion in such an extremity ; and she fell on her 
 knees, by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the 
 person of her friend, with an instinctive readiness, such parts 
 of her dress as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging 
 
 • Pronounced Boo-hays'. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 225 
 
 their only safe-guard, the dog, at the same time, by the sound 
 of her voice. "Courage, Brave!" she cried, her ovirn tones 
 beginning to tremble, « courage, courage, good Brave !" 
 
 A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now 
 appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling, that grew 
 under, the shade of the beech which held its dam. This 
 ignorant but vicious creature approached near to the dog, 
 imitating the actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting 
 a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with the 
 ferocity of its race. Standing on its hind legs, it would rend 
 the bark of a tree with its fore paws, andplay all the antics of 
 a cat, for a moment ; and then, by lashing itself with its tail, 
 growling, and scratching the earth, it would attempt the mani- 
 festations of anger that rendered its parent so terrific. 
 
 All this time. Brave stood firm and undaunted, his short tail 
 erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and his eyes 
 following the movements of both dam and cub. At every 
 gambol played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, 
 the growling of the three becoming more horrid at each mo- 
 ment, until the younger beast, overleaping its intended bound, 
 fell directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful 
 cries and struggles ; but they ended almost as soon as com- 
 menced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws 
 of Brave, with a violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly 
 as to render it completely senseless. 
 
 Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was 
 warming with the triumph of the dog, when she saw the form 
 of the old panther in 'the air, springing twenty feet from the 
 branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words of 
 ours can describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It 
 was a confused struggle on the dried leaves, accompanied by 
 loud and terrible cries, barks, and growls. Miss Temple con- 
 tinued on her knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes 
 fixed on the animals, with an interest so horrid, and yet so 
 intense, that she almost forgot her own stake in the result. 
 
 So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of the inhabitant of 
 the forest, that its active frame seemed constantly in the air, 
 while the dog nobly faced his foe, at each successive leap. 
 When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, 
 which was its constant aim, old Brave, though torn with its 
 
226 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 talons, and stained with his own blood, that already flowed 
 from a dozen wounds, would shake off his furious foe, like a 
 feather, and, rearing on his hind legSj rush to the fray again, 
 with his jaws distended, and a dauntless eye. 
 
 But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble 
 mastiff" for such a struggle. In everything but courage, he 
 was only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher 
 bound than ever, raised the wary and furious beast far beyond 
 the reach of the dog, who was making a desperate, but 
 fruitless dash at it, and it alighted, in a favorable position, 
 on the back of its aged foe. For a single moment, only, 
 could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog 
 returning with a convulsive effort. Elizabeth saw, as Brave 
 fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the collar of 
 brass around his neck, which had been glittering throughout the 
 fray, was of the color of blood, and, directly, that his frame 
 was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and help- 
 less. Several mighty efforts of the panther to extricate itself 
 from the jaws of the dog, followed; but they were fruitless, 
 untU the mastiff turned on his back, his lips collapsed, and his 
 teeth loosened; when the short convulsions and stillness that 
 succeeded, announced the death of poor Brave. 
 
 Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There 
 is said to be something in the front of the image of the Maker, 
 that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of his creation ; 
 and it would seem that some such power, in the present in- 
 stance, suspended ■ the threatened blow. The eyes of the 
 monster and the kneeling maiden met, for an instant, when the 
 former stooped to examine its fallen foe ; next, to scent its 
 luckless cub. From the latter examination it tui'ned, however, 
 with its eyes apparently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing 
 its sides furiously, and its claws projecting for inches from its 
 broad feet. 
 
 Misa Temple did not, or could not, move. Her hands were 
 clasped in the attitude of prayer ; but her eyes were still drawn 
 to her terrible enemy; her cheeks were blanched to the white- 
 ness of marble, and her lips were slightly separated with horror. 
 The moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal termina- 
 tion; and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth was bowing meekly 
 to the stroke, when a rustling of leaves from behind seemetJ 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 227 
 
 ratlier to mock the organs, than to meet her ears. "Hist! 
 hist!" said a low voice; "stoop lower, gal; your bunnet 
 hides the creater's head." 
 
 It was rather the yielding of nature, than a compliance with 
 this unexpected order, that caused the head of our heroine to 
 sink on her bosom ; when she heard the report of the rifle, 
 the whis^zing of the bullet, and the enraged cries of the beast, 
 who was rolling over on the earth, biting its own flesh, and 
 tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. At the next 
 instant, the form of Leather-stocking rushed by her ; and he 
 called aloud, " Come in. Hector ; come in, you old fool ; 't is 
 a hard-lived animal, and may jump ag'in." The old man 
 maintained his position in front of the maidens, most fear- 
 lessly, notwithstanding the violent bounds and threatening 
 aspect of the wounded panther, which gave several indica- 
 tions of returning strength and ferocity, until his rifle was 
 again loaded ; when he stepped up to the enraged animal, and, 
 placing the muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was 
 extinguiished by the discharge. , j. F. Coopbr. 
 
 LESSON XCVI. 
 
 THE SULIOTE MOTHER, 
 
 [It is related, in the life of AliPaahaw.that several of the Suliote women, on 
 the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled 
 on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, 
 vrith their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of 
 the enemy.] 
 
 She Stood upon the lofty peak, 
 
 Amid the clear, blue sky : 
 A bitter smile was on her cheek. 
 And a dark flash in her eye. 
 
 " Dost thou see them, boy ? — through the dusky pines 
 Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines ? 
 Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest? 
 My babe that I cradled on my breast ! 
 Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy? 
 That sight hath cost thee a father, hoy !" 
 
22S YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 For in the rocky strait beneath. 
 
 Lay Suliote sire and son : 
 They had heaped high the piles of death, 
 
 Before the pass was won. 
 
 " They have crossed th« torrent, and on they come ; 
 Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! 
 There, where the hunter laid by his spear, 
 There, where the I'Jre hath been sweet to hear. 
 There, where I sung thee, fair babe, to sleep, 
 Naught but the blood-stain our tface shall keep !" 
 
 And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 
 
 And now the cyfebal's clang,. 
 Till even the upper air was stirred 
 
 As crilE,and hollow rang. 
 
 " Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ! 
 
 What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild? 
 
 Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 
 
 As if at a glance of thine armed sire 1 
 
 Still ! be thou still ! there are brave men low; 
 
 Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now." 
 
 But nearer came the clash of steel, 
 And louder swelled the horn, 
 ■ And further yet the tambour's* peal 
 Through the dark pass was borne. 
 
 '' Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth ? 
 Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, 
 Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son ! 
 He, too, hath blessed thee, as I have done : 
 Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be ; 
 Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me!" 
 
 And from the arrowy peak she sprung. 
 
 And fast the fair child bore : 
 A vail upon the wind was flung, 
 
 A cry — and all was o'er ! mks. Hemass 
 
 ♦Pronounced Tam'-boor 
 
 13 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 229 
 
 LESSON XCVII, 
 
 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
 With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
 Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers. 
 And every thing that bendeth to the dew. 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 
 
 All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light. 
 And loveliness, and frjlgrant air were sad 
 To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
 Was pouring odors fromdts spicy pores, 
 And the young bit(l|^3»ere caroling as life 
 Were a new thing to them : but, oh ! it came 
 Upon her heart like discord, and she felt 
 How cruelly it tries a broken heart, 
 To see a mirth in any thing it loves. 
 She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were piesrcJ 
 Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins 
 Of her transparent forehead were swelled out. 
 As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
 Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
 Which made its language leg.iltl.e, shot back 
 From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
 
 Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
 Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet. 
 Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor. 
 Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up 
 Into his mother's face until he caught 
 The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
 Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form 
 Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
 As if his light proportions would have swelled. 
 Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
 Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
 Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, 
 So written with the converse of his God, 
 Bearetb the swollen vein of agony. 
 
230 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
 Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn 
 Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
 Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
 He gave to her the vcater and the bread. 
 But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
 To look upon her face ; but laid his hand. 
 In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy. 
 And left her to her lot of loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn. 
 And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off. 
 Bend lightly to her tendencies again 1 
 O no ! by all her loveliness, by all 
 That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
 Make her a slave ; steal from her cheek the rose, 
 By needless jealousies ; let the last star ^ 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
 Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
 That makes her cup a bitterness — ^yet give' 
 One evidence of love, and earth has not 
 An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
 But, oh ! estrange her once, it boots not how, 
 By wrong or silence, any thing that tells 
 A change has come upon your tenderness. 
 And there is not a high thing out of heaven 
 Her pride o'ermastereth not. 
 
 She went her way with a strong step and slow , 
 Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, 
 As it had been a diamond, and her form 
 Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed 
 His hand till it was pained ; for he had caught, 
 As I have said, her spirit, and the seed 
 Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 
 
 The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up 
 In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat ; 
 The cattle of the hills were in the _^ade. 
 And the bright plumage of the orient lay 
 On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of rest ; but Hagar found 
 No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
 She kept her weary way, until the boy 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 231 
 
 Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips 
 
 For water ; but she could not give il.him. 
 
 She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, 
 
 For it was better than the close, hot breath 
 
 Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him ; 
 
 But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
 
 Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know 
 
 Why God denied him water in the'wild. 
 
 She sat a little longer, and he grew 
 
 Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
 
 It was too much for her. She lifted him, 
 
 And bore him further on, and laid his head 
 
 Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
 
 And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
 
 And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
 
 Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourned : 
 
 " God stay thee in thine agbny, my boy ; 
 I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
 
 Upon thy brow to look. 
 And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye! 
 
 And could I see thee die ! 
 
 I did not dream of thi§.when thou wast straying, 
 Like an unbound gazel, among the flowers ; 
 
 Or wearing rosy hours. 
 By the rich gush of water-sources playing. 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 
 
 So beautiful and deep. 
 
 Oh no ! and when I watched by thee the while. 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream. 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile, 
 How prayed I that my father's land might be 
 
 A heritage for thee ! 
 
 And now the grave for its cold breast hath won Ihee, 
 And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 
 
 And oh ! my last caress 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 
 
 Upon his clustering hair!" 
 
232 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 She stood beside the well her God had given 
 To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
 The forehead of her child until he laughed 
 In his reviving happiness, and lisped 
 His infant tliought of gladness at the sight 
 Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 LESSON XCVIII. 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 Thy will be done ! how hard a thing to say 
 When sickness ushers in death's dreary knell, 
 When eyes, that lately sparkled bright and gay. 
 Wander around with dimly conscious ray. 
 To some familiar face, to bid farewell ! 
 
 Thy will be done ! the falt'ring lips deny 
 
 A passage to the tones as yet unheard ; 
 
 The sob convulsed, the raised and swimming eye 
 
 Seem as appealing to their God on high 
 
 For power to breathe the yet imperfect word. 
 
 Orphan ! who watchest by the silent tomb. 
 Where those, who gave thee life, all coldly sleep • 
 Or thou, who sittest in thy desolate home. 
 Calling to those beloved who cannot come. 
 And, thinking o'er thy loneliness, dost weep ! 
 
 Widow! who musest over by-gone years 
 
 Of life, and love, and happiness with him 
 
 Who shared thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. 
 
 Who now art left to shed unnoticed tears. 
 
 Till thy fair cheek is wan, and eyes grow dim ! 
 
 Husband ! who dreamest of thy gentle wife. 
 And still in fancy seest her rosy smile 
 Brightening a world of bitterness and strife ; 
 Who from the lonely future of thy life 
 Turnest, in dreariness, to weep the while ! 
 
 Mother ! whose prayers could not avail to save 
 Him whom thou lovedst most, thy blue-eyed boy ! 
 Who, with a bitter agony, dost lave 
 
Missing Page 
 
232 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Trust no 'Future/howe'er pleasant ! 
 / Let thfe dead Past'bury its dead ! ^ 
 /Act!— act' in the iivin^ Present, ' 
 ,! Heart'within^nd^God o'ei' head. ' 
 
 ' 'Lives of 'great men 'all remind us '' 
 
 "''', ,' We can make our lives sublime,' 
 
 !■' And, d^artin^, leave b^ind us* 
 
 Footprint^on the' sands of* time; 
 
 Footprints,^hat pe?haps another, 
 Sailing^o'er life'^ soleipn'^main, ' 
 I A foVlorn and' ship wrecked *brother, 
 
 Seeing,^shall take lieart again. 
 'Let us,^then, be up andMoing, * 
 
 ■^With a%eart fortny fate;^ 
 ' Still A5hieving,\till pursuing, 
 \ Learn to' labor and to wait. ^ 
 
 H. W. L01SGrFBI.I.0W 
 
 LESSON C. 
 
 MATERNAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 The minds of children are easily interested, as every thing 
 is new to them, and a new and most beautiful world is openinp 
 before them, with all the attractions of nature and art. Their 
 capacities expand astonishingly, with even moderate instruc- 
 tion, if it be systematic and regular, as it leads them to investi- 
 gation and inquiry, far beyond the sphere of the instructions 
 they receive. At this time, how necessary it is, to endeavor to 
 stamp upon their minds some salutary truths, not to be effaced. 
 The works of nature present an extensive field for instruction, 
 wherein a child may be soon taught to acknowledge the ex- 
 istence of a Supreme Being, from the convictions of reason. 
 
 In connection with the book of nature, the Bible should be 
 the first book used, from whence to draw our precepts, as 
 containing instruction suitable to the earliest age. It is not 
 necessary to wait until the child is able to read for itself. 
 The best mode of presenting instruction is by familiar verbal 
 communication. Its truths are thus better remembered, and in 
 this manner, too, a large portion of the Bible can be condensed 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 235 
 
 into a small compass. Give the young minds subjects foi 
 thought ; they are ever active, ever busy ; and, if not provided 
 with proper aliment by those who have the care of them, they 
 will resort to something themselves, which may be adverse in 
 its influence. 
 
 The precepts of the gospel are ennobling and refining in a 
 high degree ; and they will ere long show then effects upon 
 the mind, trained in their discipline. I have often been led to 
 observe the striking difference between children who have 
 been brought up according to the wisdom of this world, and 
 of those, taught according to the gospel; how much more 
 expanded is the young mind of one, instructed in the gospel 
 precepts; how much more elevated in its character; how 
 much more ready to sympathize with suffering, and to respond 
 to benevolent and noble sentiments. It has partaken of the 
 true and proper food of the soul, and ty it has flourished and 
 become vigorous. It is the fostering atmosphere of the 
 nursery, where the form is given to the young and tender 
 plant. A celebrated artist once said, my mother's kiss made 
 me a painter. How many thousands might say, my mother's 
 kiss made me a christian or an infidel, a useful or a useless 
 member of society. 
 
 If mothers wish to know the extensive influence which 
 their precepts and examples exert, either for good or evil, upon 
 the career and destiny of their children, they need only refer 
 to some striking examples for proof sufficient to establish this 
 fact. In observing, and reading the history of great and good 
 men, the thought rarely occurs, that they have once been 
 children, have passed through the helpless years of infancy, and 
 have been acted upon by influences which have formed their 
 characters ; and yet, if we should trace their goodness or their 
 crimes to the right source, we should find, that, for the most 
 part, the seeds of early influence have produced the correspond- 
 ing fruit. And I have no doubt, that, could we know the his- 
 tory of very many philanthropists, we should find, that the 
 seeds of their usefulness had been sown in the nursery, and 
 the germs fostered by the kind and gentle instruction of some 
 CHRISTIAN MOTHER, wliosc voico soundcd like music on the 
 ear, and whosa sympathy fell like balm upon the heart, grieved 
 by the little trials and pains of childhood. Mbs. a, Whelplei. 
 
236 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CI. 
 A mother's gift. 
 (TOe Bible.) 
 Remember, love, who gave thee this, 
 
 When other days shall come. 
 When she who had thine earliest kiss 
 
 Sleeps in her narrow home. 
 Remember ! 't was a mother gave 
 The gift to one she'd die to save ! 
 
 That mother sought a pledge of love. 
 
 The holiest for her son ; 
 And, from the gifts of God above. 
 
 She chose a goodly one : 
 She chose for her beloved boy, ,.-,,. ■ 
 
 The source of light, and life, and joy ; , 
 
 And bade him keep the gift, that when 
 
 The parting hour should come. 
 They might have hope to meet again. 
 
 In an eternal home. 
 She said his faith in this would be 
 
 Sweet incense to her memory. 
 
 And should the scoffer in his pride. 
 
 Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 
 And bid him cast the pledge aside. 
 
 That he from youth hath borne. 
 She bade him pause, and ask his breast 
 If SHE or HE had loved him best. 
 
 A parent's blessing on her son 
 
 Goes with this holy thing ; 
 The !ove that would retain the one. 
 
 Must to. the other cling. 
 Remember! 'tis no idle toy: 
 A mother's gift — remember, boy ! vj Fsn&rsoif . 
 
YOUNG LADIES' RKADEK. 237 
 
 LESSON CII. 
 
 INCENTIVES TO DEVOTION. 
 
 Lo ! the unlettered hind, who never knew 
 To raise his mind excursive to the hights 
 Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
 On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
 What time the insect swarms are murmuring. 
 And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds, 
 That fringe, with loveliest hue, the evening sky, 
 Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse 
 The thrill of gratitude, to him who formed 
 The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 
 Throned in the west ; and his reposing ear 
 Hears soU|ids angelic in the fitful breeze 
 That,flpais through neighboring copse or fairy brake. 
 Or lingers, playful, on the haunted stream. 
 
 Go with the co^&to his winter fire. 
 When o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, 
 A.nd the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 
 Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 
 Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 
 The God that rides on the tempestuous cloud, 
 For his snug hearth, and all his little joys. 
 Hear him compare his ha-ppier lot, witlx his 
 Who bends his way across the wintery wolds, 
 A poor night-traveler, while the dismal snow 
 Beats in his face, and, dubious of his paths. 
 He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast. 
 He hears some village mastiff's distant howl. 
 And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light ; 
 Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes. 
 And clasps his shivering hands, or overpowered, 
 Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep. 
 From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 
 
 Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 
 And glowing gratitude : he turns to bless 
 With honest warmth, his Maker and his God. 
 And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind. 
 Nursed in the lap of ignorance, and bred 
 In want and labor, glows with noble zeal 
 To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 
 ■^hom starry science in her cradle rocked, ^ 
 
238 -yOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And Castaly enohastened with its dews, 
 Closes his eye upon the holy word ; 
 And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 
 Dates to declare his infidelity. 
 And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ? 
 
 Oh ! I would walk 
 A weary journey to the furthest verge 
 Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, 
 Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art. 
 Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 
 Feeling the sense of his own littleness, 
 [s as a child of meek simplichy ! 
 What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 
 Of letters and of tongues 1 Even as the mists. 
 Or the gray morn before the rising sun, 
 That pass away and perish. Earthly things 
 Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
 And earthly pride is like the passing flower, 
 That springs to fall, and blossoms tiut to die. 
 
 H. K. White. 
 
 LESSON GUI. 
 
 woman's influence on character. 
 
 The domestic fireside is the great guardian of society 
 against the excesses of human passions. When man, after 
 his intercourse with the world, — where, dlas! he finds so 
 much to inflame him with a feverish anxiety for wealth and 
 distinction, — ^retires, at evening, to the bosom of his family, he 
 finds there a repose for his tormenting cares. He finds 
 something to bring him back to human sympathies. The 
 tenderness of his wife, and the caresses of his children, intro- 
 duce a new train of softer thoughts and gentler feelings. He 
 is reminded of what constitutes the real felicity of man ; and, 
 while his heart expands itself to the influence of the simple 
 and intimate delights of the domestic circle, the demons of 
 avarice and ambition, if not exorcised from his breast, at least, 
 for a time, relax their grasp. How deplorable would be the 
 consequence, if all these were reversed; and woman, instead 
 of checking the violence of these passions, were to employ her 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 239 
 
 blandishments and charms to add fuel to their rage ! How 
 much wider would become the empire of guilt ! What a por 
 tentous and intolerable amount would be added to the sum of 
 the crimes and miseries of the human race ! 
 
 But the influence of the female character on the virtue of 
 man, is not seen merely in restraining and softening the vio- 
 lence of human passions. To her is mainly committed the 
 task of pouring into the openmg mind of infancy its first im- 
 pressions of duty, and of stamping on its susceptible heart the 
 first image of its God. Who will not confess the influence of 
 a mother in forming the heart of a child ? What man is there, 
 who cannot trace the origin of many of the best maxims of his 
 life to the lips of her who gave him birth ? How wide, how 
 lasting, how sacred, is that part of woman's influence ! Who 
 that thinks of it, who that ascribes any moral efiect to educa- 
 tion, who that believes that any good may be produced, or any 
 evil prevented by it, can need any arguments to prove the im- 
 portance of the character and capacity of her, who gives its 
 earliest bias to the infant mind ? 
 
 There is yet another mode by which woman may exert a 
 powerful influence on the virtue of a community. It rests 
 with her, in a pre-eminent degree, to give tone and elevation to 
 the moral character of the age, by deciding the degree of virtue 
 that shall be necessary to aflTord a passport to her society. If 
 all the favor of woman were given only to the good ; if it were 
 known that the charms and attractions of beauty, and wisdom, 
 and wit, were reserved only for the pure ; how much would be 
 done to re-enforce the motives to moral purity among us, and 
 impress on the minds of all, a reverence for the sanctity and 
 obligations of virtue ! 
 
 The influence of woman on the moral sentiments of society, 
 is intimately connected with her influence on its religious 
 character ; for religion, and a pure and elevated morality, must 
 ever stand in the relation to each other of effect and cause. 
 The heart of woman is formed for the abode of Christian 
 truth ; and for reasons alike honorable to her character, and to 
 that of the gospel. From the nature of Christianity this must 
 be so. The foundation of evangelical religion is laid in a deep 
 and constant sense of the presence, providence, and influence 
 of an invisible Spirit, who claims the adoration, reverence. 
 
240 YOUNG LADIKS' READEB. 
 
 gratitude, and love of his creatures. By man, busied as he is 
 in the cares, and absorbed in the pursuits, of the world, this 
 great truth is, alas ! too often, and too easily forgotten and dis- 
 regarded; while woman, less engrossed by occupation, more 
 " at leisure to be good," led often, by her duties, to retirement, 
 at a distance from many temptations, and endowed with an im- 
 agination more easily excited and raised than man's, is better 
 prepared to admit and cherish, and be affected by, this solemn 
 and glorious acknowledgment of a God. 
 
 Again : the gospel reveals to us a Savior, invested with little 
 of that brilliant and dazzling glory, with which conquest and 
 success would array him in the eyes of proud and aspiring 
 man ; but rather as a meek and magnanimous sufferer, clothed 
 in all the mild and passive graces, all the sympathy with hu- 
 man woe, all the compassion for human frailty, all the benevo- 
 lent interest in human welfare, which the heart of woman is 
 formed to love ; together with all that solemn and supernatural 
 dignity, which the heart of woman is formed peculiarly 
 to feel and to reverence. To obey the commands, and aspire 
 to imitate the peculiar virtues, of such a being, must always be 
 more natural and easy for her than for man. 
 
 So, too, it is with that future life which the gospel unvails. 
 where all that is dark and doubtful in this shall be explained ; 
 where penitence, and faith, and virtue shall be accepted ; 
 where the tear of sorrow shall be dried, the wounded bosom 
 of bereavement be healed; where love and joy shall be un- 
 clouded and immortal. To these high and holy visions of 
 faith, I trust that man is not always insensible ; but the supe- 
 rior sensibility of woman, as it makes her feel more deeply the 
 emptiness and wants of human existence here, so it makes her 
 welcome, with more deep and ardent emotions, the glad tidings 
 of salvation, the thought of communion with God, the hope of 
 the purity, happiness, and peace of another and a better world. 
 
 In this peculiar susceptibility of religion in the female char- 
 acter, who does not discern a proof of Heaven's benignant 
 care of the best interest of man ? How wise it is, that she, 
 whose instructions and example must have so powerful an 
 influence on the infant mind, should be formed to own and 
 cherish the most subhme and important of truths ! The vestal 
 flame of piety, lighted up by Heaven in the breast of woman, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 241 
 
 diffuses its light and warmth over the world; and dark would 
 be the world, if it should ever be extinguished and loBt. 
 
 Thatchsu 
 
 LESSON CIV. 
 
 MY mother's picture. 
 
 O THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine ; thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me : 
 Voice only fails ; else, how distinct they say, 
 " Grieve not, my child ; chase all thy fears away !" 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest he the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. 
 My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ; 
 A.h, that maternal smile ! it answers, " Yes." 
 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 [ saw tt;e hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 A.nd, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such 1 It was. Where thou art gone. 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 
 Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern. 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed, 
 And disappointed still, was still deceived ; 
 By expectation every day beguiled. 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I learned at last submission to my lot : 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 ILL 
 
242 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more ; 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way, 
 Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapped 
 [n scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped, 
 'T is now become a history little knownj 
 That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 The biscuit or confectionery plum ; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; 
 All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, 
 That humor interposed too often makes ; 
 All this, still legible in memory's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile ;) 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
 I would not trust my heart ; the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might ; 
 But no ! What here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
YOUNG LADJES' READER. 243 
 
 Thou, as a gallant baik from Albion's coast 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; — 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
 " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." 
 And thy loved corisort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life long since fias anchored by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to atltain that rest. 
 Always from port withheld, always distressed ; 
 Me, howling blasts drive devi^ous, tempest-tossed. 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost; 
 And, day by day, some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and he i 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 
 My boast is not that I de|uce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth : 
 But higher far my proud prettosions rise ; 
 The son of parents passed into the skies. 
 And now, farewell ! Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 And, while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft ; 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. Cowpek. 
 
 LESSON CV. 
 
 THE SEA IS HIS, AND HE MADE IT. 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it," cries the Psalmist of 
 Israel, in one of those bursts of devotion, in which he so often 
 expresses the whole of a vast subject \ if a few simple words. 
 
244 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Whose else, indeed, could it be, and by whom else could it 
 have been made? Who else can heave its tides, and appoint 
 its bounds ? Who else can urge its mighty waves to madness 
 with the breath and the wings of the tempest, and then speak 
 to it again with a master's accents, and bid it be still? 
 
 Who else could have poured out its magnificent fiillness 
 round the solid land, and 
 
 " Laid, as in a storehouse safe, its watery treasures by 1" 
 
 Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabitants, 
 and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and filled 
 it from its deepest bed to its expanded surface ; filled it from 
 its center to its remotest shores ; filled it to the brim, with 
 beauty, and mystery, and power? Majestic ocean! Glorious 
 sea ! No created being rules thee, or made thee. Thou 
 hearest but one voice, and that is the Lord's ; thou obeyest but 
 one arm, and that is the Almighty's. The ownership and the 
 workmanship are God's ; thou art his, and he made thee. 
 
 "The sea is his,and he made it." Its majesty is of God. 
 What is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-sur- 
 rounding, unfathomable sea ? What is there more peacefully 
 sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent sea? What is 
 there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming 
 sea? Power, resistless, overwhelming power, is its attribute 
 and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious grandeur 
 of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is 
 awful, when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with 
 the black clouds, and the howling winds, and the thunder, and 
 the thunder-bolt, and they sweep on in the joy of their dread 
 alliance, to do the Almighty's bidding. And it is awful, too, 
 when it stretches its broad level out, to meet in quiet union the 
 bended sky, and show, in the line of meeting, the vast rotundity 
 of the world. 
 
 There is majesty in its wide expanse, separating and in 
 closing the great continents of the earth, occupying two thirds 
 of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with 
 its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly 
 pouring tribute of every river, of every shore. There is majestj 
 in its fullness, never diminishing, and never increasing. Theri 
 is majesty in its integrity, for its whole vast substance is uni 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 245 
 
 form ; m its local unity, for there is but one ocean, and the 
 inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants 
 of any other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime ; who 
 can sound it? Its strength is sublime; what fabric of man 
 can resist it ? Its voice is sublime, whether in the prolonged 
 song of its ripple, or the stern music of its roar ; whether it 
 utters its hollow and melancholy tones, within a labyrinth of 
 wave-worn caves ; or thunders at the base of some huge pro- 
 montory; or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the 
 voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony ; or dies 
 away, with the calm and dying twilight, in gentle murmurs on 
 some sheltered shore. 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it." Its beauty is of God. 
 It possesses it, in richness of its own ; it borrows it of earth, 
 and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of 
 their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of 
 their shadows, as they go sailing and sweeping by. The rain- 
 bow laves in it its many-colored feet; the sun loves to visit it, 
 and the moon, and the glittering brotherhood of planets and 
 stars ; for they delight themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams 
 return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the 
 moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to 
 and fro, with the breeze and the waves, through the livelong 
 night. It has a hght, too, of its own, a soft and sparkling light, 
 rivaling the stars ; and often does the ship, which cuts its sur- 
 face, leave streaming behind a milky way of dim and uncertain 
 luster, like that which is shining dimly above. 
 
 What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of 
 the sea? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters, 
 where it dwells and rests, singing its spells, and scattering its 
 charms on all the coast. What rocks and cliffs are so glorious, 
 as those which are washed by the chafing sea ? What groves, 
 and fields, and dwellings are so enchanting, as those which 
 stand by the reflecting sea ? 
 
 If we could see the great ocean as it can be seen by no mor- 
 tal eye, beholding at one view what we are now obliged to visit 
 in detail, and spot by spot ; if we could, from a flight far higher 
 than the sea-eagle's, and with a sight more keen and compre* 
 hensive than his, view the immense surface of the deep, all 
 spread out beneath us like a universal chart, what an infinite 
 
246 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 variety such a scene would display ! Here, a storm would be 
 raging, the thunder bursting, the waters boiling, and rain, and 
 foam, and fire, all mingling together ; and there, next to this 
 scene of magnificent confusion, we should see the bright blue 
 waves glittering in the sun, and, while the brisk breezes flew 
 over them, clapping their hands for very gladness ; for they do 
 clap their hands, and justify, by the life and almost individual 
 animation which they exhibit, that remarkable figure of the 
 Psalmist. Here, ^ain, on this self-same ocean, we should 
 behold large tracts, where there was neither tempest nor 
 breeze, but a dead calm, breathless, noiseless, and, were it not 
 for the swell of the sea, which never rests, motionless. Here, 
 we should see a cluster of green islands, set like jewels in the 
 midst of its bosom ; and there, we should see the broad shoals 
 and gray rocks, fretting the billows, and threatening the mariner. 
 
 "There go the ships," the white-robed ships; some on this 
 course, and others on the opposite one ; some just approaching 
 the shore, and some just leaving it; some in fleets, and others 
 in solitude ; some swinging lazily in a calm, and some driven 
 and tossed, and perhaps overwhelmed, by the storm; some for 
 trafiic, and some for state ; some in peace, and others, alas, in 
 war. Nor are the ships of man the only travelers whom we 
 shall perceive on this mighty map of the ocean. Flocks of 
 sea-birds are passing and repassing, diving for their food, or for 
 pastime, migrating from shore to shore with unwearied wing 
 and undeviating instinct, or wheeling and swarming round the 
 rocks, which they make alive and vocal by their numbers and 
 their clanging cries. 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it." And when he made it, 
 he ordained, that it should be the element and dwelling-place 
 of multitudes of living beings, and the treasury of many riches. 
 How populous, and wealthy, and bounteous are the depths of 
 the sea ! How many are the tribes which find in them abund- 
 ant sustenance, and furnish abundant sustenance to man ! In 
 all its life, its variety and beauty, its sublimity and majesty, 
 " the sea is his, and he made it." Greenwood. 
 
VOUNG LADIES' READER. 24T 
 
 LESSON CVI. 
 
 {ElUptical.)* 
 
 THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 Ndiure, 
 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
 Though always changing, in her aspect, mild : 
 
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
 Her never-weaned, though not her favorite ( * ,. i ). 
 
 Oh, she is ( . . . . -, ) i° her features wild, 
 Where nothing polished dares pollute her path : 
 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled. 
 Though I have (fUtryy^J. ) her when none other hath. 
 And sought her more an'a more, and loved her best in wrath. 
 
 BTItOIf. 
 
 Wondrous, O, Nature ! is thy sovereign power. 
 That gives to horror hours of ( . . . ) mirth ; 
 
 For here might Beauty build her summer bower. 
 Lo ! where yon rainbow spans the (...) earth. 
 
 And, clothffd in glory, through a silent shower, 
 The (...) sun comes forth, a godlike birth ; 
 While *neath his loving eye, the gentle lake 
 Lies' like a sleeping child, too blest to ( . . . ). 
 
 WllSON. 
 
 Light. 
 Hail, (...) light ! offspring of heaven, first-born, 
 Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam. 
 May I express thee unblamed ? Since God is light, 
 And never but in unapproached light 
 Dwelt from eternity ; dwelt then in thee, 
 Bright effluence of bright essence uncreate ! 
 Or hearest thou rather 1 pure ethereal stream, 
 Whose fountain who shall tell ! Before the sun, 
 Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice 
 Of God, as with a ( . . . ) didst invest 
 The rising world of waters, dark and deep. 
 Won from the void and formless infinite. Miltou 
 
 Ouwn. 
 Thod glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed ; in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 •See N -te prefixed lo Lesson 82. 
 
248 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid (...) 
 Darlc-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime ; 
 
 The image of Eternity ; the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 
 The (...) of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, (...). 
 
 Bykoh 
 
 Morning. 
 
 But who the melodies of mom can tell ? 
 The (...) brook babbling down the mountain side. 
 
 The lowing herd ; the sheep-fold's (...) bell ; 
 The song of early shepherd, dim descried 
 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
 
 The (...) murmur of the ocean-tide : 
 The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love. 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 Bbattie. 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night, 
 The rain came heavily, and fell in floods ; 
 
 But now the sun is rising ( . . . ) and bright; 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
 Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ; 
 
 The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters ; 
 And all the world is ( . . , ) with pleasant noise of waters. 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors : 
 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the moors 
 
 The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 And, with her feet, she from the plashy earth 
 
 Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
 Huns with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 WoaDSWORTH- 
 
 Evening. 
 Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things ; 
 
 Home to the weary ; to the hungry cheer ; 
 To the (...) birds the parent's brooding wings ; 
 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer ; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings, 
 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
 Are gathered round us by thy look of rest; 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 Btiios 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 249 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad. 
 
 Silence accompanied : for beast and bird, 
 
 They to their grassy coucti, these to their nests 
 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; 
 
 She, all night long, her amorous descant sung. 
 
 Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament 
 
 With living Sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
 
 The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon. 
 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
 
 Apparent queen, unvailed her peerless light, 
 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. Miitom. 
 
 LESSON CVII. 
 
 THANKS TO GOD FOR MOUNTAINS, 
 
 There is a. charm connected with mountains so powerful, 
 that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their 
 magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the 
 spirit at once into the hosom of their enchanted regions. How 
 the mind is filled with their vast solitude ! How the inward eye 
 is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks ! 
 How our hearts bound to the music of their solitary cries, to 
 the tinkle of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts ! 
 How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the upland turf, 
 from the rock-hung flovrer, from the hoary and solemn pine ! 
 How beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and 
 that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys 
 and lower slopes as over a vast, inimitable picture ! 
 
 Whoever has not seen the rich and russet hues of distant 
 slopes and eminenoes, the livid gashes of ravines and preci- 
 pices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud 
 tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit ; and then stood 
 panting on that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately 
 gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of 
 every varied hue, but all silent as images of eternity ; and cast 
 his gaze over lakes, and forests, and smoking towns, and -yiridg 
 lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing 
 beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth 
 which his own country possesses. 
 
250 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 When we indulge the imagination, and give it free charter 
 to range through the glorious ridges of continental mountains, 
 through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how is it possessed and 
 absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scenery and 
 character ! The sky-ward and inaccessible pinnacles, the 
 
 Palaces where nature thrones 
 Sublimity in icy halls ! 
 
 the dark Alpine forests, the savage rocks and precipices, the 
 fearful and unfathomable chasms filled with the sound of ever- 
 precipitating waters ; the cloud, the silence, the avalanche, the 
 cavernous gloom, the terrible visitations of heaven's concen- 
 trated lightning, darkness, and thunder ; or the sweeter features 
 of living, rushing streams, spicy odors of flower and shrub, 
 fresh, spirit-elating breezes sounding through the dark pine 
 grove ; the ever-varying lights and shadows, and aerial hues ; 
 the wide prospects, and, above all, the simple inhabitants ! 
 
 Thanks.be to God for mountains! is often the exclamation 
 of my heart, as I trace the history of the world. From age to 
 age, they have been the last friends of man. In a thousand 
 extremities they have saved him. What great hearts have 
 throbbed in their defiles from the days of Leonidas to those of 
 Andreas Hofer ! What lofty souls, what tender hearts, what 
 poor and persecuted creatures have they sheltered in their 
 stony bosoms, from the weapons and tortures of their fellow 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ! 
 
 was the burning exclamation of Milton's agonized and indig- 
 nant spirit, as he beheld those sacred bulwarks of freedom for 
 once violated by the disturbing demons of the earth ; and the 
 sound of his fiery and lamenting appeal to heaven, will be 
 echoed in every generous soul to the end of time. 
 
 Thanks be to God for mountains ! The variety, which they 
 impart to the glorious bosom of our planet, were no small ad- 
 vantage J the beauty which they spread out to our vision in 
 their woods and waters, their crags and slopes, their clouds 
 and atmospheric hues, were a splendid gift; the sublimity 
 which they pour into our deepest souls from their majestic 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 251 
 
 aspects, the poetry which breathes from their streams, and 
 dells, and airy hights, were a proud heritage to imaginative 
 minds. But what are all these when the thought comes, that 
 without mountains, the spirit of man must have bowed to the 
 brutal and the base, and probably have sunk to the monotonous 
 level of the unvaried plain ? 
 
 Look at the bold barriers of Palestine ! see how the infant 
 liberties of Greece, were sheltered from the vast tribes of the 
 uncivilized north by the hights of Hsemus and Rhodope ! 
 Behold how the Alps describe their magnificent crescent, 
 inclining their opposite extremities to the Adriatic and Tyrr- 
 hine Seas, locking up Italy from the Gallic and Teutonic 
 hordes, till the power and spirit of Rome had reached their 
 maturity, and she had opened the wide forest of Europe to the 
 light, spread far her laws and language, and planted the seeds 
 of many mighty nations ! 
 
 Thanks to God for mountains ! Their colossal firmness 
 seems almost to break the current of time itself. The geologist 
 in them searches for traces of the early world, and it is there 
 too, that man, resisting the revolutions of lower regions, retains 
 through innumerable years his habits and his rights. While 
 a multitude of changes has remolded the people of Europe, 
 while languages, and laws, and dynasties, and creeds, have 
 passea over it like shadows over the landscape, the chil- 
 dren of the Celt and the Goth, who fled to the mountains 
 a thousand years ago, are found there now, and show us in 
 face and figure, in language and garb, what their fathers were ; 
 show us a fine contrast with the modern tribes dwelling below 
 and around them ; and show us, moreover, how adverse is the 
 spirit of the mountain to mutability, and that there the fiery 
 heart of Freedom is found forever. Howitt. 
 
 LESSON CVIII. 
 
 HYMN OF THE MOUNTAINEERS. 
 
 For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 
 
 Our God, our fathers' God ! 
 Thou hast made thy children mighty, 
 
 By the touch of the mountain sod. 
 
252 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Thou hast.fixefl our ark of refuge, 
 Where the spoiler's feet ne'er trod ; 
 
 For the strength of the hills we hless thee. 
 Our God, our fathers' God ! 
 
 We are watchers of a beacon 
 
 Whose light must never die ; 
 We are guardians of an altar 
 
 'Mid the silence of the sky: 
 The rocUs yield founts of courage. 
 
 Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
 For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 
 
 Our God, our fathers' God ! 
 
 For the dark, resounding caverns, 
 
 Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 
 For the strong pines of the forests, 
 
 That by thy breath are stirred ; 
 For the storms, on whose free pinions 
 
 Thy spirit walks abroad ; 
 For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 
 
 Our God, our fathers' God. 
 
 The royal eagle darteth 
 
 On his quarry from the hights. 
 And the stag that knows no master. 
 
 Seeks there his wild delights ; 
 But we, for thy communion. 
 
 Have sought the mountain sod ; 
 For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 
 
 Our God, our fathers' God ! 
 
 The banner of the chieftain. 
 
 Far, far, below us waves ; 
 The war-horse of the spearman 
 
 Cannot reach our lofty caves ; 
 Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 
 
 Of freedom's last abode ; 
 For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 
 
 Our God, our fathers' God ! Mus. IlEUAira 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 253 
 
 LESSON CIX. 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 We come ! we come ! and ye feel our might, 
 As we're hastening on in our boundless flight ; 
 And over the mountains, and over the deep. 
 Our broad invisible pinions sweep 
 Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free, 
 And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we ; 
 Ye call us the Winds ; but can ye tell 
 Whither we go, or where we dwell ? 
 
 Ye mark, as we vwiy our forms of power. 
 
 And fell the forests, or fan the flower. 
 
 When the hare-bell moves, and the rush is bent, 
 
 When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent. 
 
 As we waft the bkrk o'er the slumbering wave. 
 
 Or hurry its crew to a watery grave ; 
 
 And ye say it is we ! but can ye trace 
 
 The wandering winds to their secret place? 
 
 And whether our breath be loud and high. 
 Or come in a soft and balmy sigh. 
 Our threatenings fill. the soul with fear. 
 Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear 
 With music aerial, still, 'tis we. 
 And ye list, and ye look ; but what do you see 1 
 Can you hush one sound of our voice to peace f 
 Or waken one note, when our numbers cease 1 
 
 Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand ; 
 We come and we go at his command. 
 Though joy, or sorrow, may mark our track, 
 His will is our guide, and we look not back ; 
 And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away. 
 Or win us in gentle airs to play. 
 Then lift up your hearts to him who binds. 
 Or frees, as he will, the obeifient Winds ! 
 
 Miss H. F. Gould, 
 
254 YOUNG LADIES' READKR. 
 
 LESSON ex. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 I WANDERED out One suDimer night, 
 
 'T was when my years were few, 
 The breeze was singing in the light. 
 
 And I was singing too. 
 The moonbeams lay upon the hill, 
 
 The shadows in the vale, 
 And here and there a leaping rill 
 
 Was laughing at the gale. 
 
 One fleecy cloud upon the air 
 
 Was all that met my eyes. 
 It floated like an angel there 
 
 Between me and the skies. 
 I clapped my hands and warbled wild. 
 
 As here and there I flew. 
 For I was but a careless child. 
 
 And did as children do. 
 
 The waves came leaping o'er the sect. 
 
 In bright and glittering bands, 
 Like little children wild with glee, 
 
 They linked their dimpled hands. 
 They linked their hands, but ere I caught 
 
 Their mingled drops of dew. 
 They kissed my feet as quick as thought : 
 
 Away the ripples flew ! 
 
 The twilight hours like birds flew by. 
 
 As lightly and as free ; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 
 
 Ten thousand in the sea. 
 For every wave with dimpled cheek. 
 
 That leaped upon the air, 
 Had caught a star in its embrace, 
 
 And held it trembling there. 
 
 The young moon, too, with upturned sides. 
 
 Her mirrored beauty gave. 
 And as a bark at anchor rides 
 
 She rode upon the wave. 
 The sea was like the heaven above. 
 
 As perfect and as whole. 
 Save that it seemed to thrill with love, 
 
 As thrills the immortal soul. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. £55 
 
 The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred, 
 
 Made murmurs on the air, 
 Low murmurs, that my spirit heard, 
 
 And answered with a prayer. 
 For 't was upon the dewy sod, 
 
 Beside the moaning seas, 
 1 learned at first to worship God, 
 
 And sing such strains as these. 
 
 The flowers all folded to their dreams. 
 
 Were bowed in slumber free, 
 By breezy hills and murmuring streams. 
 
 Where'er they chanced to be. 
 No guilty tears had they to weep. 
 
 No sins to be forgiven ; 
 They closed their eyes and went to sleep. 
 
 Right in the face of heaven. 
 
 No costly raiment round them shone. 
 
 No jewels from the seas. 
 Yet Solomon, upon his throne. 
 
 Was ne'er arrayed like these. 
 And just as free from guilt and art. 
 
 Were lovely human flowers. 
 Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart 
 
 On this fair world of ours, 
 
 I heard the laughing wind behind 
 
 Playing with my hair, 
 The breezy fingers of the wind, 
 
 How cool and moist they were ! 
 1 heard the night bird warbling o'er 
 
 Its soft enchanting strain : 
 I never heard such sounds before. 
 
 And never shall again. 
 
 Then wherefore weave suoh strains as these. 
 
 And sing them day by day. 
 When every bird upon the breeze. 
 
 Can sing a sweeter lay ? 
 ['d give the world for their sweet art. 
 
 The simple, the divine ; 
 I'd give the world to melt one heart. 
 
 As they have melted mine. Mns. A. B. Weibv. 
 
256 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CXI. 
 
 BYRON AND HIS POETRY. 
 
 Never had any writer so vast a command of the whole 
 eloquence of scorn, misanthropy, and despair. That Marah 
 was never dry. No art could sweeten, no draughts could 
 exhaust its perennial waters of bitterness. Never was there 
 such variety of monotony as that of Byron. From maniac 
 laughter to piercing lamentation, there was not a single note 
 of human anguish of which he was not master. Year after 
 year, and month after month, he continued to repeat, that to be 
 wretched is the destiny of all'; that to be eminently wretched is 
 the destiny of the eminent; that all the desires by which we 
 are cursed, lead alike to misery ; if they are not gratified, to the 
 misery of disappointment ; if they are gratified, to the misery 
 of satiety. He always describes himself as a man of the same 
 kind with his favorite creations ; as a man whose heart had 
 been withered, whose capacity for happiness was gone, and 
 could not be restored; but whose invincible spirit dared the 
 worst that could befall him here or hereafter. 
 
 How much of this morbid feeling sprang from an original 
 disease of mind, how much from real misfortune, how much 
 from the nervousness of dissipation, how much of it was fanci- 
 ful, how much of it was merely affected, it is impossible for u^, 
 and would probably have been impossible for the most intimate 
 friends of Lord Byron, to decide. Whether there ever existed, 
 or can ever exist, a person answering to the description which he 
 gave of himself, may be doubted; but that he was not such a 
 person is beyond all doubt. 
 
 It is ridiculous to imagine that a man, whose mind really 
 was imbued with scorn of his fellow-creatures, would have pub- 
 lished three or four books every year to tell them so ; or that 
 a man who could say with truth, that he neither sought sym- 
 pathy nor needed it, would have admitted all Europe to hear 
 his farewell to his wife, and his blessings on his child. In the 
 second canto of Childe Harold, he tells us that he is insensible 
 to fame and obloquy : 
 
 "111 may such contest now the spirit move, 
 Which heeds nor keen reproof nor partial praise." 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 257 
 
 Yet we know, on the best evidence, that, a day or two before 
 he published these lines, he was greatly, nay, indeed, child- 
 ishly elated, by the compliments paid to his maiden speech in 
 the House of Lords. 
 
 Among the large class of young persons, whose reading is 
 almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popular- 
 ity of Lord Byron was unbounded. They, bought pictures of 
 him, they treasured up the smallest relics of him ; they learned 
 his poems by heart, and did their best to write like him, and to 
 look like him. Many of them practiced at the glass, in the 
 hope of catching the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the 
 brow, which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded 
 their neckcloths in imitation of their great leader. For some 
 years, the Minerva press sent forth no novel without a mys- 
 terious, unhappy, Lara-like peer. , 
 
 The number of hopeful underg'raduates, and medical students 
 who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the freshness 
 of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose passions had con- 
 sumed themselves to dust, and to whom the relief of tears 
 was denied, passes all calculation. This was not the worst. 
 There was created, in the minds of many of these enthusiasts, 
 a pernicious and absurd association between intellectual power 
 and moral depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they 
 drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and 
 voluptuousness. This affectation has passed away ; and a few 
 more years will destroy whatever yet remains of that magical 
 potency which once belonged to the name of Byron. To our 
 children he will be merely a writer; and their impartial judg- 
 ment will appoint his place among writers, without regard to 
 his rank, or to his private history. T. B. Macatjlat. 
 
 In no productions of modern genius, is the reciprocal influ 
 ence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than in those 
 of the author of Childe Harold. His character produced the 
 poems, and it cannot be doubted that his poems are adapted to 
 produce such a character. His heroes speak a language sup- 
 plied not more by imagination than by consciousness. They 
 are not those machines, that, by a contrivance of the artist, 
 send forth a music of their own; but instruments through 
 22 
 
258 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibil- 
 ity, that cannot but give a sympathetic impulse to those who 
 hear. The desolate misanthropy of his mind rises, and throws 
 its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his own ruined 
 castles. We feel it to be sublime, but we forget that it is a sub- 
 limity which it cannot have, till it is abandoned by every thing 
 that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready 
 to become the haunts of out-laws and assassins. 
 
 Nor are his more tender and affectionate passages those to 
 which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. 
 It is not that we can here and there select a proposition for- 
 mally false or pernicious ; but that he leaves an impression 
 unfavorable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, pecu- 
 liarly dangerous to the finest minds and most susceptible hearts. 
 They are the scene of a summer evening, where all is tender, 
 and beautiful, and grand; but the damps of disease descend 
 with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapors of night are 
 breathed in with the fragrance and balm, and the delicate and 
 fair are the surest victims of the exposure. Fkisdie 
 
 LESSON CXII . 
 
 HEl<RY MARTYN AND LORD BYRON. 
 
 Both Henry Martyn and Lord Byron shared the sorrows 
 of life, and their records teach the different workings of the 
 Christian and the worldly mind. Byron lost his mother, and 
 when urged not to give way to sorrow, he burst into an agony 
 of grief, saying, " I had but one friend in the world, and now 
 she is gone!" On the death of some of his early friends, he 
 thus writes : " My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a 
 lonely tree before I am withered. I have no resource but my 
 own reflections, and they present no prospect here or hereafter, 
 except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. I am 
 indeed most wretched." 
 
 And thus Henry Martyn mourns the loss of one most dear. 
 " Can it be that she has been lying so many months in the cold 
 grave? Would that I coulc' always remember it, or always 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 259 
 
 forget it; but to think a moment on other things, and then feel 
 the remembrance of it come, as if for the first time, rends my 
 heart asunder. O my gracious God, what should I do without 
 Thee ! But now thou art manifesting thyself as ' the God of 
 all consolation.' Never was I so near thee. There is nothing 
 in the world for which I could wish to live, except because it 
 may please God to appoint me some work to do. O thou 
 incomprehensibly glorious Savior, what hast thou done to 
 alleviate the sorrows of life !" 
 
 It is recorded of Byron, that, in society, he generally ap 
 peared humorous and prankish ; yet, when rallied on his mel- 
 ancholy turn of writing, his constant answer was, that though 
 thus merry and full of laughter, he was, at heart, one of the 
 most miserable wretches in existence. And thus he writes : 
 "Why, at the very hight of desire, and human pleasure, 
 worldly, amorous, ambitious, or even avaricious, does there 
 mingle a certain sense of doubt and sorrow, a fear of vrhat is 
 to come, a doubt of what is ? If it were not for hope, what 
 would the future be ? A hell ! As for the past, what predo- 
 minates in memory ? Hopes baffled ! From whatever place 
 we commence, we know where it must all end. And yet 
 what good is there in knowing it ? It does not make men 
 wiser or better. If I were to live over again, I do not know 
 what I would change in my life, unless it were for — not to 
 have lived at all. All history and experience teach us, that 
 good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, and 
 that what is most to be desired, is an easy passage out of it. 
 What can it give us but years? andfliese have little of good but 
 their ending." 
 
 And thus Martyn writes : "I am happier here in tliis remote 
 land, where I seldfom hear what happens in the world, than I 
 was in England, where there are so many calls to look at 
 things that are seen. The previous Word is now my only 
 study, by means of trapslations. Time flows on with great 
 rapidity. It seems as if life would all be gone before any thing 
 is done. I sometimes rejoice that I am but twenty-seven, and 
 that, unless God should ordain it otherwise, I may double this 
 number in constant and successful labor. But I shall not cease 
 from my happiness, and scarcely from my labor, by passing 
 into the other world." 
 
260 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And thus they make their records at anniversaries, when 
 the mind is called to review life and its labors. Thus Byron 
 writes: "At twelve o'clock I shall have completed thirty-three 
 years ! I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having 
 lived so long and to so little purpose. « « It is now three 
 minutes past twelve, and I am thirty-three ! 
 
 " Alas, my friend, the years pass swiftly by." 
 But I do not regret them so much for what I have done, as for 
 what I might have done." 
 
 And thus Martyn : " I like to find myself employed usefully, 
 in a way I did not expect or foresee. The coming year is to 
 be a perilous one, but my life is of little consequence, whether 
 I finish the Persian New Testament or not. I look back with 
 pity on myself, when I attached so much importance to my 
 life and labors. The more I see of my own works, the more 
 I am ashamed of them, for coarseness and clumsiness mar all 
 the works of man. I am sick when I look at the wisdom of 
 man, but am relieved by reflecting, that we have a city whose 
 builder and maker is God. The least of his works is refresh- 
 ing. A dried leaf, or a straw, makes me feel in good company, 
 and complacence and admiration take the place of disgust. 
 What a momentary duration is the life of man! "It glides 
 along, rolling onward forever," may be affirmed of the river ; 
 but men pass away as soon Ss they begin to exist. Well, let 
 the moments pass !" 
 
 " They waft us sooner o'er 
 This life's tempestuous sea, 
 
 Soon we shall reach the blissful shore 
 Of blest eternity !" 
 
 Such was the experience of those who in youth completed 
 their course. Miss c. E. Bkechek 
 
 LESSON CXIII. 
 
 THE DIVER. 
 
 Thoc hast been where the rocks of coral grow. 
 Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; 
 
 Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
 Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 261 
 
 Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old. 
 And wrecks where the brave have striven ; 
 
 The deep is a strong and fearful hold, 
 But thou its bar hast riven ! 
 
 A wild and weary life is thine, 
 
 A wasting task and lone ; 
 Though treasure-grots for thee may shine. 
 
 To all besides unknown. 
 
 A weary life ! but a swift decay 
 
 Soon, soon shall set thee free ! 
 Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away. 
 
 Thou wrestler with the sea ! 
 
 In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, 
 
 Well are the death-signs read; 
 Go, for the pearl in its cavern seek. 
 
 Ere hope and power be fled. 
 
 And bright in beauty's coronal 
 
 That glistening gem shall be ; 
 A star to all the festive hall ; 
 
 But who shall think on thee ? 
 
 None ; as it gleams from the queen-like head. 
 
 Not one, 'mid throngs, will say, 
 " A life hath been, like a rain-drop, shed, 
 
 For that pale and quivering ray." 
 
 Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought ! 
 
 And are not those like thee. 
 Who win for earth the gems of thought ' 
 
 O wrestler with the sea ! 
 
 Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, 
 Where the passion-fountains bum, 
 
 Gathering the jewels far below, 
 From many a buried urn : 
 
 Wringing from lava-veins the fire 
 That o'er bright words is poured ; 
 
 Tjearning deep sounds, to make the lyre 
 A spirit in each chord. 
 
262 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 But oh ! the price of bitter tears, 
 
 Paid for the lonely power, 
 That throws at last, o'er desert years, 
 
 A darkly glorious dower ! 
 
 Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread, 
 
 So radiant thoughts are strewed; 
 The soul whence those high gifts are shed, 
 
 May faint in solitude. 
 
 And who will think, when the strain is sung. 
 
 Till a thousand hearts are stirred. 
 What life-drops from the minstrel wrung. 
 
 Have gushed with every word ? 
 
 None, none ! his treasures live like thine. 
 
 He strives and dies like thee ; 
 Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 
 
 O wrestler with the sea ! Mbs. Hemaks. 
 
 LESSON G-XIV. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. ,' 
 
 The shades of nighpvere falling fast, y 
 As through an Alpine village passed 
 A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
 A banner, with the strange deTOe, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ;^ KTs eye beneath 
 Flashed like a falchioa from its sheath, 
 And like ^silver clanon rung. 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright , 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
 And from his lips escaped a groan, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. ^63 
 
 And loud that claiion voice replied, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 But still he answered with a sigh, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
 Beware the awful avalanche !" 
 This was the peasant's last good-night; 
 A voice replied, far up the hight, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled air. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
 Half-buried in the snow was found. 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 That banner with the strange device. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star, 
 
 ExcelsioW H. W. Longfellow 
 
 LESSON CXV. 
 
 A NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 Ai,0NE I walked the ocean strand ; 
 A pearly shell was in my hand : 
 I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
 
 My name, the year, the day. 
 As onward from the spot I passed. 
 One lingering look behind I cast : 
 A wave came rolling high and fast, 
 
 And washed my lines away 
 
204 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And so, methought, 't will shortly be 
 With every mark on earth from me ; 
 A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place, 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of time, and been to be no more. 
 Of me, my day, the name I bore. 
 
 To leave nor track nor trace. 
 
 And yet, with Him who counts the sands. 
 And holds the waters in his hands, 
 I know the lasting record stands, 
 
 Inscribed against my name. 
 Of all this mortal part has wrought ; 
 Of all this thinking soul has thought ; 
 And from these fleeting moments caught, 
 
 For glory, or for shame. Miss. H. F. Gould. 
 
 LESSON CXVI. 
 
 VOICE OF THE WAVES. 
 
 [Written near the scene of a recent ship-wrec/e.] 
 Answer, ye chiming waves, 
 
 That now in sunshine sweep ! 
 Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 
 
 Voice of the solemn deep ! 
 
 Hath man's lone spirit here 
 With storms in battle striven? 
 
 Where all is now so calmly clear. 
 Hath anguish cried to heaven 1 
 
 Then the sea's voice arose. 
 
 Like an earthquake's under-tone 
 
 " Mortal, the strife of human woes 
 WTiere hath not nature known ■! 
 
 " Here, to the quivering mast. 
 
 Despair hath wildly clung. 
 The shriek upon the wind hath passed, 
 
 The midnight sky hath rung. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 265 
 
 "And the youthful and the brave 
 
 With their beauty and renown. 
 To the hollow chambers of the wave 
 
 In darkness have gone down. 
 
 " They are vanished from their place ; 
 
 Let their homes and hearths make moan '. 
 But the rolling waters keep no trace 
 
 Of pang or conflict gone." 
 
 A.las ! thou haughty deep ! 
 
 The strong, the sounding far ! 
 IVf y heart before thee dies : — I weep 
 
 To think on what we are. 
 
 To think that so we pass, 
 
 High hope, and thought, and mind, 
 Even as the breath-stain from the glass. 
 
 Leaving no sign behind. 
 
 Saw'st thou naught else, thou main ? 
 
 Thou and the midnight sky 1 
 Naught save the struggle, brief and vain, 
 
 The parting agony ? 
 
 And the sea's voice replied, 
 
 " Here nobler things have been ; 
 Power with the valiant, when they died. 
 
 To saris^ify the scene : 
 
 Courage, in fra^le form, 
 
 Faith, trusting to the last, 
 Prayer, breathing heavenward through the storm. 
 
 But all alike have passed." 
 
 Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 
 
 Thest have not passed in vain : 
 My soul awakes, my hope springs free 
 
 On viQtor wings again. 
 
 Thou, from thine empire driven, 
 
 Mayst vanish with thy powers ; 
 But, by the hearts that here have striven. 
 
 A loftier doom is ours. Mns, UiM^m. 
 
 23 
 
266 YOUNG LADIES' READKR. 
 
 LESSON CXVII. 
 
 THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN. 
 
 There is, in the fate of the unfortunate Indians, much to 
 awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our 
 judgment; much which may be urged to excuse their own 
 atrocities ; much in their characters which betrays us into an 
 involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than 
 their history ? By a law of their nature they seem destined to 
 a slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of 
 the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their 
 footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they 
 are gone forever. They pass mournfully by us, and they re- 
 turn no more. 
 
 Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams, and the 
 fires of their councils, rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay 
 to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and 
 the lakes. The shouts of victory, and the war-dance, rung 
 through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows, and 
 the deadly tomahawk, whistled through the forests ; and the 
 hunter's trace, and the dark encampment, startled the wild 
 beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. 
 The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers 
 played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm 
 hopes of the future. Braver men never lived ; truer men never 
 drew the bow. They had courage, and foi-titude, and sagacity, 
 and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They 
 shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. 
 
 If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. 
 They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. 
 If they forgave not injury, neither did diey forget kindness. If 
 their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were 
 unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped nol 
 on this side of the grave. But where are they ? Where aro 
 the villages, and warriors, and youth? the sachems and the 
 tribes ? the hunters and their families ? They have perished. 
 They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone 
 done the mighty work. No ; nor famine, nor war. There 
 has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath eaten 
 into their heart-cores ; a plague, which the touch of the whit« 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 267 
 
 man comnrunicated; a poison, which betrayed them into a 
 lingering ruin. 
 
 The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they 
 may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of 
 the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. 
 I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, 
 the women, and the warriors, "few and faint, yet fearless 
 still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The 
 smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins. They move 
 on witli a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their 
 heels, for terror or dispatch ; but they heed him not. They 
 turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a 
 last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no 
 tears ; they utter no cries ; they heave no groans. 
 
 There is something in their hearts which passes speech. 
 There is something in their looks, not of vengeance nor submis- 
 sion, but of hard necessity, which stifles both ; which chokes 
 all utterance ; which has no aim nor method. It is courage 
 absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their 
 look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall 
 never be repassed by them ; no, never. Yet there lies not be- 
 tween us and them an impassable gulf. They know, and feel, 
 that there is for them still one remove further, not distant, nor 
 unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race. 
 
 Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read, in such a fate, 
 much that we know not how to interpret ; much of provocation 
 to cruel deeds and deep resentments ; much of apology for 
 wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling with indignation ; 
 much of doubt and misgiving as to the past ; much of painful 
 recollection ; much of dark foreboding. Philosophy may tell 
 us, that conquest, in other cases, has adopted the conquered 
 into its own bosom ; and thus, at no distant period, given them 
 the common privileges of subjects ; but that the red men are 
 incapable of such an assimilation. By their very nature and 
 character, they can neither unite themselves with civil institu- 
 tions, nor with safety be allowed to remain as distinct com- 
 munities. 
 
 Policy may suggest that their ferocious passions, their inde- 
 pendent spirit, and their wandering life, disdain the restraints 
 of society ; that they will submit to superior force only while 
 
268 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 it chains them to the earth by its pressure. A wilderness ia 
 essential to their habits and pursuits. They can ntither be 
 tamed nor overawed. They subsist by war or hunting ; and 
 the game of the forest is relinquished only for the nobler game 
 of man. The question, therefore, is necessarily reduced to the 
 consideration, whether the country itself shall be abandoned by 
 civilized man, or maintained, by his sword, as the right of the 
 strongest. 
 
 It may be so ; perhaps, in the wisdom of Providence, it must 
 be so. I pretend not to comprehend, or solve, such weighty 
 difficulties. But neither philosophy nor policy can shut out 
 the feelings of nature. Humanity must continue to sigh at the 
 constant sacrifices of this bold but wasting race. And Religion, 
 if she may not blush at the deed, must, as she sees the succes- 
 sive victims depart, cling to the altar with a drooping heart, 
 and mourn over a destiny without hope and without example. 
 
 Stout. 
 
 Yet sometimes, in the gay and noisy street 
 Of the great city, which usurps the place 
 Of the small Indian village, one shall see 
 Some miserable relic of that race, 
 Whose sorely-tarnished fortunes we have sung ; 
 Yet how debased and fallen ! In his eye 
 The flame of noble daring is gone out, 
 And his brave face has lost its martial look. 
 His eye rests on the earth, as if the grave 
 Were his sole hope, his last and only home. 
 A poor, thin garb is wrapped about his frame. 
 Whose sorry plight but mocks his ancient state, 
 And in th^ bleak and pitiless storm he walks 
 With melancholy brow, and shivers as he goes. 
 His pride is dead ; his courage is no more ; 
 His name is but a by-word. All the tribes, 
 Who called this mighty continent their own. 
 Are homeless, friendless wanderers on earth. 
 
 McLellait. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 269 
 
 LESSON CXVIII. 
 
 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 The romantic story of Pocahontas forms a beautiful episode 
 in the early history of Virginia. Her intercession for Smith is 
 thus described by the historians of that period. " The captive, 
 bound hand and foot, was laid upon the stones, and Powhatan, 
 to whom the honor was respectfully assigned, was about to 
 put him to death. Something like pity beamed from the eyes 
 of the savage crowd, but none dared to speak. The fatal club 
 was uplifted ; the captive was alone among hostile savages, with- 
 out a friend to succor him. The multitude were anticipating the 
 dreadful crash that was to deprive him of life, when the young 
 and beautiful Pocahontas, the king's darling daughter, with a 
 shriek of terror and agony, threw herself on the body of the 
 victim. Her dark hair unbound, her eyes streaming with tears, 
 and her whole manner, bespoke the agony of her bosom. She 
 cast the most beseeching looks at her angry and astonished father, 
 imploring his pity, and the life of the captive, with all the elo- 
 quence of mute, but impassioned sorrow." 
 
 "The remainder of this scene" says Burke " is highly honorable 
 to Powhatan, and remains a lasting monument, that, though dif- 
 ferent principles of action, and the influence of custom, had given 
 to the manners of the people an appearance neither amiable nor 
 virtuous in general, yet they still retained the noblest property 
 of human character; the touch of sympathy, and the feelings of 
 humanity. The club of the Emperor was still uplifted ; but 
 gentle feelings had overcome him, and his eye was every moment 
 losing its fierceness. He looked around to find an excuse for his 
 weakness, and saw pity in every face. The generous savage 
 no longer hesitated. The compassion of the rude state is neither 
 ostentatious nor dilatory, nor does it insult its object by the 
 exaction of impossibilities. Powhatan lifted his grateful and 
 delighted daughter from the earth, but lately ready to receive 
 the blood of the victim, and commanded the stranger captive to 
 rise." 
 
 Pocahontas, who performed so^ important a part in this inter- 
 esting scene, though bom and reared in savage life, was a crea- 
 ture of exquisite loveliness and refinement. The gracefulness 
 
270 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 of her person, the gentleness of her nature, her benevolence, 
 her courage, her noble self-devotion in the discharge of duty, 
 elevate this lovely woman to an equality with the most illustri- 
 ous and most attractive of her sex ; and yet, those winning 
 graces and noble qualities were not the most remarkable 
 features of her character. This was even more distinguished 
 by the wonderftil tact, and the delicate sense of propriety, which 
 marked all the scenes of her brief, but eventful history. 
 
 The mingled tenderness and heroism of her successfiil interces- 
 sion for the adventurous Smith present a scene, which for dra- 
 matic effect and moral beauty, is not excelled either in the re- 
 cords of history, or the most splendid creations of inventive genius. 
 Had the generous spark of love, which is inbred in the heart 
 of woman, been cherished by the refinements of education, it 
 could not have burned with a brighter flame. The motive of 
 that noble action was benevolence, "the purest and most lofty 
 principle of human action. It was not the caprice of a thought- 
 less girl, it was not a momentary passion for the condemned 
 stranger, pleading at a susceptible heart, for her affections were 
 reserved for another, and the purity, as well as the dignity of 
 her after life, showed that they were truly and cautiously be- 
 stowed. 
 
 By her intervention, her courage, and her talent, the 
 colony of Virginia was several times saved from famine anc 
 extermination, and when perfidiously taken prisoner by those 
 who owed every thing to her noble devotion to their cause, she 
 displayed in her captivity a patience, a sweetness of disposi- 
 tion, and a propriety of conduct, that won universal admiration. 
 As the wife of Rolfe she was equally exemplary ; and when 
 at the British court she stood in the presence of royalty, sur- 
 rounded by the beauty and refinement of the proudest aristoo 
 racy in the world, she was stUl a lovely and admired woman, 
 unsurpassed in the appropriate graces of her sex. 
 
 Jahes Hali,. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER.. 271 
 
 LESSON CXIX. 
 
 THE chieftain's DAUGHTER. 
 
 {Pocahontas.) 
 Upon the barren sand 
 
 A single captive stood, 
 Around him came, with bow and brand. 
 
 The red men of the wood. 
 Like him of old, his doom he hears, 
 
 Rock-bound on ocean's rim; 
 The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, 
 
 And breathed a prayer for him 
 
 A-bove his head in air. 
 
 The savage war-club swung ; 
 The fri^tio girl, in wild despair, 
 
 Her arms about him flung. 
 Then shook the warriors of the shade. 
 
 Like leaves on aspen-limb. 
 Subdued by that heroic maid, 
 
 Who breathed a prayer for him. 
 
 " Unbind him !" gasped the chief, 
 
 " It is your king's decree !" 
 He kissed away her tears of grief, 
 
 And set the captive free. 
 'T is ever thus, when, in life's storm, 
 
 Hope's star to man grows dim, 
 An angel kneels in woman's form, 
 
 And breathes a prayer for him. 
 
 Geo. p. MoBHis. 
 
 LESSON CXX. 
 
 THE PERUVIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 Pizarro, Davillo, Gomez, Spamards, and Orozembo, a Peruvian 
 prisoner, 
 
 (Enter Gomez.) 
 Pizarro. How ! Gomez, what bringest thou ? 
 Gomez. On ySm^er hill, among the palm trees, we have 
 surp ted an old Peruvian. Escape by flight he could not, 
 
272 VOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 and we seized him and his attendant unresisting : yet his lips 
 breathe nothing but bitterness and scorn. 
 
 Pizarro. Drag him before us. [Gomez leads in Orozem,' 
 bo.) What art thou, stranger ? 
 
 Orozembo. First tell me which among you is the captain 
 of this band of robbers. 
 
 Piz. Audacious ! This in^^nce has sealed thy doom. 
 Die thou shalt, gray-headed riiffian. But first confess what 
 thou knowest. 
 
 Oro. I know that which thou hast just assured me of; 
 that I shall die. 
 
 Piz. Less audacity, perhaps, might have preserved thy life 
 
 Oro. My life is as a withered tree ; it is not worth pre 
 serving. 
 
 Piz. Hear me, old man. Even now we march against the 
 Peruvian army. We know there is a secret path that leads to 
 your strong hold among the rocks : guide us to that, and name 
 your reward. If wealth be thy wish— - 
 
 Oro. Ha! ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Piz. Dost thou despise my offer ? 
 
 Oro. Thee, and thy offer ! Wealth ? I have the wealth 
 of two, dear, gallant sons ; I have stored in heaven the riches 
 which repay good actions here; and still, my chief treasure I 
 do bear about me. 
 
 Piz. What is that? Inform me. 
 
 Oro. I will; for it never can be thine: the treasure of a 
 pure, unsullied conscience. 
 
 Piz. I believe there is no other Peruvian dares speak as 
 thou dost. 
 
 Oro. Would I could believe there is no other Spaniard who 
 dares act as thou dost. 
 
 Gam. Obdurate Pagan! How numerous is your army? 
 
 Oro. Count the leaves of yonder forest. 
 
 Piz. Which is the weakest part of your camp ? 
 
 Oro. It has no weak part; on every side 'tis fortified by 
 truth and justice. 
 
 Piz. Where have you concealed your wives and youi 
 children ? 
 
 Oro. In the hearts of their hustftnds and their fathers. 
 
 Piz. Knowest thou Alonzo ? 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 273 
 
 Oro. Know him ? Alonzo ? Know him ? Our nation's 
 
 aefactor 1 The guardian angel of Peru ? 
 
 Piz. By what has he merited that title ? 
 
 Oro. By not resembling thee. 
 
 Piz. Who is this RoUa, joined with Alonzo in command? 
 
 Oro. I will answer that ; for I love to hear and to repeat 
 the hero's name. EoUa, the kinsman of the king, is the idol 
 of our army; in war, a tiger, chased by the hunter's spear ; in 
 peace, more gentle than the unweaned lamb. Cora was once 
 betrothed to him ; but finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned 
 his claim, and, I fear, his peace, to friendship, and to Cora's 
 happiness : yet still he loves her with a pure and holy fire. 
 
 Piz. Romantic savage ! I shall meet this RoUa soon. 
 
 Oro. Thou'dst better not ! The terror of his noble eye 
 would strike thee dead. 
 
 Dav. Silence, or tremble ! 
 
 Oro. Beardless robber! why should I tremble before man? 
 Why before thee, thou less than man ! 
 
 Dav. Another word, audWous heathen, and I strike ! 
 
 Oro. Strike, christian ! Then boast among thy fellows, — 
 T, too, have murdered a Peruvian ! 
 
 Dav. Death and vengeance seize thee ! (Stabs him.) 
 
 Piz. Hold ! 
 
 Dav. Couldst thou longer have endured his insults ? 
 
 Piz. And therefore should he die untortured ? 
 
 Oro. True ! Observe, young man, thy unthinking rashness 
 has saved me from the rack; and thou thyself hast lost the 
 opportunity of a useful lesson ; thou mightest thyself have seen 
 with what cruelty vengeance would have inflicted torments; 
 and with what patience virtue would have borne them, 
 
 Piz. Away ! Davillo ! if thus rash a second time— 
 
 Dav. Forgive the hasty indignation which— 
 
 Piz. No morci — our guard and guides approach. Follow 
 me, friends ! each shall have his post assigned, and ere Peru- 
 via's God shall sink beneath the main, the Spanish banner, 
 bathed in blood, shall float above the walls of vanquished 
 
 Quito. R, B. SUEItlDAir. 
 
274 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CXXI. 
 
 PISINTERESTED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Alonzu, Sentinel, and Rolla. 
 Scene. J. dungeon ; Monzo in chains ; a sentinel walking near. 
 
 Alonzo. For the last time, I have beheld the shadowed 
 ocean close upon the light. For the last time, through my 
 cleft dungeon's roof, I now behold the quivering luster of the 
 stars. For the last time, oh sun ! (and soon the hour,) I shall 
 behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists 
 of morn to glittering dew-drops. Then comes my death, and 
 in the morning of my day, I fall, — ^but no, Alonzo, date not 
 the life which thou hast run by the mean reckoning of the 
 hours and days which thou hast breathed. A life spent worthily 
 should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds, not years. 
 Then wouldst thou murmur not, but bless Providence, which, 
 in so short a span, made thee the instrument of wide and 
 spreading blessings to the helpless and oppressed ! Though 
 sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely falls, whose memory 
 records no benefit conferred by him on man. They only have 
 lived long, who have lived virtuously. Surely, even now, 
 thin streaks of glimmering light steal on "the darkness of the 
 east. If so, my life is but one hour more. I will not watch 
 the coming dawn ; but, in the darkness of my cell, my last 
 prayer to thee. Power Supreme ! shall be for my wife and 
 child! Grant them innocence and peace; grant health, and 
 purity of mind ; all else is worthless, 
 {Enters his cell.) 
 
 {Rolla enters, disguised as a monk.) 
 Rolla. Inform me, friend, is Alonzo, the Spanish prisoner, 
 confined in this dungeon? 
 Sentinel. He is. 
 Rol. I must speak with him. 
 Sen. You must not. 
 Rol. He is my friend. 
 Sen. Not if he were thy brother. 
 Rol. What is to be his fate ? 
 Sen. He dies at sunrise. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 275 
 
 Rol. Ha ! then I am come in time. 
 
 Sen. Just, — to witness his death. 
 
 Rol. Soldier, I micst speak to him. 
 
 Sen. Back, back. It is impossible. 
 
 Rol. I do entreat thee, but for one moment. 
 
 Seti. Thou entreatest in vain ; my orders are most strict. 
 
 Rol. Even now, I saw a messenger go hence. 
 
 Sen. He brought a pass which we are all accustomed to 
 obey. 
 
 Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold ; look on these 
 precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for thee 
 and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them ; they are 
 thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo. 
 
 Sen. Away! Wouldst thou corrupt me? Me? an old 
 CastUian ? I know my duty better. 
 
 Rol. Soldier, hast thou a wife? 
 
 Sen. I have. 
 
 Rol. Ha&t thou children ? 
 
 Sen. Four, — honest, lively boys. 
 
 Rol. Where didst thou leave them ? 
 
 Sen. In my native village ; even in the cot where mysell 
 was born. 
 
 Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife ? 
 
 Sen. Do I love them ? God knows my heart. I do, 
 
 Rol. Soldier ! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel 
 death, in a strange land. What would be thy last request ? 
 
 Sen. That some of my comrades should carry my dying 
 blessing to my wife and children. 
 
 Rol. Oh ! but if that comrade were at thy prison gate, and 
 should there be told, — thy fellow soldier dies at sunrise, yet 
 thou shalt not, for a moment, see him, nor shall thou bear his 
 dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife,— what 
 wouldst thou thinlt of him who thus could drive thy comrade 
 from the door? 
 
 Sen. How ? 
 
 Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come to receive 
 for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend. 
 
 Sen. Go in. v / 
 
 Rol. Oh! holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. 
 There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form, and life, 
 
276 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 human or savage, native of the forest wild, or giddy air, 
 around virhose parent bosom thou hast not a chord entvirined of 
 power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and, at thy will, 
 to draw them back to thee. On iron piniSns borne, the blood- 
 stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plitttiage closest to 
 her breast, soft as the cy^et's down, and o'er 'her uiishelled 
 brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently. Yes, 
 now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate ! Alonzo ! 
 Alonzo ! my friend ; ah ! in gentle sleep ! Alonzo ! rise ! 
 
 Alonzo. How? is my hour elapsed? Well, lam ready. 
 
 Itol. Alonzo ! know me. 
 
 Al. What voice is that ? 
 
 Rol. 'TisRolla's. 
 
 M. RoUa ! my friend ! Heavens ! how couldst thou pass 
 the guard ? Did this habile— 
 
 liol. There is not a moment to be lost in words : this dis- 
 guise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field 
 of battle : it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon ; now, take 
 it, thou, and fly. 
 
 Al. And RoUa— 
 
 Rol. Will remain here in thy place. 
 
 Al. And die for me ? No ! Rather eternal tortures rack me. 
 
 Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, 
 not RolMs ; and from my prison soon will thy arm delivei 
 me; or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, 
 standing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives 
 beneath my shelter. Thou art— a husband and a father — the 
 being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. 
 Go ! go, Alonzo ! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy 
 chUd! 
 
 Al. Urge me not thus, my friend ; I had prepared to die in 
 peace. 
 
 Rol. To die in peace ? devoting her thou hast sworn to live 
 for, to madness, misery, and death ? For, be assured, the state 
 I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return. 
 
 Al. Merciful heavens ! 
 
 Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me weU,. 
 I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, 
 and shrunk from its fulfillment. If thou art proudly obstinate 
 to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 277 
 
 fliee, no power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence ; 
 and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing RoUa 
 perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and 
 thy child are lost forever. 
 M. Oh, Eolla! 
 
 B.0I. Begone. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me. 
 I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender and submission. 1 
 shall gain time, no doubt, while thou, with a chosen band, pass- 
 ing the secret way, mayst, at night, return, release thy friend, 
 and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo! 
 Even now, I hear thy frantic wife, poor Cora, call thee! 
 Haste, Alonzo ! Haste ! Haste ! 
 
 Jil. RoUa ! you distract me. Wear you the robe, and, 
 though dreadful the necessity, we will strike down the guard, 
 and force our passage. 
 
 Rol. What, the soldier on duty here ? 
 .31. Yes, else, seeing two, the alarm will be instant death. 
 Hoi. For my nation's safety, I would not harm him. 
 That soldier, mark me, is a man! All are not men that wear 
 the human form. He refused my prayers, refused my gold, 
 denying admittance, till his own feelings bribed him. I would 
 not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heart-strings 
 from consuming fire. But haste ! A moment's further pause 
 and all is lost. 
 
 .31. Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honor, and 
 from right. 
 
 Sol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his friend ? 
 .31. Oh ! my preserver ! 
 
 Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go ! 
 I am rewarded. {Throwing a friar'' s garment over Monzo.) 
 There, conceal thy face ; and that they may not clank, hold 
 fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee ! 
 
 M. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me Heaven ! I 
 return to save, or perish with thee ! {Exit.) 
 
 Rol. He has passed the outer porch ! he is safe ! he will 
 soon embrace his wife and child ! Now, Cora, didst thou not 
 wrong me ? This is the first time, throughout my life, I ever 
 deceived man. Forgive me, God of Truth ! if I am wrong. 
 Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again! Yes, theie! 
 {Lifting his hands to heaven.) Assm-edly we shall meet 
 
278 YOrNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 again; there, possess in peace the joys of everlasting love and 
 friendship, — on earth, imperfect and imbittered. 
 
 R. B. Shebisait. 
 
 LESSON CXXII. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP IN SCRIPTURE. 
 
 Two very remarkable instances of friendship occur in the 
 history of our Savior's life. It may not, perhaps, be altogether 
 uninteresting to stsrte them in all their striking circumstances. 
 The Evangelist, in relating the miracles which Christ perform- 
 ed at Bethany, by restoring a person to life, who had lain some 
 days in the grave, introduces his narrative by emphatically 
 observing, that "Jesus loved Lazarus;" intimating, it would 
 seem, that the sentiments which Christ entertained of Lazarus, 
 were a distinct and peculiar species of that general benevolence, 
 by which he was actuated towards all mankind. 
 
 Agreeably to this application of the sacred historian's mean- 
 ing, when the sisters of Lazarus sent to acquaint Jesus of the 
 state in which their brother lay, they did not even mention his 
 name, but pointed him out by a more honorable and equally 
 notorious designation. The words of this message were, " Be- 
 hold, he whom thou lovest is sick!" Accordingly, when he 
 informs the disciples of the notice he had thus received, his 
 expression is, " Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." 
 
 Now that Christ did not, upon this occasion, use the word 
 friend, in its loose, undistinguished acceptation, but in a restrain- 
 ed and strictly appropriated sense, is not only manifest from 
 this plain account of the fact itself, but appears further evident 
 from the sequel. For, as he was advancing to the grave, 
 accompanied by the relations of the deceased, he evinced emo- 
 tion like that which swelled in their bosoms, and sympathizing 
 with their common sorrow, he melted into tears, "Jesus 
 wept." This circumstance was too remarkable to escape par- 
 ticular observation ; and it drew from the spectators, what we 
 think it must necessarily draw from every reader, this natural 
 and obvieus reflection, " Behold how he kved him." 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 279 
 
 In the concluding catastrophe of our Savior's life, he gave a 
 still more decisive proof, that sentiments of the sti'ongest per- 
 sonal attachment and friendship, were not unworthy of being 
 admitted into his sacred bosom. They were too deeply im- 
 pressed, indeed, to be extinguished even by the most excrucia- 
 ting torments. In that dreadful moment, observing among the 
 afflicted witnesses of his painful and ignominious sufferings, 
 the faithful follower, who is described by the historian as " the 
 disciple whom Jesus loved," he distinguished him by the most 
 convincing instance of superior confidence, esteem, and affec- 
 tion, that ever was exhibited to the admiration of mankind. 
 For, under circumstances of the most agonizing torment, when 
 it might be thought impossible for human nature to retain any 
 other sensibility but that of its own inexpressible suffering, he 
 recommended to the care and protection of this, his tried and 
 approved friend, in terms of peculiar regard and endearment, 
 the most tender and sacred object of his private afiections. 
 
 But no language can represent this pathetic and affecting 
 scene, with a force and energy equal to the sublime simplicity of 
 the Evangelist's own narrative : " Now there stood by the cross 
 of Jesus, his mother, and his mother's sister, and Mary Mag- 
 dalene. When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple 
 standing by whom he loved ; he saith unto his mother, ' Behold 
 thy son !' Then he saith to the disciple, ' Behold thy mother !' 
 And from that hour, that disciple took her unto his own home." 
 
 Meimotu. 
 
 LESSON CXXIII. 
 
 {ElUpiical.) 
 NAOMI AND KUTH. 
 
 Now it came to pass, in the days when the judges ruled, that 
 there was a famine in the land. And a certain man of Bethle- 
 hem-judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab, he, and his 
 wife, and his two sons. And the name of the man was Eli- 
 melech, and the ( . . . ) of his wife, Naomi, and the 
 ( . . . ) of his two sons, Mahlon and Chilion, Ephrathites 
 of Bethlehem-judah. And they came into the ( . . , ) 
 
280 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 of Moab, and continued there. And Elimelech, Naomi's hus- 
 band, died: and she was left, and her two sons. And they 
 took them wives of the women of Moab ; the name of the 
 one was Orpah, and the name of the other Ruth ; and they 
 (...) there about ten years. And Mahlon and Chi- 
 lion died also, both of them ; and the woman was left of her 
 two sons and her husband. 
 
 Then she (...), with her daughters-in-law, that she 
 might return from the country of Moab ; for she had heard in 
 the country of Moab, how that the Lord had visited his people, 
 in ( . . . ) them bread. Wherefore she went forth out 
 of the place where she was, and her two daughters-in-law 
 with her ; and they went on the way to ( . . . ) unto the 
 land of Judah. And Naomi said unto her two daughters-in- 
 law. Go, return each to her mother's house ; the Lord deal 
 kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me. 
 The Lord grant you that ye may find rest, each of you in the 
 house of her husband. Then she kissed them ; and they lifted 
 up their voice and wept. 
 
 And they said unto her, Surely we will return with thee 
 unto thy people. And Naomi said. Turn again, my daughters, 
 why will ye go with me ? It ( , , , ) me much, for your 
 sakes, that the hand of the Lord is gone out ( , . , ) me. 
 And they lifted up their voice, and wept again ; and Orpah 
 kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clave unto her. And 
 she said, Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto hei 
 (...), and unto her gods ; return thou after thy sister- 
 in-law. 
 
 And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from 
 following after thee ; for whither thou goest, I ( , . , ) ; 
 and where thou lodgest, I wiU lodge ; thy people shall be my 
 people, and thy God my God ; where thou diest will I die, 
 and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more 
 also, if aught but ( . , . ) part thee and me. When she 
 saw that she was steadfastly minded to go with her, then she 
 left ( . , , ) unto her. 
 
 So they two went until they came to Bethlehem, And if 
 came to pass, when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the 
 city was ( , , . ) about them; and they said, is this 
 Naomi? And she snid unto them. Call me not Naomi, call me 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 281 
 
 Mara; for tlie Almighty hath dealt very (...) with 
 me. I went out fall, and the Lord hath brought me home 
 again ( . . . - ): why then call ye me Naomi, seeing the 
 Lord hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted 
 me? So Naomi returned, and Ruth, the Moabitess, her 
 daughter-in-law, witli her. Ruth. 
 
 LESSON CXXIV. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 We have been friends together, 
 
 In sunshine and in shade. 
 Since first beneath the chestnut trees 
 
 In infancy we played. 
 But coldness dwells within thy heart, 
 
 A cloud is on thy brow ; 
 We have been friends together ; 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been gay together ; 
 
 We have laughed at little jests ; 
 For the fount of hope was gushing 
 
 Warm and joyous in our breasts. 
 But laughter now hath fled thy lip. 
 
 And sullen, glooms thy brow ; 
 We have been gay together ; 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been sad together ; 
 
 We haTe wept with bitter tears 
 O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumbered 
 
 The hopes of early years. 
 The voices which were silent there 
 
 Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
 We have been sad together ; 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 Mbb. NoBTOir. 
 
 24 
 
282 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CXXV. 
 
 THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 
 
 1 NEVER was a favorite ; 
 
 My mother never smiled 
 On me, with half the tenderness 
 
 That blessed her fairer child ; 
 I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek. 
 
 While fondled on her knefe ; 
 I've turned away to hide my tears ; 
 
 There was no kiss for me ! 
 
 And yet I strove to please, with all 
 
 My little store of sense ; 
 I strove to please, and infancy 
 
 Can rarely give offense ; 
 But when my artless efforts met 
 
 A cold, ungentle check, 
 I did not dare to throw myself 
 
 In tears upon her neck. 
 
 How blessed are the beautiful ! 
 
 Love watches o'er their birth . 
 Oh, beauty I in my nursery 
 
 I learned to know thy worth ; 
 For even there I often felt 
 
 Forsaken and forlorn, 
 And wished — for others wished U tio 
 
 I never had been born. 
 
 I'm sure 1 was affectionate, 
 
 But in my sister's face ^ 
 There was a look of love, that claimed 
 
 A smile or an embrace ; 
 But when I raised my lip to meet 
 
 The pressure children prize, 
 None knew the feelings of my heart; 
 
 They spoke not in my eyes. 
 
 But, oh ! that heart too keenly felt 
 The anguish of neglect ; 
 
 I saw my sister's lovely form 
 With gems and roses decked ; 
 
•XUUNG LADIES' READER 283 
 
 1 did not covet them ; but oft, 
 
 When wantonly reproved, 
 I envied her the privilege 
 
 Of being so beloved. 
 
 But soon a time of triumph came, 
 
 A time of sorrow too ; 
 For Sickness o'er^iy sister's form 
 
 Her venomed mantle threw : 
 The features once so beautiful 
 
 Now wore the hue of death,; 
 And former friends shrank fearfully 
 
 From her infectious breath. 
 
 'T was then, unwearied, day and night, 
 
 I watched beside her bed, , 
 And fearlessly upon my breast 
 
 I pillowed her poor head. 
 She lived, she loved me for my care ; 
 
 My grief was at an end ; 
 I was a lonely being once. 
 
 But now I have a friend ! t. H. Batlt. 
 
 LESSON CXXVI. 
 
 POOR MARGARET. 
 
 Yes, it would have grieved 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward 3ast; 
 And, wiien iifte at her table gave ms fbod. 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
 Her body was subdued. In every act 
 Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 Self-occupied, to which all outward things 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
 No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 
 We sat together, sighs came on my ear, 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 
 
 Ere my departure, to her care I gave. 
 For her son's use, sonle tokens of regard. 
 
284 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Which, with a look of welcome, she received ; 
 And I exhorted her to have her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
 I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe, 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give ; 
 She thanked me for my wish; but for my hope 
 Methought she did not'thank me. 
 
 I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again, 
 Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping ; she had learned 
 No tidings of her husband ; if he lived, 
 She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 
 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
 In person and appearance ; but her house 
 Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence. 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat ; the hearth 
 Was comfortless : and her small lot of books. 
 Which, in the cottage window, heretofore 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves. 
 Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
 As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe 
 Had from its mother caught the trick of grief, 
 And sighed among its playthings. 
 
 Once again, 
 Toward the garden gate I turned, and saw. 
 More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
 Were now come nearer to her. Weeds defaced 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass ; 
 No ridges there appeared of clear, black mold, 
 No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers. 
 It seemed the better part were gnawed away, 
 Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw. 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 
 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 
 The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. 
 
 Poor Margaret is dead ! 
 The light extinguished of her lonely hut, 
 The hut itself abandoned to decay, 
 And she forgotten in the quiet grave ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 285 
 
 O sir ! the good die first, 
 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust. 
 Burn to the socket. To her hut no one came, 
 But he was welcome ; no one went away. 
 But that it seemed she loved him. 
 She was a woman of a steady mind, 
 Tender and deep in her excess of love, 
 Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
 Of her own thoughts. By some especial care. 
 Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
 A being, who, by adding love to peace. 
 Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
 
 WonDswonTU 
 
 LESSON CXXVll. 
 
 THE THREE PAINTERS. 
 
 First, Fancy seized the brush, and well 
 
 Her magic hues she blent. 
 As beautiful as if Heaven's bow 
 
 Its own bright hues had lent : 
 But, ere her brush was laid aside. 
 
 Each lovely scene had fled, • 
 
 And not a trace remained to show 
 
 The tints her hand had spread. 
 
 Next, Feeling, from the heart's rich store, 
 
 Her varied hue supplies ; 
 And never sunset clouds coulA wear 
 
 More deep and gorgeous dyes. 
 " These will not fade." E'en while she spoke, 
 
 Her own rude touch effaced 
 All that with so much anxious skill 
 
 The pencil's art had traced. * 
 
 Then Memory came ; with dark, cold tints. 
 
 And pencil rude, she drew 
 The scenes of many a vanished joy. 
 
 Which once the sad heart knew. 
 I looked, in hope her dreary sketch, 
 
 Like Fancy's scenes, would fade : 
 I hoped in vain; fadeless her tints ; 
 
 She only paints in shade. Mna. Embchi 
 
286 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CXXVIII. 
 
 TEA-PARTIES IN NEW YORK. 
 
 The company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and 
 tvent away about six ; unless it was in winter time, when the 
 fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get 
 home before dark. The tea-table was crowned with a huge 
 earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown, 
 cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company, 
 being seated around the genial board, and each furnished with 
 a fork, evinced their dexterity in lanching at the fattest pieces 
 in this mighty dish ; in much the same manner as sailors har- 
 poon porpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. 
 Sometimes, the table was graced with immense apple-pies, or 
 saucers full of preserved peaches and pears ; but it was always 
 sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, 
 fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts, a delicious kind of 
 cake, at present scarce known in the city, excepting in genuine 
 Dutch families. 
 
 The tea was served out of a majestic, delft tea-pot, orna- 
 mented with paintings of fat, little, Dutch shepherds and shep- 
 herdesses tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air, and houses 
 built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fanta- 
 sies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in 
 replenishing this pot, from a huge, copper tea-kettle, which 
 would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate 
 days sweat merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a 
 lump of sugar was laid beside each cup ; and the company 
 alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an 
 improvement was introduced by a shrewd arid economic old 
 lady, which was, to suspend a large lump directly over the tea- 
 table, by a strinl* from the ceiling, so that it could be swung 
 from mouth to mouth. 
 
 At these primitive tea-parties, the utmost propriety and 
 dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquetting, 
 no gambling of old ladies, nor hoiden chattering and romping 
 of young ones; no self-satisfied slruttings of wealthy gentle- 
 men, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits, 
 and monkey divertisements, of smart young gentlemen, with 
 no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 287 
 
 themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit 
 their own woolen stockings; nor ever opened their lips, ex- 
 cepting to say, "Yes, sir," or "Yes, madam," to any question 
 tliat was asked them ; behaving, in all things, hke decent, well 
 educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tran- 
 quilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of 
 the blue and white tiles, with which the fire-places were 
 decorated. 
 
 The parties broke up without noise and without confusion 
 They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to say, 
 by the vehicles nature had provided for them, excepting such of 
 the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen 
 gallantly attended their fair ones to their respective abodes, and 
 took leave of them at the door. W. Invmo. 
 
 LESSON CXXIX. 
 
 ON TASTE AND BEAUTY IN DRESS. 
 
 In no way have civilized beings played more fantastic tricks, 
 than in the matter of dress. The influence of fashion is so 
 strong in corrupting the eye, and perverting the taste, that it 
 has led some persons to doubt the existence of any true 
 standard of beauty in costume. There are, however, some 
 forms of dress which appear beautiful to us, after they have 
 ceased to be the reigning mode. These are in general simple 
 and unpretending. The occasional triumph of good taste over 
 fashion is shown by the frequent return of pretty shapes. I 
 would have young people look at every thing with an eye of 
 taste, and so modify their compliance with the prevailing mode, 
 as not to sacrifice to it their sense of beauty. 
 
 Mere fashion should never be allowed to triumph over com- 
 mon sense or good taste. Neither do I mean to recommend a 
 wide departure from it. Ingenuity should be called up to in\ent 
 a modification, which shall combine beauty with fashion. I 
 have seen two young ladies with equal pretensions to personal 
 beauty, one of whom was arrayed in a French embroidered 
 cape, that cost twenty-five dollars; while the other was 
 
288 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 dressed in one made of plain cambric, edged with embroidery, 
 that cost two dollars; and any person who had an eye for 
 beautiful forms, would have preferred the latter, because the 
 proportions of the lady's cape and figure were suited to each 
 other, whereas the former had chosen a cape so much too large 
 for her, that she seemed encumbered by her finery. 
 
 Conversing, one evening, at a brilliant party in one of oui 
 southern cities, with an ingenious gentleman, who had devoted 
 much time to the fine arts, having studied architecture and 
 practiced modeling, and who was also a close observer of 
 female attire, I was amused to hear him compare the different 
 modes of dress to the dififerent styles of architecture. When 
 he saw a lady dressed with great simplicity, and her hair 
 naturally arrayed, he called that style of dress, Grecian. One 
 more elaborately attired, but still in good taste, reminded him 
 of the ancient Roman style. Anything cumbrous, however 
 rich its material, or grand its form, was called Gothic. And 
 when a lady approached us covered with finery, that looked as 
 if it had been showered upon her from a band-box held over 
 her head, he exclaimed, "Here is a specimen of the florid 
 Gothic." 
 
 He never could bear to see bows that tied nothing, rows of 
 buttons that fastened nothing, and little appendages that had no 
 real or apparent use. He insisted, that in dress, as well as in 
 architecture, all beauty was founded in utility, and asked me if 
 I did not think, that columns which supported nothing would 
 look very badly. He said, he liked to see borders to papered 
 walls, because they hid the terminating edge, and he liked to 
 see ladies gowns trimmed round the bottom of the skirt, because 
 the trimming hid the hem, and was a handsome finish to the 
 figure. " But," he continued, " inasmuch as I should condemn 
 the taste that made a paper bordering so wide as to cover half 
 the walls, so do I denounce the fashion of extending trimmings 
 half way up the skirt. They have no longer the effect of a 
 border, but form an overload of ornament, which cuts up the 
 figure, and spoils any dress." 
 
 Nothing can be truly beautiful which is not appropriate. All 
 styles of dress, therefore, which impede the motions of the 
 wearer, which do not sufficiently protect the person, which 
 add unnecessarily to the heat of summer, or to the cold of 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 289 
 
 winter, which do not suit the age and occupation of the wearer, 
 or which indicate an expenditure unsuited to her means, are 
 inappropriate, and therefore destitute of one of the essential 
 elements of beauty. Propriety, or fitness, lies at the founda- 
 tion of all good taste in dressing. Always consider whether 
 the articles of dress which you wish to purchase are suited 
 to your age, your condition, or your means, and then let the 
 principles of good taste keep you from the extremes of the 
 fashion, and regulate the form so as to combine utility and beauty. 
 Some persons seem to have an inherent love of finery, and 
 adhere to it pertinaciously. They cannot reason upon this 
 preference. They can only say, that what others condemn as 
 tawdry, looks pretty to them. No plainness of dress can ever 
 be construed to your disadvantage ; but ornamental additions, 
 which, in their best state, are a very doubtful good, become a 
 positive evil, when defaced, or soiled, or tumbled. Shabby 
 feathers, and crushed or faded artificial flowers, are an absolute 
 disgrace to a lady's appearance; whereas their total absence 
 would never be remarked. Cleanliness is the first requisite in 
 a lady's dress. Mrs. Faiirab. 
 
 LESSON CXXX. 
 
 THE CROW TtJRNED CRITIC. 
 
 In ancient times, tradition says, 
 
 When birds like men would strive for praise. 
 
 The bulfinch, nightingale, and thrush, 
 
 With all that chant from tree to bush. 
 
 Would often meet in song to vie ; 
 
 The kinds that sing not sitting by. 
 
 A knavish crow, it seems, had got 
 
 The knack to criticise by rote ; 
 
 He understood each learned phrase, 
 
 As well as critics now-a-days. 
 
 Some say he learned them from an owl. 
 
 By listening when he taught a school. 
 
 'Tis strange to tell, this subtle creature, 
 Though nothing musical by nature, 
 25 
 
290 fOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Had learned so well to play his part, 
 With nonsense couched in terms of art, 
 As to be owned by all at last 
 Director of the public taste. 
 Then, puffed with insolence and pride, 
 And sure of numbers on his side, 
 Each song he freely criticised : 
 What he approved not was despised. 
 But one false step, in evil hour, 
 For ever stripped him of his power. 
 
 Once when the birds assembled sat, 
 All listening to his formal chat. 
 By instinct nice he chanced to find 
 A cloud approaching in the wind, 
 And ravens hardly can refrain 
 From croaking when they think of rain. 
 His wonted song he sung ; the blunder 
 Amazed and scared them worse than thundei 
 For no one thought so harsh a note 
 Could ever sound from any throat. 
 They all, at first, with mute surprise 
 Each on his neighbor turned his eyes : 
 But scorn succeeding soon took place. 
 And might be read in every face. 
 All this the raven saw with pain, 
 And strove his credit to regain. 
 
 Quoth he, the solo which ye heard 
 In public should not have appeared : 
 My voice, that's somewhat rough and strong, 
 Might chance the melody to wrong. 
 But, tried by rules, you'll find the grounds 
 Most perfect and harmonious sounds. 
 He reasoned thus ; but, to his trouble. 
 At every word the laugh grew double: 
 At last, o'ercome with shame and spite, 
 He flew away, quite out of sight. Wiikib 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 291 
 
 LESSON CXXXI. 
 
 GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL 
 
 Oh ! what's the matter? what's the matter? 
 
 What is't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
 
 Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 
 Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
 
 Good duffel gray, and flannel fine; 
 He has a blanket on his back. 
 
 And coats enough to smother nine. 
 
 In March, December, and in July, 
 
 'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 
 'T is all the same with Harry Gill; 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon. 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover, 
 
 And who so stout of limb as he 1 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 
 
 His voice was like the voice of three, 
 Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, 
 
 III fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
 And any man who passed her door. 
 
 Might see how poor a hut she had. 
 
 All day she spun in her poor dwelling. 
 
 And then her three hours' work at night, 
 Alas,'t was hardly worth the telling; 
 
 It would not pay for candle light. 
 This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, 
 
 Her hut was on a cold hill-side. 
 And in that country coals are dear. 
 
 For they come far by wind and tide. 
 
 By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
 Two poor old dames, as I have known. 
 
 Will often live in one small cottage, 
 But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 
 
292 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 'T was well enough when summer came, 
 The long, warm, lightsome summer day, 
 
 Then at her door the canty dame, 
 Would sit, as any linnet gay. 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter. 
 
 Oh! then, how her old bones would shako, 
 You would have said, if you had met her, 
 
 'T was a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dread ; 
 
 Sad case it was, as you may think. 
 For very cold to go to bed. 
 
 And then for cold not sleep a wink. 
 
 Oh, joy for her ! whene'er, in winter. 
 
 The winds at night had made a rout, 
 And scattered many a lusty splinter, 
 
 And many a rotten bough about. 
 Yet never had she, well or sick. 
 
 As every man who knew her says, 
 A pile beforehand, wood or stick. 
 
 Enough to warm her, for three days. 
 
 Now when the frost was past enduring, 
 
 And made her poor old bones to ache. 
 Could any thing be more alluring 
 
 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake t 
 And now and then, it must be said. 
 
 When her old bones were cold and chill. 
 She left her fire, or left her bed. 
 
 To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 
 
 Now Harry, he had long suspected 
 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake, 
 And vowed that she should be detected. 
 
 And he on her would vengeance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire he'd go, 
 
 And to the fields his road would take. 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
 
 He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 
 
 And once, behind a rick of barley. 
 Thus looking out, did Harry stand ; 
 
 The moon was full, and shining clearly, 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 293 
 
 He hears a noise, — he's all awake, — 
 
 Again ! — on tiptoe down the hill 
 He softly creeps. 'T is Goody Blake ! 
 
 She's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 
 
 Right glad was he when he beheld her : 
 
 Stick after stick did Goody pull : 
 He stood behind a bush of elder, 
 
 Till she had filled her apron full. 
 When with her load she turned about, 
 
 The by-road back again to take. 
 He started forward with a shout, 
 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 
 
 And fiercely by the arm he took her. 
 
 And by the arm he held her fast. 
 And fiercely by the arm he shook her. 
 
 And cried, " I've caught you, then, at last !" 
 Then Goody, who had nothing said. 
 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
 And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
 
 To God who is the judge of all. 
 
 She prayed, her withered hand uprearing. 
 
 While Harry held her by the arm: 
 " God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 
 0, may he never more be warm !" 
 The cold, cold moon above her head. 
 
 Thus, on her knees did Goody pray, 
 Young Harry heard what she had said. 
 
 And icy cold he turned away. 
 
 He went complaining all the morrow. 
 
 That he was cold and very chill ; 
 His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
 
 Alas that day for Harry Gill ! 
 That day he wore a riding coat, 
 
 But not a whit the warmer he: 
 Another was on Thursday brought, 
 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
 'T was all in vain ! a useless matter '. 
 
 And blankets were about him pinned. 
 But still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 
2«4 YOUNG LADIES' READER 
 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away, 
 
 And all who see him say 't is plain, 
 That live as long as live he may, 
 
 He never will be warm again. 
 
 No word to any man he utters, 
 
 Abed or up, to young or old ; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 
 " Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
 Abed or up, by night or day, 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still ; 
 Now think, ye farmers, all, I pray. 
 
 Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. Wobbswobth. 
 
 LESSON CXXXII. 
 
 FEMALE- ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 
 
 A YouNu lady may excel in speaking French and Italian; 
 may repeat a few passages from a volume of extracts ; play 
 like a professor, and sing like a siren ; have her dressing-room 
 decorated with her own drawings, tables, stands, flower-pots, 
 screens, and cabinets; nay, she may dance like Sempronia 
 herself, and yet we shall insist that she may have been very 
 badly educated. I am far from meaning to set no value what- 
 ever on any or all of these qualifications. They are all of them 
 elegant, and many of them properly tend to the perfecting of a 
 polite education. These things, in their measure and degree, 
 may be done ; but there are others, which should not be left 
 undone. Many things are becoming, but " one thing is need- ' 
 ful." Besides, as the world seems to be fully apprised of the 
 value of whatever tends to embellish life, there is less occasion 
 here to insist on its importance. 
 
 But, though a well-bred young lady may lawfully learn most 
 of the fashionable arts ; yet, let me ask, does it seem to be the 
 true end of education, to make women of fashion, dancers, sing- 
 ers, players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gilders, varnishers, 
 engravers, and embroiderers ? Most men are commonly destined 
 to some profession, and their minds are consequently turned, 
 each to its respective object. Would it not be strange, if they 
 
iOUNG LADIES fiEADER. 295 
 
 were called out to exercise their profession, or to set up their 
 trade, with only a little general knowledge of the trades and 
 professions of all other men, and without any previous definite 
 application to their own peculiar calling? 
 
 The profession of ladies, to which the bent of their instruc- 
 tion should be turned, is that of daughters, wives, mothers, and 
 mistresses of families. They should be, therefore, trained 
 with a view to these several conditions, and be furnished 
 with a stock of ideas, and principles, and qualifications, and 
 habits, ready to be applied and appropriated, as occasion may 
 demand, to each of these respective situations. For though 
 the arts, which merely embellish life, must claim admiration ; 
 yet, when a man of sense comes to marry, it is a companion 
 whom he wants, and not an artist. It is not merely a creature 
 who can paint, and play, and sing, and draw, and dress, and 
 dance. It is a being who can comfort and counsel him ; one 
 who can reason, and reflect, and feel, and judge, and discourse, 
 and discriminate ; one who can assist him in his afiairs, lighten 
 his cares, soothe his sorrows, purify his joys, strengthen his 
 principles, and educate his children. Haknah Mobs. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIII. 
 
 THE PROFESSION OF A WOMAN. 
 
 It is to mothers and to teachers, that the world is to look for 
 the character, which is to be enstamped on each succeeding 
 generation; for it is to them that the great business of education 
 is almost exclusively committed. And will it not appear by 
 examination, that neither mothers nor teachers have ever been 
 properly educated for their profession ? What is the profession 
 of a woman? Is it not to form immortal minds, and to watch, 
 to nurse, and to rear the bodily system, so fearfully and wonder- 
 fully made, and upon the order and regulation of which, the 
 health and well-being of the mind so greatly depend? 
 
 But let most of our sex, upon whom these arduous duties 
 devolve, be asked, » Have you ever devoted any time and study, 
 ifl the course of your education, to a preparation for these 
 duties ? Have you been taught any thing of the structure, the 
 
296 YOUNG LADIES' RKAUEll. 
 
 nature, and the laws of the body, which you inhabit? Were 
 you ever taught to understand the operation of diet, air, exer- 
 cise, and modes of dress upon the human frame? Have the 
 causes which are continually operating to prevent good health, 
 and the modes by which it might be perfected and preserved, 
 ever been made the subject of any instruction?" 
 
 Perhaps almost every voice would respond, " No. We have 
 attended to almost every thing more than to this. We have 
 been taught more concerning the structure of the earth, the 
 laws of the heavenly bodies, the habits and formation of plants, 
 the philosophy of language, than concerning the structure of 
 the human frame, and the laws of health and reason." But is 
 it not the business, the profession of a woman, to guard the 
 health, and form the physical habits of the young? And is not 
 the cradle of infancy and the chamber of sickness sacred to 
 woman alone ? And ought she not to know, at least, some of 
 the general principles of that perfect and wonderful piece of 
 mechanism committed to her preservation and care ? 
 
 The restoration of health is the physician's profession, but 
 the preservation of it falls to other hands ; and it is believed 
 that the time will come, when woman will be taught to under- 
 stand something respecting the construction of the human 
 frame ; the philosophical results which will naturally follow 
 from restricted exercise, unhealthy modes of dress, improper 
 diet, and many other causes, which are continually operating to 
 destroy the health and life of the young. 
 
 Again, let our sex be asked respecting the instruction they 
 have received, in the course of their education, on that still 
 more arduous and diiBcult department of their profession, 
 which relates to the intellect and the moral susceptibilities. 
 '.' Have you been taught the powers and faculties of the human 
 mind, and the laws by which it is regulated? Have you studied 
 how to direct its several faculties ? how to restrain those that are 
 overgrown, and strengthen and mature those that are deficient ? 
 Have you been taught the best modes of communicating know- 
 ledge, as well as of acquiring it ? Have you learned the best 
 mode of correcting bad moral habits, and forming good ones ? 
 Have you made it an object, to find how a selfish disposition 
 may be made generous ? how a reserved temper may be made 
 open and frank ? how pettishness and ill-humor may be 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 297 
 
 changed to cheerfulness and kindness? Has any woman 
 studied her profession in this respect]" 
 
 It is feared the same answer must be returned, if not from 
 all, at least from most of our sex : " No. We have acquired 
 wisdom from the observation and experience of others, on 
 almost all other subjects ; but the philosophy of the direction 
 and control of the human mind, has not been an object of 
 thought or study." And thus it appear.', that, though it is 
 woman's express business to rear the body and lorm the mind, 
 there is scarcely any thing to which her attention has been 
 less directed. Miss C. E. Beecher. 
 
 LESSON CXXXIV. 
 
 THE MUSICAL INgfRUMBNT. 
 
 " Thy grandmother," said uncle Toby, addressing himself 
 to young Laura, just from the city, and who was playing 'the 
 battle of Marengo,' on the piano, "thy grandmother, child, 
 used to play upon a much better instrument than thine." "In- 
 deed," said Laura, " how could it have been better ? You know 
 It is the most fashionable instrument, and is used by everybody 
 that is anything." " Your grandmother was something, and 
 yet she never saw a pianoforte." " But what was the name 
 of the instrument? Had it strings, and was it played by the 
 hand?" " You must give me time to recollect the name: it 
 was indeed a stringed instrument, and was played with the 
 hand." 
 
 " By the hands alone ? How vulgar ! But I should really 
 like to see one ; and papa must buy me one when I return 
 to the city; do you think we can obtain one?" "No, you 
 probably will not obtain one there, but doubtless they may be 
 found in some of the country towns." " How many strings 
 had it? Must one play with both hands? And could one play 
 the double base?" " I know not whether it would play the 
 double base, as you call it ; but it was played with both hands, 
 and had two strings." 
 
 " Two strings only? Surely you are jesting! How couW 
 
298 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 good music be produced from such an instrument, w hen the piano 
 has two or three hundred ?" " Oh, the strings were very long, 
 one of them about fourteen feet ; and the other may be length- 
 ened at pleasure, even to fifty feet or more." " What a pro- 
 digious deal of room it must take up ! But no matter, I will 
 have mine in the old hall, and papa may have an addition 
 made to it ; for he says I shall never want for anything, and 
 so does mamma. But what kind of sound did it make ? Were 
 the strings struck with little mallets like the piano; or were 
 they snapped like a harpsichord." " Like neither of those 
 instruments, as I recollect, but it produced a soft kind of hum- 
 ming music, and was peculiarly agreeable to the husband and 
 relations of the performer." 
 
 " Oh, as to pleasing one's husband or relations, you know 
 that is altogether vulgar in fashionable society. But I am deter- 
 mined to have one, at any rate. Was it easily learned ? and 
 was it taught by French and Italian masters?" "It was easily 
 learned, but taught neither by Frenchmen nor Italians." " Can 
 you not possibly remember the name ? How shall w6 know 
 what to inquire for?" " Yes, I do now remember the name; 
 and you must inquire for a Spinning Wheel." ANosTMova 
 
 LESSON CXXXV. 
 
 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race, 
 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial place. 
 
 Their cradle and their grave ! 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's lion stands in state. 
 
 As in his proud departed hours ; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners " flout the sky," 
 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines. 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 
 To meet the quiet stream which winds 
 Through this romantic scene, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 299 
 
 As silently and sweetly still, 
 As when, at evening, on that hill. 
 
 While summer's wind blew soft and low. 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katharine was a happy bride, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Gaze on the abbey's ruined pile : 
 
 Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang,from aisle to pictured dome. 
 The light step of the soldier's march. 
 
 The music of the trump and drum : 
 
 And babe and sire, the old, the young. 
 And the monk^s hymn, and minstrel's song. 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed the warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom : 
 They were born of a race of funeral flowers, 
 That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 
 
 A templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand. 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
 
 Where the cross was damped with his dying breath ; 
 When blood ran free as festal wine, 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell. 
 Of beings born and buried here; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer. 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier. 
 
 The welcome and farewell. 
 Since, on their boughs, the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 T'le Norman's curfew bell. 
 
300 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 I wandered through the lofty halls 
 
 Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
 And traced, upon the chapel walls, 
 
 Each high, heroic name, 
 From him* who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 
 
 Glitter the sultan's crescent moons, 
 To him who, when a younger son,f 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
 That last half stanza — it has dashed 
 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
 The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up 
 Above this bank-note world — is gone; 
 And Alnwick's but a market town, 
 And this, alas ! its market day. 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
 Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scbts ; 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line. 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land. 
 From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
 From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable ; 
 Of knights, but not of the round table ; 
 
 Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy ; 
 'T is what " our President," Munroe, 
 
 Has called " the era of good feeling :" 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow. 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote. 
 And put on pantaloons and coat, 
 
 And leave off cattle-stealing : 
 
 • One of the anceslors of the Percy family was an emperor of Constantinople 
 t The late duke. He commanded one of the detachments of the British army in 
 the affair at Lexington and Ck>ncord, in 1775. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 3(jJ 
 
 Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt. 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 
 
 The Douglas in red herrings ; 
 And noble name, and cultured land, 
 Palace, and park, and vassal band. 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Rothschild, or the Barings. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk 
 (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start,) 
 
 Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 
 And on the cross and altar stone, 
 
 And Christendom looks tamely on, 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek. 
 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 And not a saber blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven. 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate," , 
 Are some half dozen serving men, 
 In the drab coat of William Penn ; 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
 And cheek and brown hair, bright and curling. 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal. 
 Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, 
 From donjon keep to turret wall. 
 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. f. g. Haiieck. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVI. 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 The Earl of Essex, after his return from the fortunate ex- 
 pedition against Cadiz, observing the increase of the queen's 
 tond attachment towards him, took occasion to regret tliat the 
 
302 YOUNG ladies' eeadbe. 
 
 necessity of her service required him often to be absent from 
 her person, and exposed him to all those ill oflBces, which his 
 enemies, more assiduous in their attendance, could employ 
 against him. She was moved with this tender jealousy, and 
 making him the present of a ring, desired him to keep that 
 pledge of her affection, and assured him, that, iuto wlialever 
 disgrace he should fall, whatever prejudices she might be 
 induced to entertain against him, yet, if he sent her that ring, 
 she would immediately, upon sight of it, recall her former ten- 
 derness ; would afford him a patient hearing, and would lend a 
 feivorable ear to his apology. 
 
 Essex, notwithstanding all his misfortunes, reserved this 
 precious gift to the last extremity ; but after his trial and con- 
 demnation, he resolved to try the experiment, and he com- 
 mitted the ring to the Countess of Nottingham, whom he 
 desired to deliver it to the queen. The countess was prevailed 
 on by her husband, the mortal enemy of Essex, not to execute 
 the commission; and Elizabeth, who still expected that her 
 favorite would make this last appeal to her tenderness, and who 
 ascribed the neglect of it to his invincible obstinacy, was, after 
 much delay, and many internal combats, pushed by resentment 
 and policy to sign the warrant for his execution. 
 
 The Countess of Nottingham falling into sickness, and 
 affected with the near approach of death, was seized with 
 remorse for her conduct ; and having obtained a visit from the 
 queen, she craved her pardon, and revealed the fatal secret. 
 The queen, astonished with this incident, burst into a furious 
 passion. She shook the dying countess in her bed ; and crying 
 to her. That God might pardon her, but she never could, 
 she broke from her, and thenceforth resigned herself over to 
 the deepest and most incurable melancholy. She resisted all 
 consolation ; she even refused food and sustenance ; and, 
 throwing herself on the floor, she remained sullen and immo- 
 vable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring life 
 and existence an intolerable burden to her. Few words she 
 uttered; and they were all expressive of some inward grief 
 which she cared not to reveal ; but sighs and groans were the 
 chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, 
 though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease 
 or assuage them. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER, 303 
 
 Ten days and nights, she lay upon the carpet, leaning on 
 cushions which her maids brought her; and her physicians 
 could not persuade her to allow herself to be put to bed, much 
 less to make trial of any remedies which they prescribed to 
 her. Her anxious mind, at last, had so long preyed upon her 
 frail body, that her end was visibly approaching; and the 
 council being assembled, sent the keeper, admiral, and secre- 
 tary, to know her will with regard to her successor. She 
 answered, with a faint voice, that, as she had held a regal scepter, 
 she desired no other than a royal successor. Cecil requesting 
 her to explain herself more particularly, she subjoined, that 
 she would have a king to succeed her ; and who should that 
 be, but her nearest kinsman, the King of Scots 1 
 
 Being then advised by the Archbishop of Canterbury to fix 
 her thoughts upon God, she replied, that she did so, nor did her 
 mind, in the least, wander from Him. Her voice, soon after, 
 left her ; her senses failed ; she fell into a lethargic slumber, 
 "which continued some hours ; and she expired gently, without 
 further struggle or convulsion, in the seventieth year of her 
 age, and forty-fifth of her reign. So dark a cloud overcast the 
 evening of that day, which had shone out with a mighty 
 luster, in the eyes of all Europe ! Hume. 
 
 LESSON CXXXVII. 
 
 DEATH OF PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 Without the slightest warning, without the opportunity of 
 a moment's immediate preparation, in the midst of the deepest 
 tranquillity, at midnight, a voice was heard in the palace, not 
 of singing men and singing women, not of revelry and mirth, 
 but the cry, " Behold the bridegroom cometh !" The mother, 
 in the bloom of youth, spared just long enough to hear the tid- 
 ings of her infant's death, almost immediately, as if summoned 
 by his spirit, follows him into eternity. "It is a night much 
 to be remembered." Who foretold this event, who conjectured 
 it, who detected, at a distance, the faintest presage of its ap- 
 proach, which, when it arrived, mocked the efforts of human 
 
304 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 skill, as much by their incapacity to prevent, as their inability 
 to foresee it ? 
 
 Unmoved by the tears of conjugal affection, unawed by the 
 presence of grandeur, and the prerogatives of power, inexorable 
 death hastened to execute his stern commission, leaving nothing 
 to royalty itself, but to retire and weep. Who can fail to dis- 
 cern, on this awful occasion, the hand of Him who " bringeth 
 the princes to nothing, who maketh the judges of the earth as 
 vanity ;" who says, " they shall not be planted ; yea, they shall 
 not be sown ; yea, their stock shall not take root in the earth ;" 
 and he " shall blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the 
 whirlwind shall take them away as stubble." 
 
 But is it now any subject of regret, think you, to this amiable 
 Princess, so suddenly removed, "that her sun went down 
 while it was yet day," or that, prematurely snatched from 
 prospects the most brilliant and enchanting, she was compelled 
 to close her eyes so soon on a world, of whose grandeur she 
 formed so conspicuous a part ? No. In the full fruition of 
 eternal joys, for which we humbly hope Religion prepared her, 
 she is so far from looking back with lingering regret on what 
 she has quitted, that she is surprised, that it had the power of 
 affecting her so much ; that she took so deep an interest in the 
 scenes of this shadowy state of being, while so near to an 
 "eternal weight of glory." Memory may be supposed to 
 contribute to her happiness, not by the recollection that she 
 was of illustrious birth, with the most elevated prospects 
 before her, but that she visited the abodes of the poor, and 
 learned to weep with those that weep; that, surrounded 
 with the fascinations of pleasure, she was not inebriated by its 
 charms; that she resisted the strongest temptations to pride, 
 preserved her ears open to truth, was impatient of the voice of 
 flattery; in a word, that she sought and cherished the inspira- 
 tions of piety, and walked humbly with her God. 
 
 The nation has certainly not been wanting in the proper 
 expression of poignant regret, at the sudden removal of this 
 most lamented Princess, nor of sympathy with the royal 
 family, deprived, by this visitation, of its brightest ornament. 
 Sorrow is painted in every countenance, the pursuits of busi- 
 ness and of pleasure have been suspended, and the kingdom is 
 covered with the signals of distress. But what, my friends, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 305 
 
 (if it were lawful to indulge such a thought,) what would be 
 the funeral obsequies of a lost soul? Where shall we find 
 tears fit to be wept at such a spectacle ; or, could we realize the 
 calamity in all its extent, what tokens of commiseration and 
 concern would be deemed equal to the occasion? Would it 
 suflSce for the sun to vail his light, and the moon her bright- 
 ness ; to cover the ocean with mourning, and the heavens with 
 sackcloth; or, were the whole fabric of nature to become ani- 
 mated and vocal, would it be possible for her to utter a groan 
 too deep, or a cry too piercing, to express the magnitude and 
 extent of such a catastrophe ? Robeut Hali 
 
 LESSON CXXXVIII. 
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 
 And stars to set ; but all. 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 
 Day is for mortal care. 
 Eve, for glad meetings lonnd the joyous hearth. 
 
 Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; 
 But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth ! 
 
 The banquet hath its hour. 
 Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 
 
 There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming power, 
 A time for softer tears ; but all are thine ! 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look like things too glorious for decay, 
 
 And smile at thee ; but thou art not of those 
 That wait the ripened -bloom to seize their prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set; but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 26 
 
306 yOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 We know when raoons shall wane, 
 When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 
 
 When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; 
 But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 
 
 Is it when spring' s first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 
 
 Is it when roses in our paths grow pale 1 
 They have one season ; all are ours to die ! 
 
 Thou art where billows foam ; 
 Thou art where music melts upon the air; 
 
 Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; 
 And the world calls us forth, and thou art there. 
 
 Thou art where friend meets friend. 
 Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; 
 
 Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
 The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 ' And stars to set ; but all, 
 ^Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
 
 Mb9 Beuahs 
 
 LESSON CXXXIX. 
 
 THE DEPARTED, 
 
 The departed ! the departed I 
 
 They visit us in dreams. 
 And they glide above our memories 
 
 Like shadows over streams ; 
 But where the cheerful lights of homo 
 
 In constant luster burn, 
 The departed, the departed, 
 
 Can never more returil ! 
 
 The good, the brave, the beautiful. 
 How dreamless is their sleep, 
 
 Where rolls the dirge-like music 
 Of the ever-tossing deep ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 307 
 
 Or where the surging night-winds 
 
 Pale winter's robes have spread 
 Above the narrow palaces, 
 
 In the cities of the dead ! 
 
 I look arDund, and feel the awe 
 
 Of one who walks alone, 
 Among, the wrecks of former days, 
 
 In mournful ruin strown ; 
 I start to hear the stirring sounds 
 
 Among the cypress trees. 
 For the voice of the departed, 
 
 Is borne upon the breeze. 
 
 That solemn voice ! it mingles with 
 
 Each free and careless strain : 
 I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy 
 
 Will cheer my heart again. 
 The melody of summer waves. 
 
 The thrilling notes of birds. 
 Can never be so dear to me. 
 
 As their remembered words. 
 
 I sometimes dream, their pleasant smiles 
 
 Still on me sweetly fall, 
 Their tones of love I faintly hear 
 
 My name in sadness call. 
 I know that they are happy. 
 
 With their angel plumage on. 
 But my heart is very desolate. 
 
 To think that they are gone. pakk Behjamik 
 
 LESSON CXL. 
 
 BRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 They grew in beauty, side by side ; 
 
 They filled one home with glee : 
 Their graves are severed, far and wide, 
 
 By mount, and stream, and sea. 
 
 The same fond mother bent at night 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
 
30S5 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 She had each folded flower in sight; 
 Where are those dreamers now I 
 
 One, 'mid the forest of the WPBt, 
 
 Bv a dark stream is laid ; 
 The Indian knows his place of rest, 
 
 Far ii the cedar shade. 
 
 The spa the Hue, lone sea, hath one ; 
 
 H'2 lies where pearls lie deep ; 
 We was the loved of all, yet none 
 
 O'er his low bed may weep. 
 
 One sleeps where southern vines are dressed. 
 
 Above the noble slain; 
 He wrapped his colors round his breast 
 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 
 Vnd one, — o'er her the myrtle showers 
 
 Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
 %e faded 'mid Italian flowers. 
 
 The last of that bright band. 
 
 And parted thus they rest, who played 
 
 Beneath the same green tree ; 
 Whose voices mingled as they prayed, 
 Around one parent knee; 
 
 They that with smiles lit up the hall. 
 And cheered with song the hearth : 
 
 Alas ! for love, if ihou wert all, 
 And naught beyond, O Earth ! Mhs. Hehaitb. 
 
 LESSON CXLI. 
 
 THE CHEERFUL GIVER. 
 
 " What shall I render Thee, Father Supreme, 
 For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all ?" 
 Said a young mother, as she fondly watched 
 Her sleeping babe. 
 
 There was an answering voice 
 That night, in dreams 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 309 
 
 " Thou hast a tender flower, 
 W rh^t in »<iy breast, and fed with dews of love. 
 Give me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven." 
 
 But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep. 
 Breathless, and terror-stricken, that the lip 
 Blanched in its trance. 
 
 " Thou hast a little harp ; 
 How sweetly would it swell the angel's song ! 
 Lend me that harp." 
 
 Then burst a shuddering sob, 
 As if the bosom by some hidden sword 
 Were cleft in twain. 
 
 Mom came. A blight had found 
 The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud. 
 The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke, 
 And that young mother lay upon the earth 
 In childless agony. 
 
 Again the voice 
 That stirred her vision. 
 
 " He, who asked of thee, 
 Loveth a cheerful giver." 
 
 So she raised 
 Her gushing eye, and ere the tear-drop dried 
 Upon its fringes, smiled. 
 
 Doubt not that smile, 
 Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness. 
 
 Mns. STGounitBr. 
 
 LESSON CXLII 
 
 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 
 
 I HAVE read, in some old marvelous tale. 
 Some legend strange and vague, 
 
 That a midnight host of specters pale 
 Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 
 
 Beside the Moldau's rushing stream. 
 With the wan moon overhead. 
 
 There stood, as in an awful dream, 
 The army of the dead. 
 
310 YOUNG LADIES' READER. ^ 
 
 White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
 
 The spectral camp was seen, 
 And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
 
 The river flowed between. 
 
 No other voice, nor sound was there, 
 
 No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
 The mist-like banners clasped the air, 
 
 As clouds with clouds embrace. 
 
 But, when the old cathedral bell 
 
 Proclaimed tlie morning prayer, 
 The white pavilions rose and fell 
 
 On the alarmed air. 
 
 Down the broad valley fast and far 
 
 The troubled army fled ; 
 Up rose the glorious morning star, 
 
 The ghastly host was dead. 
 
 I have read, in the marvelous heart of mar 
 
 That strange and mystic scroll. 
 That an array of phantoms vast and wan 
 
 Beleaguer the human soul. 
 
 Encamped beside Life's rushing stream 
 
 In Fancy's misty light. 
 Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 
 
 Portentous through the night. 
 
 Upon its midnight battle ground 
 
 The spectral camp is seen. 
 And, with a sorrowful, deep sound. 
 
 Flows the River of Life between. 
 
 No other voice, nor sound is there. 
 
 In the army of the grave ; 
 No other challenge breaks the air. 
 
 But the rushing of Life's wave 
 
 And when the solemn and deep church-be' 
 
 Entreats the soul to pray. 
 The midnight phantoms feel the spell. 
 
 The shadows sweep away. 
 
 Down the broad vale of Tears afar 
 
 The spectral camp is fled ; 
 Faith shineth as a morning star. 
 
 Our ghastly fears are dead. h. w. Lono.kt.i.ii 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 311 
 
 LESSON CXLIII. 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 OcR happiness is in the power of One, who can bring it 
 about in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. 
 If example be necessary to prove this, I will give you a story, 
 told us by a grave, though sometimes romancing, historian. 
 
 "Matilda was married, very young, to a Neapolitan noble- 
 man of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a 
 mother, at the age of fifteen. As she stood, one day, caressing 
 her infant son, in the open window of an apartment which 
 hung over the river Volturnus, the child, with a sudden spring, 
 leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in 
 a moment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, and 
 making an effort to save him, plunged in after ; but, far from 
 being able to assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty, 
 escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers 
 were plundering the country on that side, who immediately 
 made her their prisoner. 
 
 "As the war was then carried on, between the French and 
 Italians, with the utmost inhumanity, they were going, at 
 once, to take her life. This base resolution, however, was 
 opposed by a young ofiicer, who, though their retreat required 
 the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and carried her 
 in safety to her native city. Her beauty, at first, caught his 
 eye, her merit, soon after, his heart. They were married : he 
 rose to the highest posts : they lived long together, and were 
 happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called per- 
 manent. After an interval of several years, the troops which 
 he commanded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to 
 take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. 
 Here they sufiered a siege, and the city, at length, was taken. 
 
 "Few histories can produce more various instances of 
 cruelty, than those which the French and Italians at that time 
 exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, 
 upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death : 
 but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he 
 was principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Then 
 determinations were, in general, executed almost as soon aa 
 resolved upon 
 
312 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 "The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner, 
 with his sword, stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy- 
 silence, awaited the fatal blow, which was on^y suspended till 
 the general, wTio presided as judge, should give the signal. It 
 was in this interval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda 
 came to take her last farewell of her husband and deliverer, 
 deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that 
 had saved her from perishing, by a premature death, in the 
 river Volturnus, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. 
 The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise 
 at her beauty, and pity at her. distress; but with still stronger 
 emotions, when he heard her mention her former dangers. He 
 was her son; the infant, for whom she had encountered so 
 much danger. He acknowledged her, at once, as his mother, 
 and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed. The 
 captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, 
 and duty could confer on each, was enjoyed." Goldsmith. 
 
 LESSON CXLIV. 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE: AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 "Life," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which 
 we are perpetually changing our scenes ; we first leave child- 
 hood behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened man- 
 hood, then the better and more pleasing part of old age." 
 
 The perusal of this passage having excited in me a train of 
 reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluctuation of his 
 wishes, the gradual change of his disposition to all external 
 objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along the 
 stream of time, I sunk into a slumber amid my meditations, 
 and, on a sudden, found my ears filled with a tumult of labor, 
 the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of alarm, the whisde of 
 winds, and the dash of waters. 
 
 My astonishment, for a time, repressed my curiosity ; but 
 soon recovering myself, so far as to inquire whither we were 
 going, and what was \he cause of such clamor and confusion, I 
 was told that we were launching out into the ocean of life, that 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 313 
 
 we had already passed the straits of infancy, in which multi- 
 tudes had perished, some by the weakness and fragility of their 
 vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence of 
 those who undertook to steer them ; and that we were now on 
 the main sea, abandoned to the winds and biUows, without 
 any other means of security than the care of the pilot, whom it 
 was always in our power to choose among the great number 
 that offered their direction and assistance. 
 
 I then looked around with anxious eagerness, and first, turn- 
 ing my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery 
 islands, which every one that sailed along seemed to behold 
 with pleasure, but no sooner touched, than the current, which, 
 though not noisy or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him 
 away. Beyond these islands all was darkness, nor could any 
 of the passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked. 
 Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violently 
 agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most per- 
 spicacious eye could see but a little way. It appeared to be 
 fiiU of rocks and whirlpools : for many sunk unexpectedly, 
 while they were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting 
 those whom they had left behind. 
 
 So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and so thick the 
 darkness, that no caution could confer security. Yet there 
 were many, who, by false intelligence, betrayed their followers 
 into whirlpools, or, by violence, pushed those whom they 
 found in their way against the rocks. The current was 
 invariable and insurmountable. But, though it was impossible 
 to sail against it, or to return to the place that was once passed, 
 yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities for dex- 
 terity or courage, since, though none could retreat from danger, 
 yet they might avoid it by an oblique direction. 
 
 It was, however, not very common to steer with much care 
 or prudence; for, by some universal infatuation, every man 
 appeared to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts 
 every moment sinking around him; and no sooner had the 
 ■tt aves closed over them, than their fate and their misconduct 
 were forgotten. The voyage was pursued with the same jocund 
 confidence ; every man congratulated himself upon the sound- 
 ness of his vessel, and beheved himself able to stem the whirl- 
 pool in which his friend was swallowed, or glide over the 
 27 
 
314 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 rocks on which he was dashed ; nor was it often observed that 
 the sight of a wreck made any man change his course; if 
 he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and 
 left himself again to the disposal of chance. This negligence 
 did not proceed from indifference, or from weariness of their 
 condition ; for not one of those, who thus rushed upon destruc- 
 tion, failed, when he was sinking, to call loudly upon his asso- 
 ciates for that help which could not now be given him ; and 
 many spent their last moments in cautioning others against the 
 folly by which they were intercepted in the midst of their 
 course. Their benevolence was sometimes praised, but their 
 admonitions were unregarded. 
 
 In the midst of the current of life was the gulf of Intemper- 
 ance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which 
 the pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops 
 covered with herbage, on which Ease spread couches of repose, 
 and with shades where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation. 
 Within sight of these rocks, all who sail on the ocean of life 
 must necessarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand, 
 to steer the passengers through a narrow outlet by which 
 they might escape; but few could, by her entreaties or 
 remonstrances, be induced to put the rudder into her hand, 
 without stipulating that she should approach so near to the 
 rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace themselves with a 
 short enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they 
 always determined to pursue their course without any other 
 deviation. 
 
 Reason was too often prevailed upon so far, by these prom- 
 ises, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulf of 
 Intemperance, where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but 
 yet interrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, by insen- 
 sible rotations, toward the center. She then repented her 
 temerity, and, with all her force, endeavored to retreat ; but the 
 draught of the gulf was generally too strong to be overcome ; 
 and the passenger, having danced in circles, with a pleasing 
 and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed and lost. 
 
 As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude 
 about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from 
 some unknown power : " Gaze not idly upon others, when 
 thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless tranquil- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 31c 
 
 lity, when thou and they are equally endangered ?" I looked, 
 and seeing the gulf of Intemperance before me, started and 
 awoke. Db. JOHirsoit. 
 
 LESSON CXLV. 
 
 THE emigrant's ABODE. 
 
 In making remoter journeys from the town, beside the riv- 
 ulets, and in the little bottoms not yet in cultivation, I discerned 
 the smoke rising in the woo'ds, and heard the strokes of the ax, 
 the tinkling of bells, and the baying of dogs, and saw the 
 newly arrived emigrant either raising his log cabin, or just en- 
 tered into possession. 
 
 It has afforded me more pleasing reflections, a happier train 
 of associations, to contemplate those beginnings of social toil in 
 the wide wilderness, than, in our more cultivated regions, to 
 come in view of the most sumptuous mansion. Nothing can 
 be more beautiful than these little bottoms, upon which these 
 emigrants deposit, if I may so say, their household gods. 
 Springs burst forth in the intervals between the high and low 
 grounds. The trees and shrubs are of the most beautiful 
 kind. The brilliant red-bird is seen flitting among the shnibs, 
 or, perched on a tree, seems welcoming, in her mellow notes, 
 the emigrant to his abode. Flocks of paroquets are glittering 
 among the trees, and gray squirrels are skipping from branch 
 to branch. 
 
 In the midst of these primeval scenes, the patient and labor- 
 ious father fixes his family. In a few weeks they have reared 
 a comfortable cabin, and other out-buildings. Pass this place 
 in two years, and you will see extensive fields of corn and 
 wheat, a young and thrifty orchard, fruit-trees of all kinds, the 
 guarantee of present abundant subsistence, and of future lux- 
 ury. Pass it in ten years, and the log buildings will have dis- 
 appeared. The shrubs and forest trees will be gone. The 
 Arcadian aspect of humble and retired abundance and comfoit 
 will have given place to a brick house, with accompaniments 
 like those that attend the same kind of house in the older 
 countries. By this time, the occupant who came there, per- 
 
316 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 haps, with a small sum of money, and moderate expectations, 
 from humble life, and with no more than a common school 
 education, has been made, in succession, member of the assem- 
 bly, justice of the peace, and, finally, county judge. 
 
 I admit, that the first residence among the trees affords the 
 most agreeable picture to my mind; and that there is an inex- 
 pressible charm in the pastoral simplicity of those years, before 
 pride and self-consequence have banished the repose of their 
 Eden, and when you witness the first strugglings of social toil 
 with the barren luxuriance of nature. T. Flikt. 
 
 LESSON CXLVI. 
 
 A SONG OF EMIGRATION. 
 
 There was heard a 'song on the chiming sea, 
 
 A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 
 
 Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there. 
 
 Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 
 
 Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new. 
 
 Ft sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 
 
 But ever and anon 
 A murmur of farewell. 
 
 Told by its plaintive tone, 
 That from woman's lip it fell. 
 
 "Away, away, o'er the foaming main !" 
 This was the free and joyous strain; 
 "There are clearer skies than ours, afar. 
 We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 
 There are plains whose verdure no foot hath pressed, 
 And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest " 
 
 " But alas ! that we should go," 
 Sang the farewell voices then, 
 
 "From the homesteads warm and low. 
 By the brook, and in the glen!" 
 
 "We will rear new homes, under trees that glow 
 As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
 O'er our white walls we will train the vine. 
 And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 31" 
 
 And watch our herds as they range at will 
 Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 
 " But woe for that sweet shade 
 
 Of the flowering orchard-trees, 
 Where first our children played 
 'Mid birds and honey-bees !" 
 
 "All, aE. our own shall the forests be. 
 
 As to the bound of the roe-buck free ! 
 
 None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass !' 
 
 We will track each step through the wavy grass , 
 
 We will chase the elk in his speed and might. 
 
 And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 
 
 " But oh ! the gray church-tower, 
 And the sound of the Sabbath bell. 
 
 And the sheltered garden bower. 
 We have bid them all farewell !" 
 
 "We will give the names of our fearless race, 
 To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
 We will leave our memory with mounts and floods, 
 And the path of our daring in boundless woods : 
 And our works on many a lake's green shore, 
 Where the Indians' graves lay alone, before." 
 " But who shall teach the flowers 
 
 Which our children loved, to dwell 
 In a soil that is not ours ? 
 
 Home, home and friends, farewell !" 
 
 Mhs. Hehaith 
 
 LESSON CXLVII. 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 The silent wilderness for me ! 
 
 Where never sound is heard. 
 Save the rustling of the squirrel's fool. 
 
 And the flitting wing of bird, 
 Or its low and interrupted note. 
 
 And the deer's quick, crackling treaa. 
 And the swaying of the forest boughs, 
 
 As the wind moves overhead. 
 
318 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Alone, (how glorious to be free !) 
 
 My good dog at my side, 
 My rifle hanging in my arm, 
 
 I range the forests wide. 
 And now the regal buffalo 
 
 Across the plains I chase ; 
 Now track the mountain stream to find 
 
 The beaver's lurking place. 
 
 I stand upon the mountain's top, 
 
 And (solitude profound !) 
 Not even a woodman's smoke curls up 
 
 Within the horizon's bound. 
 Below, as o'er its ocean breadth 
 
 The air's light currents run. 
 The wilderness of moving leaves 
 
 Is glancing in the sun. 
 
 I look around to where the sky 
 
 Meets the far forest line, 
 And this imperial domain. 
 
 This kingdom, all is mine. 
 This bending heaven, these floating clouds, 
 
 Waters that ever roll. 
 And wilderness of glory, bring 
 
 Their offerings to my soul. 
 
 My palace, built by God's own hand. 
 
 The world's fresh prime hath seen ; 
 Wide stretch its living halls away. 
 
 Pillared and roofed with green ; 
 My music is the wind that now 
 
 Pours loud its swelling bars. 
 Now lulls In dying cadences ; 
 
 My festal lamps are stars. 
 
 Though, when in this, my lonely home. 
 
 My star-watched couch I press, 
 I hear no fond " good night," think not 
 
 1 am companionless. 
 0, no ! I see my father's house. 
 
 The hill, the tree, the stream. 
 And the looks and voices of my home 
 
 Come gently to my dream. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 319 
 
 And in these solitary haunts, 
 
 While slumbers every tree 
 In night and silence, Gop himself 
 
 Seems nearer unto me. 
 1 feel His presence in these shades. 
 
 Like the embracing air ; 
 And, as my eyelids close in sleep, 
 
 My heart is hushed in prayer. e. Peabodt 
 
 LESSON CXLVIII. 
 
 THE SETTLER. 
 
 His echoing ax the settler swung 
 
 Amid the sea-like solitude, 
 And rushing, thundering, down were flung 
 
 The Titans of the wood; 
 Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed 
 From out his mossy nest, which crashed 
 
 With its supporting bough. 
 And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed 
 
 On the wolfs haunt below. 
 
 Rude wa%the garb, and strong the frame. 
 
 Of him who plied his ceaseless toil : 
 To form that garb, the wild-wood game 
 
 Contributed their spoil ; 
 The soul that warmed that frame, disdained 
 The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned 
 
 Where men their crowds collect ; 
 The simpje fur, untrimmed, unstained, 
 
 This forest tamer decked. 
 
 The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees. 
 
 The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers. 
 The winds that swelled their harmonies 
 
 Through these sun-hiding bowers, 
 The temple vast, the green arcade. 
 The nestling vale, the grassy glade. 
 
 Dark cave, and swampy lair ; 
 These scenes and sounds majestic, made 
 
 His world, his pleasures, there. 
 
320 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 His roof adorned a pleasant spot, 
 
 'Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, 
 And herbs and plants the woods knew noi. 
 
 Thrived in the sun and rain. 
 The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell. 
 The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell. 
 
 All made a landscape strange. 
 Which was the living chronicle 
 
 Of deeds that wrought the change. 
 
 The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge. 
 
 The rose of summer spread its glow. 
 The maize hung out its Autumn fringe, 
 
 Rude Winter brought his snow ; 
 And still the lone one labored there. 
 His shout and whistle woke the air. 
 
 As cheerily he plied 
 His garden spade, or drove his share 
 
 Along the hillock's side. 
 
 He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood 
 
 Roaring and crackling on its path, 
 And scorching earth and melting wood. 
 
 Beneath its greedy wrath ; 
 He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot. 
 Trampling the pine tree with its foot. 
 
 And darkening thick the day 
 With streaming bough and severed root, 
 
 Hurled whizzing on its way. 
 
 His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, 
 
 The grim bear hushed his savage growl 
 In blood and foam the panther gnashed 
 
 His fangs with dying howl ; 
 The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, 
 Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground. 
 
 And with its moaning cry. 
 The beaver sank beneath the wound. 
 
 Its pond-built Venice by. 
 
 Humble the lot, yet his the race. 
 When liberty sent forth her cry. 
 
 Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place, 
 To fight, to bleed, to die ; 
 
 Who cumbered Bunker's hight of red. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' REABER. 321 
 
 By hope through weary years were led, 
 
 And witnessed Yorktown's sun 
 Blaze on a nation's banner spread, 
 
 A nation's freedom won. A. B. Street 
 
 LESSON CXLIX. 
 
 THANKS GIVING. 
 
 Thanksgiving ! There is a magic in the sound of the 
 word, which calls up from the grave of years the shadows of 
 departed pleasures, breathes upon them the breath of life, fills 
 them with their original attributes, decorates them again with 
 the freshness of reality, and bids them move before the enrap- 
 tured imagination, a long and gay procession of images, reflect- 
 ing the innocence of childhood, the generous affection of youth, 
 and the fervency and faithfulness of that unsophisticated and 
 momentary interval, which precedes the entrance on the scenes 
 of business and bustle, of anxiety and calculation, of cold- 
 hearted indifference, of selfish distrust, and, perhaps, of treach- 
 erous friendship and insidious hypocrisy. 
 
 First in the smiling pageant approaches the child, rich — O 
 how rich, beyond the wealth of princes !— in the possession of 
 its primers and playthings, wondering at all the bustle of pre- 
 paration for the feast, and inquiring, with characteristic simpli- 
 city, the meaning of the unusual prodigality and ceremony which 
 every where meet and enchant its unaccustomed eye. Next, 
 comes the troop of schoolboys, with limbs all life and elasticity, 
 and hearts all harmony and gladness, drunk with their dream 
 of liberty and release from study ; and mingled with these are 
 the less happy, but, perhaps, more fortunate boys, whose lot 
 compels them to labor for their bread, with well-strung nerves 
 and bodies invigorated by health and exercise, bounding, to find 
 their homes, over fields and meadows, over brook and path, 
 with hearts as unconcerned and steps as light as those of the 
 roe or the young hart on the mountains of spices. The ap- 
 prentice, the implements of his handcraft laid by, and the 
 stinted portion of his daily simple subsistence forgotten, his 
 eyes glistening with exultation, and his breast heaving with the 
 
322 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 fullness of anticipation, rushes along to meet at home the 
 anxious parent, proud of the boy's advance in a trade, that will 
 make him independent, and the younger child, who wonders 
 if a year can liave wrought so astonishing a transformation, 
 and almost doubts his identity. 
 
 Now approach the brother and the sister, whom a few 
 months of separation have rendered more affectionate ; the 
 friends, whom difference of employment or variety of pursuit 
 had partially estranged ; the lovers, whose impatient hearts, 
 though blessed with frequent and delightful intercourse, wel- 
 come the return of Thanksgiving as the day when hope and 
 love are to find their consummation, the day which is forever 
 after to be more sacred in their calendar than all the days of 
 the year besides. But the images>too thickly throng, " too fast 
 they crowd," for the powers of description. In the midst of 
 the gay and glorious assembly are the father, the mother, the 
 patriarch bowed with years, and she who has been the nurse 
 of generations, partaking of the general joy and congratulation, 
 nor murmuring that, while such a scene engages and employs 
 their faculties, the wheels of time do not more rapidly bring on 
 the promised period of translation to another and more endu- 
 ring heaven. 
 
 An anonymous modern writer has beautifully said, " There 
 are moments in existence which comprise the power of years ; 
 as thousands of roses are contained in a few drops of their 
 essence." The remark is no more beautiful than just. I 
 once witnessed an incident, which made me feel its truth, 
 though long before the sentiment itself was written. In one 
 of the largest villages in the eastern part of Connecticut, a 
 woman was left a widow with ten children, all but one of 
 whom were under twenty years of age. The family had once 
 enjoyed a competence, and looked forward to years of ease 
 and plenty. Toward the close of the revolutionary war, the 
 father, thinking to make a profitable speculation, disposed of a 
 large and profitable stock in trade, and received in payment 
 what, at the time, was called cash, but which turned out 
 shortly after to be worthless paper ; bills of the old " Conti- 
 nental currency." These bills were laid up in his desk, and 
 soon began to depreciate in value. The deterioration went on 
 from day to day, and in a few months the bubble burst; and 
 
YOtTNG LADIES' READER. 323 
 
 the fund, which had been hoarded to educate a family, would 
 not buy them a breakfast. At this moment the father died. 
 
 I will not trace the history of this family through its days 
 of destitution and poverty. It is sufficient to state that the 
 children were scattered in various directions, and engaged in 
 various employments, till at length all were gone, and the mother 
 left alone, dependent on friends for a bedroom, and on the labor 
 of her -hands for her own subsistence ; a precarious depend- 
 ence, for to other misfortunes had succeeded the loss of health. 
 In process of time, one of the sons, having completed his ap- 
 prenticeship, hired a house for his mother, and lived with her, 
 while he followed the occupation of a shoemaker. Thanks- 
 giving Day came ; and with it, returned an opportunity to in- 
 dulge in its peculiar rites, which they had not enjoyed for 
 ten years. The two younger boys, who lived at a distance 
 from each other and from the parent, came home to keep 
 TTianksgiving. 
 
 The festive preparations were completed. The table was 
 spread. Around it stood a mother and three sons, who had 
 not been assembled together before within the remembrance 
 of the youngest of the group. The grateful and pious mother 
 lifted her heart and her voice to the widow's God, and uttered 
 a blessing on that kindness which had not broken the bruised 
 reed, and that goodness which had remembered all her sorrows, 
 and permitted her once more to see so many of her orphan 
 children assembled around her. Her expressions of gratitude 
 were not finished, when the tide of affection and thanksgiving, 
 which swelled the heart, overpowered the physical faculties. 
 Her bosom heaved with strong convulsions, her utterance was 
 choked, the lips could not relieve by words the emotions which 
 filled the soul : she faltered, and would have fallen, had not 
 the elder son caught and sustained her in his arms. Tears, at 
 length, came to her relief, and the earthquake of the soul was 
 succeeded by those grateful and affectionate sensations, which 
 can find no parallel but in a mother's heart. 
 
 It is more than forty years since this incident took place. 
 The scene is now as fresh and bright to my imagination, as it 
 was at the moment of its occurrence. Eternity cannot obliter- 
 ate its impression from my memory ; for that widow was my 
 
 MOTHER. J- T- BUCKIHGHAB, 
 
324 VOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CL. 
 
 DUTIES OF AMERICAN MOTHERS. 
 
 It is by the promulgation of sound morals in the com- 
 munity, and, more especially, by the training and instruction of 
 the young, that woman performs her part towards the preser- 
 vation of a free government. It is now generally admitted, that 
 public liberty, the perpetuity of a free constitution, rests on the 
 virtue and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. How 
 is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be 
 communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madam De Stael in 
 what manner he could most promote the happiness of France. 
 Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said ; " Instruct 
 the mothers of the French people." Because the mothers are 
 the affectionate and effective teachers of the human race. The 
 mother begins this process of training with the infant in her 
 arms. It is she who directs, so to speak, its first mental and 
 spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible 
 years of childhood and youth ; and hopes to deliver it to the 
 rough contest, and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those 
 good principles which her child has first received from mater- 
 nal care and love. 
 
 If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers 
 of a civilized nation, what do we see ? We behold so many 
 artificers, working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on 
 the immortal mind, molding and fashioning beings who are to 
 exist forever. We applaud the artist whose skill and genius 
 present the mimic man upon the canvas ; we admire and cele- 
 brate the sculptor who works out that same image in enduring 
 marble ; but how insignificant are these achievements, though 
 the highest and the fairest in all the departments of art, in com- 
 parison with the great vocation of human mothers ! They 
 work not upon the canvas that shall fail, or the marble that 
 shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is 
 to last forever, and which is to bear, throughout its duration 
 the impress of a mother's plastic hand. 
 
 I have already expressed the opinion, which all allow to be 
 correct, that our security for the duration of the free institu- 
 tions which bless our country, depends upon the habits of 
 virtue, and the prevalence of knowledge and education. Know- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READKR. 325 
 
 ledge does not comprise all which is contained in the larger 
 term of education. The feelings are to be disciplined; the 
 passions are to be restrained ; true and worthy motives are to 
 be inspired ; a profound religious feeling is to be instilled, and 
 pure morality inculcated under all circumstances. 
 
 All this IS comprised in education. Mothers who are faith- 
 ful to this great duty, will tell their children that neither in 
 political nor in any other concerns of life, can man ever with- 
 draw himself from the perpetual obligations of conscience and 
 duty ; that in every act, whether public or private, he incurs a 
 just responsibility ; and that in no condition is he warranted in 
 trifling with important rights and obligations. They will im- 
 press upon their children the truth, that the exercise of the 
 elective franchise is a social duty, of as solemn a nature as man 
 can be called to perform ; that a man may not innocently trifle 
 with his vote ; that every free elector is a trustee as well for 
 others as himself; and that every man and every measure he 
 supports, has an important bearing on the interests of others 
 as well as on his own. It is in the inculcation of pure and 
 high morals such as these, that, in a free Republic, woman 
 performs her sacred duty, and fulfils her high destiny. 
 
 D. Weusteh 
 
 LESSON CLI. 
 
 {Elliptical.') 
 
 LADY ARABELLA JOHNSON. 
 
 Ihe lady Arabella Johnson, a daughter of the earl of Lin- 
 coln, accompanied her husband in the embarkation under 
 Winthrop; and, in honor of her, the admiral ship, on that 
 occasion, was called by her ( . . . ). She died in a very 
 short time after her ( . . . ), and lies buried near the neigh- 
 boring shore. No stone, or other memorial, indicates the exact 
 ( . . . ) ; but tradition has ( . . . ) it with a holy 
 reverence. The remembrance of her ( . • • ) 's yet 
 fresh in all our thoughts; and many a heart still kindles with 
 ( . . . ) of her virtues ; and many a bosom heaves with 
 sighs, at her untimely end. 
 
326 YOUNG LADIES' READEiv. 
 
 What, indeed, could be more touching than the fate of such 
 a woman ? What example more striking than hers, of uncom- 
 promising affection and piety ? Born in the lap of ease, and 
 ("...) by affluence ; with every prospect which could 
 make hope gay, and fortune desirable ; accustomed to the 
 ( . . . ) of a court, and the scarcely less splendid hospi- 
 talities of her ancestral home ; she was yet ( . . . ) to 
 quit, what has, not inaptly, been^termed "this paradise of 
 plenty and pleasure," for " a wilderness of wants," and, with 
 a fortitude ( . . . ) to the delicacies of lier rank and sex, to 
 trust herself to an unknown ocean and a distant (...), 
 that she might partake, with her husband, the pure and spiritual 
 worship of God. 
 
 To -the honor, to the eternal honor of her sex, be it said, 
 that, in the path of duty, no ( . . . ) is with them too 
 high or too dear. Nothing is with them (...), but to 
 shrink from what love, honor, innocence, religion, require. 
 The voice of pleasure or of power may pass by unheeded; 
 but the voice of affliction, never. The chamber of the sick, 
 the pillow of the dying, the vigils of the dead, the altars of 
 religion, never missed the presence or the sympathies of 
 (...). Timid though she be, and so delicate that the 
 winds of heaven may not too ( ... ) visit her, on such 
 occasions she loses all sense of danger, and assumes a preter- 
 natural courage, which knows not, and fears not ( . . ). 
 Then she displays that undaunted spirit, which neither courts 
 difficulties, nor evades them ; that resignation, which utters 
 neither murmur nor regret; and that patience in suffering, 
 which seems (...) even over death itself. 
 
 The lady Arabella (...) in this noble undertaking, 
 of which she seemed the ministering angel; and her death 
 spread (...) gloom throughout the colony. Her hus- 
 band was overwhelmed with ( . . . ) at the unexpected 
 -event, and survived her but a single month. Governor Win- 
 throp has pronounced his eulogy in one short sentence : " He 
 was a holy man, and wise, and died in sweet peace." 
 
 He was truly the idol of the people ; and the spot selected 
 by himself for his own (...) became consecrated in 
 their eyes ; so that many left it as a dying request, that they 
 might be buried by his side. Their request prevailed ; and 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 327 
 
 the Chapel burying-ground in Boston, which (...) 
 his remains, became, from that time, appropriated to the 
 ( • • • ) of the dead. Perhaps the best tribute to this 
 excellent pair is, that time, which, with so unsparing a hand, 
 consigns statesmen, and heroes, and even sages, to oblivion, 
 has embalmed the memory of their worth, and preserved it 
 among the choicest of New England relics. It can scarcely 
 be forgotten, but with the annals of our country. Stort 
 
 LESSON CLII. 
 
 TRIALS OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 From the dark portals of the Star Chamber, and in the 
 stern text of the acts of uniformity, the Pilgrims received a 
 commission more efficient than any that ever bore the royal 
 seal. Their banishment to Holland was fortunate ; the decline 
 of their little company in a strange land was fortunate; the 
 difficulties which they experienced in getting the royal consent 
 to banish themselves to this wilderness were fortunate; all 
 the tears and heart-breakings of that ever memorable parting at 
 Delfthaven, had the happiest influence on the rising destinies 
 of New England. All this purified the ranks of the settlers. 
 These rough touches of fortune brushed off the light, uncertain, 
 selfish spirits. They made it a grave, solemn, self-denying 
 expedition, and required of those, who engaged in it, to be so 
 too. They cast a broad shadow of thought and seriousness 
 over the cause; and if this sometimes deepened into melan- 
 choly and bitterness, can we find no apology for such a human 
 weakness ? 
 
 It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters which the little 
 band of pilgrims encountered ; sad to see a portion of them the 
 prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously embarked in an 
 unsound, unseaworthy ship, which they are soon obliged to 
 abandon, and crowd themselves into one vessel; one hundred 
 persons, besides the ship's company, in a vessel of one 
 hundred and eighty tons ! One is touched at the story of the 
 long, cold, and weary autumnal passage ; of the landing on the 
 
328 VOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 inhospitable rocks at this dismal season, where they are 
 deserted, before long, by the ship which had brought them, 
 and which seemed their only hold upon the world of fellow- 
 men; a prey to the elements and to want, and fearfully igno- 
 rant of the numbers, the power, and the temper of the savage 
 tribes that filled the unexplored continent upon whose verge 
 they had ventured. But all this wrought together for good. 
 These trials of wandering and exile, of the ocean, the winter, 
 the wilderness, and the savage foe, were the final assurance of 
 success. 
 
 It was these that put far away from our fathers' cause all 
 patrician softness, all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. No 
 effeminate nobility crowded into the dark and austere ranks of 
 the Pilgrims ; no Carr or Villiers would lead on the ill-provided 
 band of despised Puritans ; no well-endowed clergy were on 
 the alert to quit their cathedrals, and set up a pompous hier- 
 archy in the frozen wilderness ; no craving governors were 
 anxious to be sent over to our cheerless El Dorados of ice and 
 of snow. No. They could not say that they encouraged, pat- 
 ronized, or helped the pilgrims. Their own cares, their own 
 labors, their own counsels, their own blood, contrived all, 
 achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They could not afterward 
 fairly pretend to reap where they had not sown; and, as our 
 fathers reared this broad and solid fabric with pains and watch- 
 fulness, unaided, barely tolerated, it did not fall when the favor, 
 which had always been withholden, was changed into wrath; 
 when the arm, which had never supported, was raised to 
 destroy. 
 
 Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, 
 the May-Flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the pros- 
 pects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I 
 behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, 
 the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months 
 pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them 
 not in sight of the wished-for shore, I see them now, scantily 
 supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in 
 their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous 
 route ; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the 
 high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls 
 through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 329 
 
 their base ; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship 
 leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, 
 and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats, 
 with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. 
 I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but 
 desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' 
 passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth ; weak and weary 
 from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending 
 on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on 
 board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter, 
 without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 
 
 Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any prin- 
 ciple of human probability, what shall be the fate of this hand- 
 ful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, in how 
 many months were they all swept olF by the thirty savage 
 tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England ? 
 Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on 
 which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish 
 on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the 
 baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adven- 
 tures of other times, and find the parallel of this. 
 
 Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads 
 of women and children ? was it hard labor and spare meals ? 
 was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady 
 of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, 
 aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved 
 and left, beyond the sea? was it some, or all of these united, 
 that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate ? 
 And is it possible that none of these causes, that not all com- 
 bined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible, 
 that, from a beginning so feeble, so fraU, so worthy, not so 
 much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progiess 
 so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a 
 reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious? 
 
 ■' '^ E. EVEKETT. 
 
 28 
 
330 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CLIII. 
 
 LANDING or THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 On a stern and rocli-bound coast, 
 
 And the woods against a stormy sky. 
 Their giant branches tossed ; 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 
 
 The hills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. . ;-. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes. 
 They, the true-hearted, came. 
 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame. 
 
 Not as the flying come. 
 
 In silence and in fear; 
 They shook the depths of the Ses^t's gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheeir. 
 
 Amid the storm they sang. 
 
 And the stars heard, and the seg^; y^ • 
 
 And the soUndijjffj(isles 6f ■thgjlii*>Blteds rang 
 Tothganthetafcfitjl^flfaej • ^ 
 
 ' • i ' i i f '■ 
 
 TraipJp^ii'eagle soared 
 ' From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
 • And the rocking pines of the forest roared ; 
 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair. 
 
 Amid that pilgrim band ; 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land 1 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye. 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow, serenely high. 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 Bright jewels of the'mine 7 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 331 
 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war t 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod ! 
 They have left unstained what there they found. 
 
 Freedom to worship God ! Mus. Hemahs. 
 
 LESSON CLIV. 
 
 THE VAUDOIS WIFE. 
 
 [The wife of a Vaudois leader, in an fittack made on one of their hamlets, 
 teceived a mortal wound, and died in her husband's arms, exhorting him 
 to courage and endurance.] 
 
 Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 
 
 Thy look is in my heart. 
 Thy bosom is my resting-place. 
 
 And yet I must depart. 
 Earth on my soul is strong, too strong. 
 
 Too precious is its chain, 
 'AH woven of thy love, dear friend. 
 
 Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 
 
 Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 
 
 Thou seest my life-blood flow. 
 Bow to the chastener silentlyj 
 
 And calmly let me go. 
 A little while between our hearts 
 
 The shadowy gulf must lie, 
 Yet have we, for their communing, 
 
 Still, still, Eternity. 
 
 Alas I thy tears are on my cheek. 
 
 My spirit they detain ; 
 I know that from thine agony 
 
 Is wrung that burning rain. 
 Best, kindest, weep not; make the pang, 
 
 The bitter conflict, less ; 
 Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy. 
 
 To feel thy love's excess. 
 
332 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 
 
 A. solemn peace restore ! 
 The voice that must be silent soon, 
 
 Would speak to thee once more, 
 That thou mayst bear its blessings on 
 
 Through years of after-life; 
 A token of consoling love 
 
 Even from this hour of strife. 
 
 1 bless thee for the noble heart. 
 
 The tender, and the true. 
 Where mine hath found the happiest rest, 
 
 That e'er fond woman's knew ; 
 I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 
 
 For my own, my treasured share, 
 In the mournful secrets of thy soul 
 
 In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 
 
 I bless thee for kind looks and words 
 
 Showered on my path like dew ; 
 For all the love in those deep eyes, 
 
 A gladness ever new ; 
 For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 
 
 But in kindly tones of cheer ; 
 For every spring of happiness, 
 
 My soul hath tasted here. 
 
 I bless thee for the last, rich boon 
 
 Won from affection tried. 
 The right to gaze on death with thee 
 
 To perish by thy side ; 
 And yet more for the glorious hope 
 
 Even to these moments given ; 
 Did not thy spirit ever lift 
 
 The trust of mine to Heaven ? 
 
 Now be thcni strong ! Oh ! knew we not 
 
 Our path must lead to this ? 
 A shadow and a trembling still 
 
 Were mingled with our bliss. 
 We plighted our young hearts, when storms 
 
 Were dark upon the sky, 
 In full, deep knowledge of their task, 
 
 To suffer and to die. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 333 
 
 Be strong ! I leave the living voice 
 
 Of this, my martyred blood, 
 With the thousand echoes of the hills, 
 
 With the torrent's foaming flood. 
 A spirit 'mid the caves to dvi^ell, 
 
 A token on the air. 
 To rouse the valiant from repose. 
 
 The fainting from despair. 
 
 Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 
 
 Ay, joyously endure ! 
 Our mountains must be altars yet. 
 
 Inviolate and pure ; 
 There must our God be worshiped still 
 
 With the worship of the free ; 
 Farewell ! there 's but one pang in death. 
 
 Ore only,— leaving thee ! mks. Hemass. 
 
 LESSON CLV. 
 
 MESSAGE TO THE DEAD 
 
 Thou'rt passing hence, my brother ! 
 
 Oh ! my earliest friend, farewell ! 
 Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice. 
 
 In a lonely home to dwell ; 
 And from the hills, and from the hearth, 
 
 And from the household-tree. 
 With thee departs the lingering mirth. 
 
 The brightness goes with thee. 
 
 But thou, my friend, my brother ! 
 
 Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
 Where the dirge-like tone of parting words 
 
 Shall smite the soul no more. 
 And thou wilt see our holy dead. 
 
 The lost on earth and main ; 
 Into the sheaf of kindred hearts, 
 
 Thou wilt be bound again. 
 
 Tell, then, our friend of boyhood, 
 
 That yet his name is heard 
 On the blue mountains, whence his youth 
 
 Passed, like a swift, bright bird. 
 
334 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The light of his exulting brow, 
 
 The visions of his glee, 
 Are on me still ; oh ! still I trust 
 
 That smile again to see. 
 
 And tell our fair, young sister. 
 
 The rose, cut down in spring. 
 That yet my gushing soul is filled 
 
 With lays she loved to sing, 
 Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams, 
 
 Tender, and sadly sweet : 
 Tell her my heart within me burns, 
 
 Once more that gaze to meet. 
 
 And tell our white-haired father. 
 
 That In the paths he trod. 
 The child he loved, the last on earth. 
 
 Yet walks, and worships God. 
 Say, that his last, fond blessing yet 
 
 Rests on my soul like dew. 
 And by its hallowing might I trust 
 
 Once more his face to view. 
 
 And tell our gentle mother. 
 
 That on her grave I pour 
 The sorrows of my spirit forth 
 
 As on her breast of yore. 
 Happy thou art, that soon, how soon. 
 
 Our glad and bright will see ! 
 Oh ! brother, brother ! may I dwell. 
 
 Ere long, with them and thee ! Mas. Hemaits. 
 
 LESSON CLVI. 
 
 ONLT ONE NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 " Only one night at sea," 
 
 'T was thus the promise ran. 
 By frail, presumptuous mortal given, 
 
 To vain, confiding man ; 
 " Only one night at sea. 
 
 And -land shall bless thy sight. 
 When morning's rays dispel 
 
 The shadows of that night." 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 335 
 
 The pledge has been received, 
 
 The vessel leaves the shore, 
 Bearing the beautiful and brave. 
 
 Who ne'er shall greet us more ; 
 And every heart beats high. 
 
 As bounding o'er the wave. 
 The gallant bark moves on 
 
 To bear them to their grave. 
 
 The merry beams of day 
 
 Before the darkness flee. 
 And gloomy night comes slowly on. 
 
 That " only night at sea." 
 The watch upon the deck 
 
 Their weary vigils keep. 
 And countless stars look down 
 
 In beauty o'er the deep. 
 
 Within that stately boat 
 
 The prattler's voice is still. 
 And beauty's lovely form is there. 
 
 Unheeding of the ill ; 
 And manhood's vigorous mind 
 
 Is wrapped in deep repose. 
 And sorrow's victim lies 
 
 Forgetful of his woes. 
 
 But, hark ! that fearful sound. 
 
 That wild appalling cry. 
 That wakes the sleepers from their dreams. 
 
 And rouses them — to die : 
 Ah, who shall tell the hopes 
 
 That rose, so soon to flee ; 
 The good resolves destroyed 
 
 By that " one night at sea !" 
 
 That hour hath passed away. 
 
 The morning's beams are bright, 
 As if they met no record there 
 
 Of that all-fearful night ; 
 But many souls have fled 
 
 To far eternity. 
 And many hearts been wrecked 
 
 In that " one night at sea." 
 
S36 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Great God ! whose hand hath launched 
 
 Our boat upon life's sea, 
 And given us as a pilot there 
 
 A spirit bold and free, 
 So guide us with thy love. 
 
 That our frail barks may be, 
 'Mid waves of doubt and fear, 
 
 " Only one night at sea." R. M. Cuabltok. 
 
 LESSON CLVII. 
 
 THE TRANSPORT. 
 
 The great eye of day was wide open,, and a joyful light 
 filled air, heaven, and ocean. The marbled clouds lay motion- 
 less far and wide over the deep, blue sky, and all memory of 
 storm and hurricane had vanished from the magnificence of that 
 immense calm. There was but a gentle fluctuation on the 
 bosom of the deep, and the sea-birds floated steadily there, or 
 dipped their wings for a moment in the wreathed foam, and 
 again wheeled sportively away into the sunshine. One ship, 
 only one single ship, was within the encircling horizon, and 
 she had lain there as if at anchor since the morning light ; for, 
 although all her sails were set, scarcely a wandering breeze 
 touched her canvas, and her flags hung dead on staff" and at 
 peak, or lifted themselves uncertainly up at intervals, and then 
 sunk again into motionless repose. The crew paced not her 
 deck, for they knew that no breeze would come till after meri- 
 dian, and it was the Sabbath day. 
 
 A small congregation were singing praises to God in that 
 chapel, which rested almost as quietly on the sea, as the house 
 of worship in which they had been used to pray then rested, 
 far off" on a foundation of rock, in a green valley of their for- 
 saken Scotland. They were emigrants, without hope of seeing 
 again the mists of their native mountains. But as they heard 
 the voice of their psalm, each singer half forgot that it blended 
 with the sound of the sea, and almost believed himself sitting, 
 in the kirk of his own beloved parish. But hundreds of billowy 
 leagues intervened between them and the little tinkling bell that 
 was now telling their happier friends to the quiet house of God 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 337 
 
 And now an old, gray-headed man rose to pray, and held up 
 his withered hand in fervent supplication for all around, whom, 
 in good truth, he called his children; for three generations 
 were with the patriarch in that tabernacle. There, in one 
 group were husbands and wives standing together, in awe of 
 Him who heM the deep in the hollow of his hand ; there, 
 youths and maidens, linked together by the feeling of the same 
 destiny, some of them, perhaps, hoping, when they reached the 
 shore, to lay their heads on one pillow ; there, children, hand 
 in hand, happy in the wonders of the ocean ; and there, mere 
 infants smiling on the sunny deck, and unconscious of the 
 meaning of hymn or prayer. 
 
 A low, confined, growling noise was heard struggling be- 
 neath the deck, and a sailor, called with a loud voice, " Fire ! 
 fire ! the ship's on fire !" Holy words died on the prayer's 
 tongue ! the congregation fell asunder ; and_ pale faces, wild 
 eyes, groans, shrieks, and outcries rent the silence of the lone- 
 some sea. No one for awhile knew the other, as all were 
 hurried as in a whirlwind up and down the ship. A dismal 
 heat, all unlike the warmth of that beautiful sun, came sti- 
 flingly on every breath. Mothers, who in their first terror had 
 shuddered but for themselves, now clasped their infants to their 
 breasts, and lifted up their eyes to heaven. 
 
 Bold, brave men grew white as ashes, and hands, strength 
 ened by toil and storm, trembled like the aspen-leaf. " Gone . 
 gone! we are all gone!" was now the cry; yet no one knew 
 whence that cry came ; and men glared reproachfully on each 
 other's countenances, and strove to keep down the audible 
 beating of their own hearts. The desperate love of life drove 
 them instinctively to their stations, and the water was poured, 
 as by the strength of giants, down among the smoldering 
 flames. But the devouring element roared up into the air ; and 
 deck, masts, sails, and shrouds, were one crackling and hissing 
 sheet of fire. 
 
 " Let down the boat !" was now the yell of hoarse voices ; 
 and in an instant she was filled with life. Then, there was 
 frantic leaping into the sea ; and all who were fast drowning 
 moved convulsively towards that little ark. Some sunk down 
 at once mto oblivion; some grasped at nothing with their disap- 
 pearing hands ; some seized in vain unquenched pieces of the 
 29 
 
338 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 fiery wreck; some would fain have saved a friend almost in 
 the last agonies ; and some, strong in a savage despair, tore 
 from them the clinched fingers that would have dragged them 
 down, and forgot in fear both love and pity. 
 
 Enveloped in flames and smoke, yet insensible as a corpse 
 to the burning, a frantic mother flung down hdr baby among 
 the crew ; and, as it fell among the upward oars unharmed, she 
 shrieked out a prayer of thanksgiving : " Go, husband, go ; for 
 I am content to die. Oh ! live ! live ! my husband ! for our 
 darling Willy's sake." But, in the prime of life, and with his 
 manly bosom full of health and hope, the husband looked but for 
 a moment, till he saw his child was safe; and then, taking his 
 young wife in his arras, sat down beneath the burning fragments 
 of the sail, with the rest that were resigned, never more to rise 
 up till the sound of the last trumpet, when the faithful and 
 afflicted shall be raised to breathe for ever the pure air of 
 Heaven, Anontmous. 
 
 LESSON CLVIII. 
 
 THE DEAD OF THE WRECK. 
 
 [The Steamer Atlantic was wrecked, in a storm, on Long Island Sound 
 in Nov., 1846. As soon as the boat struck, its bell commenced tolling, 
 probably from the action of the wind upon it, and continued to toll slowly 
 and mournfully, as long as any portion of the wreck was to be seen.1 
 
 Toll, toll, toll, 
 
 Thou Bell by billows swung, 
 And night and day thy warning words 
 
 Repeat with mournful tongue ! 
 Toll for the queenly boat, 
 
 Wrecked on yon rocky shore, 
 Sea-weed is in her palace halls. 
 
 She rides the surge no more ! 
 
 Toll for the master bold. 
 
 The high-souled and the brave, 
 Who ruled her like a thing of life, 
 
 Amid the crested wave ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 339 
 
 Toll for the hardy crew, 
 
 Sons of the storm and blast, 
 Who long the tyrant Ocean dared 
 
 But it vanquished them at last ! 
 
 Toll for the man of God, 
 
 Whose hallowed voice of prayer. 
 Rose calm above the stifled groan 
 
 Of that intense despair ! 
 How precious were those tones 
 
 On that sad verge of life, 
 Ainid the fierce and freezing storm, 
 
 And the mountain billows' strife ! 
 
 Toll for the lover, lost 
 
 To the summoned bridal train ! 
 Bright glows a picture on hi? breast, 
 
 Beneath the unfathomed main ; 
 One from her casement gazeth 
 
 Long o'er the misty sea; 
 He Cometh not, pale maiden. 
 
 His heart is cold to thee ! 
 
 T:ll for the absent sire. 
 
 Who to his home drew near, 
 '''o bless a glad expecting group, 
 
 Fond wife and children dear ! 
 They heap the blazing hearth. 
 
 The festal board is spread, 
 But a fearful guest is at the gate : 
 
 Room for the sheeted dead ! 
 
 Toll for the loved and fair. 
 
 The whelmed beneath the tide, 
 The broken harps around whose strings 
 
 The dull sea-monsters glide ! 
 Mother and nursling sweet. 
 
 Reft from the household throng. 
 There's bitter weeping in the nest 
 
 Where breathed their soul of song. 
 
 Toll for the hearts that bleed 
 
 'Neath misery's furrowing trace ! 
 Toll for the hapless orphan left 
 
 The last of all his race ! 
 
340 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Yea, with thy heaviest Itnell 
 
 From surge to roclcy shore, 
 Toll for the living, not the dead, 
 
 Whose mortal woes are o'er ! 
 
 Toll, toll, toll. 
 
 O'er breeze and billow free, 
 And with thy startling lore instruct 
 
 Each rover of the sea ; 
 Tell how o'er proudest joys 
 
 May swift destruction sweep. 
 And bid him build his hopes on high ; 
 
 Lone teacher of the deep ! Mbs SiooumrEt 
 
 LESSON CLIX. 
 
 THE CHARNEI. SHIP. 
 
 The night, the long, dark night, at last. 
 
 Passed fearfully away ; 
 'Mid crashing ice, and howling blast. 
 
 They hailed the dawn of day. 
 Which broke to cheer the Whaler's crew. 
 And wide around its gray light threw. 
 
 The storm had ceased ; its wrath had rent 
 
 The icy wall asunder ; 
 \nd many a piercing glance they sent 
 
 Around in awe and wonder; 
 ind sailor hearts their rude praise gave, 
 To God, that morn, from o'er the wave. 
 
 The breeze blew freshly, and the sun 
 
 Poured his full radiance far 
 On heaps of icy fragments, won. 
 
 Sad trophies, in the past night's war 
 Of winds and waters, and in piles 
 Now drifted by bright shining isles. 
 
 But lo ! still further off appears 
 
 A form more dim and dark ; 
 And anxious eyes, and hopes, and fears 
 
 Its slow, strange progress mark. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 341 
 
 It hastens to them, by the breeze 
 Borne onward from more northern seas. 
 
 Near, and more near ; and can it be, 
 
 (More venturous than their own) 
 A Ship, whose seeming ghost they see 
 
 Among the icebergs thrown ? 
 With broken masts, dismantled all. 
 And dark sails like a funeral pall ? 
 
 God of the mariner! protect 
 
 Her inmates as she moves along, 
 Through perils, which ere now had wrecked. 
 
 But that thine arm is strong! 
 Ha ! she has struck I she grounds ! she stands 
 Sltill, as if held by giant hands ! 
 
 " Quick, man the boat !" away they sprang. 
 
 The stranger ship to aid. 
 And loud their hailing voices rang, 
 
 And rapid speed they made ; 
 But all in silence, deep, unbroke. 
 The vessel stood ; none answering spoke. 
 
 'T was fearful ! not a sound arose. 
 
 No moving thing was there. 
 To interrupt the dread repose 
 
 Which filled each heart with fean 
 On deck they silent stepped, and sought, 
 Till one, a man, their sad sight caught. 
 
 He was alone, the damp-chill mold 
 
 Of years hung on his cheek ; 
 While the pen within his hand had told 
 
 The tale no voice might speak : 
 "Seventy days," the record stood, 
 " We have been in the ice, and wanted food !" 
 
 They took his book, and turned away. 
 
 But soon discovered where 
 The wife, in her death sleep, gently lay 
 
 Near him in life most dear. 
 Who, seated beside his young heart's pride, 
 Long years before had calmly died. 
 
342 YOUNG LADIES' READEa. 
 
 Oh, wedded love ! how beautiful, 
 
 How pure a thing thou art. 
 Whose influence e'en in death can rule, 
 
 And triumph o'er the heart ; 
 Can cheer life's roughest walk, and shed 
 A holy light around the dead ! 
 
 There was a solemn, sacred feeling 
 
 Kindled in every breast, 
 And, softly from the cabin stealing. 
 
 They left them to their rest ; 
 The fair, the young, the constant pair, 
 They left them, with a blessing, there. 
 
 And to their boat returning, each 
 
 With thoughtful brow, and haste. 
 And o'ercharged heart, too full for speecn, 
 
 They left amid that waste 
 The Charnel ship, which, years before. 
 Had sailed from distant Albion's shore. 
 
 They left her in the icebergs, where 
 
 Few venture to intrude, 
 A monument of death and fear, 
 
 'Mid Ocean's solitude ; 
 And grateful for their own release. 
 Thanked God, and sought their homes in peace. 
 
 MBS. a. p. DlNNlES 
 
 LESSON CXL. 
 
 THE USES OF SUFFERING. 
 
 Benevolence has a higher aim than to bestow enjoyment 
 There is a higher good than enjoyment ; and this requires 
 suffering, in order to be gained. Suffering ministers to huroaTi 
 excellence ; it calls forth the magnanimous and sublime vir- 
 tues, and, at the same time, nourishes the tenderest, sweetest 
 sympathies of our nature ; it rouses us to energy and to the 
 consciousness of our powers, and, at the same time, infuses 
 thr meekest dependence on God; it stimulates toil for the 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 343 
 
 goods of this world, and, at , the same time, weans us from it, 
 and lifts us above it. I have seen it admonishing the heedless, 
 reproving the presumptuous, humbling the proud, rousing the 
 sluggish, softening the insensible, awakening the slumbering 
 conscience, speaking of God to the ungrateful, infusing courage, 
 and force, and faith, and unwavering hope of heaven. 1 do 
 not then doubt God's beneficence, on account of the sorrows 
 and pains of life. I look without gloom on this suffering 
 world. 
 
 True ; suffering abounds. The wail of the mourner comes 
 to me from every region under heaven ; from every human 
 habitation, for death enters into all ; from the ocean, where 
 the groan of the dying mingles with the solemn roar of the 
 waves; from the fierce flame, encircling, as an atmosphere or 
 shroud, the beloved, the revered. Still, all these forms of 
 suffering do not subdue ray faith ; for aU are fitted to awaken 
 the human soul ; and through all it may be glorified. 
 
 We shrink, indeed, with horror, when imagination carries 
 us to the blazing, sinking vessel, where young and old, the 
 mother and her child, husbands, fathers, friends, are over- 
 whelmed by a common, sudden, fearful fate. But the soul 
 is mightier than the unsparing elements. I have read of holy 
 men, who, in days of persecution, have been led to the stake, 
 to pay the penalty of their uprightness, not in fierce and sud- 
 denly destroying flames, but in a slow fire ; and, though one 
 retracting word would have snatched them from death, they 
 have chosen to be bound ; and, amid the protracted agonies 
 of limb burning after limb, they have looked to God with 
 unwavering faith, and sought forgiveness for their enemies. 
 What then are outward fires to the celestial flame within us ? 
 And can I feel, as though God had ceased to love, as though 
 man were forsaken by his Creator, because liis body is scat- 
 tered into ashes by the fire ? 
 
 It would seem as if God intended to disarm the most terri- 
 ble events of their power to disturb our failh, by making them 
 the occasions of the sublimest virtues. In shipwrecks we are 
 furnished with some of the most remarkable examples that 
 history affords, of trust in God, of unconquerable energy, 
 and of tender, self-sacrificing love, making the devouring 
 ocean the iEC>=t glorious spot on earth. A friend rescued 
 
344 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 from a wreck, told me, that a company of pious Christians 
 who had been left in the sinking ship, were heard, from the 
 boat in which he had found safety, lifting up their voices, not 
 in shrieks or moans, but in a joint hymn to God ; thus await- 
 ing, in a serene act of piety, the last, swift approaching hour. 
 How much grander was that hymn than the ocean's roar ! 
 And what becomes of suffering, when thus awakening, into 
 an energy otherwise unknown, the highest sentiments of the 
 soul ? I can shed tears over human griefs ; but thus viewed, 
 thev do not discourage me: they strengthen my faith in God. 
 
 W. E. Channinu 
 
 LESSON CLXI. 
 
 MORAL INFLVENCB OF BURIAL-PLACES. . 
 
 If this tender regard for the dead be so absolutely universal, 
 and so deeply founded in human affection, why is it not made 
 to exert a more profound influence on our lives ? Wliy do we 
 not enlist it with more persuasive energy in the cause of human 
 improvement? Why do we not enlarge it as a source of reli- 
 gious consolation ? Why do we not make it a more eificient 
 instrument to elevate ambition, to stimulate genius, and to 
 dignify learning ? Why do we not connect it indissolubly with 
 associations, which charm us in nature, and engross us in art? 
 Why do we not dispel from it that unlovely gloom, from whicli 
 our hearts turn, as from a darkness that ensnares, and a horror 
 that appalls our thoughts ? 
 
 To many, nay, to most of the heathen, the burying-place 
 was the end of all things. They indulged no hope, at least no 
 solid hope, of any future intercourse or re-union with their 
 friends. The farewell at the grave was a long, and an everlast- 
 ing farewell. At the moment when they breathed it, it brought 
 to their hearts a startling sense of their own wretchedness. 
 Yet, when the first tumults of anguish were passed, they visited 
 the spot, and strewed flowers, and garlands, and crowns around 
 it, to assuage their grief, and nourish their piety. They de- 
 lighted to make it the abode of the varying beauties of nature ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 345 
 
 to give it attractions which should invite the busy and the 
 thoughtful ; and yet, at the same time, afford ample scope for 
 the secret indulgence of sorrow. 
 
 Why should not christians imitate such examples ? They 
 have far nobler motives to cultivate moral sentiments and sen- 
 sibilities ; to malie cheerful the pathway to the grave ; to com- 
 bine with deep meditations on human mortality, the sublime 
 consolations of religion. We know, indeed, as they did of 
 old, that " man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go 
 about the streets." But the separation is not everlasting, and 
 the mourners may not weep, as those who are without hope. 
 What is the grave to us, but a thin bari;ier, dividing time 
 from eternity, and earth from heaven ? What is it, but " the 
 appointed place of rendezvous, where all the travelers on life's 
 journey meet," for a single night of repose ? 
 
 " 'T is but a night, a long and moonless night, 
 We make the grave our bed, and then are gone." 
 
 Know we not, 
 
 " The time draws on 
 When not a single spot of burial earth, 
 Whether on land, or in the spacious sea. 
 But must give up its long committed dust 
 Inviolate 1" 
 
 Why, then, should we darken, with systematic caution, all 
 the avenues to these repositories ? Why should we deposit 
 the remains of our friends in loathsome vaults,: or beneath the 
 gloomy crypts and cells of our churches ; where the human 
 foot is never heard, save when the sickly taper lights some new 
 guest to his appointed apartment, and "lets fall a supernume- 
 rary horror" on the passing procession? Why should we 
 measure out a narrow portion of earth for our grave-yards, in 
 the midst of our cities ; and heap the dead upon each other, 
 with a cold, calculating parsimony, disturbing their ashes, and 
 wounding the sensibilities of the living? Why should we 
 expose our burying-grounds to the broad glare of day, to the 
 unfeeling gaze of the idler, to the noisy press of business, to 
 the discordant shouts of merriment, or to the baleful visitations 
 of the dissolute ? 
 
 Why should we bar up their approaches against real mourn- 
 
346 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 ers, whose delicacy would shrink from observation, but whose 
 tenderness would be soothed by secret visits to the grave, and 
 byholdingconversethere with their departed joys? Why all 
 this unnatural restraint upon our sympathies and sorrows, 
 which confines the visit to the grave to the only time in which 
 it must be utterly useless ; when the heart is bleeding with 
 fresh anguish, and is too weak to feel, and too desolate to desire 
 consolation ? Stout. 
 
 LESSON CLXII. 
 
 DEATH AND SLEEP: A PARABLE. 
 
 Linked together like brothers, the angel of sleep and the 
 angel of death walked through the earth. It was evening. 
 They laid themselves down upon a hill not far from the abodes 
 of men. A melancholy stillness reigned all around, and the 
 evening bell in the distant hamlet had ceased to toll. In quiet- 
 ness and silence, as their manner is, the two beneficent genii 
 of mankind sat in confiding embrace, and night was already 
 drawing near. Then the angel of sleep arose from his mossy 
 couch, and with gentle hand scattered the imperceptible seeds 
 of slumber. The evening wind bore them away to the habita- 
 tion of the weary peasant. And now, sweet sleep came over 
 the occupants of the rural cottages, from the gray head, who 
 goes on his staff, down to the infant in the cradle. Sickness 
 forgot its pains, mourning its grief, penury its cares. The eyes 
 of all were closed. After finishing his labor, the benevolent 
 angel of sleep lay down again beside his brother. 
 
 " When the morning blushes in the east," he exclaimed with 
 gladsome innocence, " men praise me as their friend and bene- 
 factor! O, what joy, to do good, unseen and in secret! How 
 happy are we, the invisible ministers of the good spirit ! How 
 delightful our peaceful, quiet office !" Thus spake the friendly 
 angel of sleep. 
 
 The angel of death looked upon him in silent sorrowfulness, 
 and a tear, such as immortals weep, stood in his large, dark eye. 
 " Alas !" said he, " that I cannot, like you, congratulate myself 
 on the joyful gratitude of men ! The whole earth calls me its 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 347 
 
 enemy, and the spoiler of its joys !" " 0, my brother," replied 
 the angel of sleep, " will not the good, in the resurrection, also 
 recognize in thee a friend and benefactor, and gratefully bless 
 thee? Are we not brethren, and ministers of one father?" 
 Thus he spake while the eye of the angel of death brightened 
 up, and the fraternal genii embraced each other still more 
 tenderly. F. A. Kihjmmacheh. 
 
 LESSON CLXIIl. 
 
 THE FIRST WANDERER. 
 
 Creation's heir! the first, the last. 
 
 That knew the world his own ; 
 Yet stood he, 'mid his kingdom vast, 
 
 A fugitive, o'erthrown ! 
 Faded and frail his glorious form. 
 
 And changed his soul within. 
 While Fear and Sorrow, Strife and Storm, 
 
 Told the dark secret — Sin ! 
 
 Unaided and alone on earth. 
 
 He bade the heavens give ear ; 
 But every star that sang his birth, 
 
 Kept silence in its sphere : 
 He saw round Eden's distant steep, 
 
 Angelic legions stray ; 
 Alas ! he knew them sent to keep 
 
 His guilty foot away. 
 
 Then, reckless, turned he to his own, 
 
 The world before him spread ; 
 But Nature's was an altered tone. 
 
 And breathed rebuke and dread : 
 Fierce thunder-peal, and rocking gale, 
 
 Answered the storm-swept sea. 
 While crashing forests joined the wail ; 
 
 And all said, " Cursed for thee." 
 
 This, spoke the lion's prowling roar, 
 
 And tliis, the victim's cry ; 
 This, written in defenseless gore, 
 
 Forever met 1 s eye : 
 
348 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And not alone each sterner power 
 
 Proclaimed just Heaven's decree, 
 The faded leaf, the dying flower, 
 
 Alike said " Cursed for thee." 
 
 Though mortal, doomed to many a length 
 
 Of life's now narrow span, 
 Sons rose around in pride and strength ; 
 
 They, too, proclaimed the ban. 
 'T was heard, amid their hostile spears, 
 
 Seen, in the murderer's doom. 
 Breathed, from the widow's silent tears, 
 
 Felt, in the infant's tomb. 
 
 Ask not the wanderer's after-fate, 
 
 His being, birth, or name ; 
 Enough that all have shared his state, 
 
 That man is still the same. 
 Still brier and thorn his life o'ergrow, 
 
 Still strives his soul within ; 
 While Care, and Pain, and Sorrow show 
 
 The same dark secret — Sin. Miss M. J. Jiwsbubt 
 
 LESSON CLXIV. 
 
 PROPHETI'C'OESCRIPTION OF CHRIST. 
 
 Behold, my servant shall deal prudently. 
 He shall be exalted and extolled, and be very high. 
 As many were astonished at thee, 
 (His visage was so marred more than any man. 
 And his form more than the sons of men,) 
 So shall he sprinkle many nations ; 
 The kings shall shut their mouths at him : 
 For that which hath not been told them shall they see 
 And that which they had not heard shall they consider. 
 
 Who hath believed our report? 
 And to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed? 
 For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, 
 And as a root out of dry ground : 
 
 He hath no form nor comeliness ; and when we shall see hini, 
 Tliere is no beauty that we should desire him. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 349 
 
 He is despised and rejected of men ; 
 A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: 
 And we hid, as it were, our faces from him ; 
 He was despised, and we esteemed him not. 
 
 Surely, he hath borne our griefs, 
 
 And carried our sorrows : 
 
 Yet we did esteem him striclten, 
 
 Smitten of God, and afflicted. 
 
 But he was wounded for our transgressions, 
 
 He was bruised for our iniquities : 
 
 The chastisement of our peace was upon him. 
 
 And with his stripes we are healed. 
 
 All we, like sheep, have gone astray ; 
 
 We have turned, every one to his own way ; 
 
 And the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all. 
 
 He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, 
 
 Yet he opened not his mouth : 
 
 He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, 
 
 And as a sheep before her sheeirers is duinb, 
 
 So he opened not his mouth. 
 
 He was taken from prison and from judgment, 
 
 And who shall declare his generation? 
 
 For he was cut off out of the land of the living : 
 
 For the transgression of my people was he stricken. 
 
 And he made his grave with the wicked. 
 
 And with the rich in his death ; 
 
 Though he had done no violence. 
 
 Neither was any deceit in his mouth. 
 
 Yet it hath pleased th« Lord to bruise him. 
 
 He hath put him to grief. 
 
 When thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin. 
 
 He shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days. 
 
 And the pleasure of the Lord shall prosper in his hand. 
 
 He shall see of the travail of Ms soul, and shall be satisfied ; 
 
 By his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many ; 
 
 For he shall bear their iniquities. 
 
 Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, 
 
 And he shall divide the spoil with the strong; 
 
 Because he hath poured out his soul unto death : 
 
 And he was numbered with the transgressors ; 
 
 And he bare the sin of many. 
 
 And made intercession for the transgressors. Isaiab. 
 
350 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXV. 
 
 TRIUMPH OF THE GOSPEI.. 
 
 Arise ! shine ! for thy light is come, 
 
 And the Glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. 
 
 For, behold ! the darkness shall cover the earth, 
 
 And gross darkness the people : 
 
 But the Lord shall arise upon thee. 
 
 And his glory shall be seen upon thee. 
 
 And the Gentiles shall come to .thy light, 
 
 And kings to the brightness of thy rising. 
 
 Lift up thine eyes round about, and see ! 
 
 All they gather themselves together, they come to thee : 
 
 Thy sons shall come from far. 
 
 And thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side. 
 
 Then thou shalt see, and flow together, 
 
 And thine heart shall fear, and be enlarged ; 
 
 Because the abundance of the sea shall be converted unto thee. 
 
 The forces of the Gentiles shall come unto thee. 
 
 Who are these that fly as a cloud? 
 I And as the doves to their windows 1 
 Surely, the isles shall wait for me. 
 And the ships of Tarshish first. 
 To bring thy sons from far, 
 Their silver and their gold with them, 
 Unto the name of the Lord thy God, 
 
 And to the Holy One of Israel, because he hath glorified thee. 
 And the sons of strangers shall build up thy walls, 
 And their kings shall minister unto thee : 
 For in my wrath I smote thee. 
 But in my favor have I had mercy on thee. 
 Therefore thy gates shall be open continually ; 
 They shall not be shut, day nor night ; 
 That men may bring unto thee the forces of tlie Gentiles, 
 And that their kings may be brought. 
 For the nation and kingdom. 
 That will not serve thee, shall perish ; 
 Yea, those nations shall be utterly wasted. 
 
 Thou shalt know, that 1, the Lord, am thy Savior ; 
 And thy Redeemer the Mighty One of Jacob. 
 For brass, T will bring gold. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 351 
 
 And for iron, I -will bring silver, 
 
 And for wood, brass. 
 
 And for stones, iron : 
 
 I will also make thy officers, peace. 
 
 And thine exactors, righteousness. 
 
 Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, 
 
 Wasting nor destruction within thy borders ; 
 
 But thou shalt call thy walls. Salvation, 
 
 And thy gates. Praise. 
 
 The sun shall be no more thy light by day. 
 
 Neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee ; 
 
 But the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, 
 
 And thy God, thy glory. 
 
 Thy sun shall no more go down. 
 
 Neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; 
 
 For the Lord shall be thine everlasting light. 
 
 And the days of thy mourning shall be ended. 
 
 Thy people, also, shall be all righteous ; 
 
 They shall inherit the land forever^ 
 
 The branch of my planting. 
 
 The work of my hands, that I may be glorified. 
 
 A little one shall become a thousand. 
 
 And a small one, a strong nation : 
 
 I, the Lord, will hasten it in his time. Isaiab 
 
 LESSON CLX VI. 
 
 TRIUMPH OF HOPE. 
 
 Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn. 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, 
 Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ; 
 Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power ! 
 What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ? 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day : 
 Then, then, the triumph, and the trance begin ! 
 And all the phenix spirit burns within! 
 
 Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose. 
 The dawn of bliss, the twilight of ouf woes ! 
 
352 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
 It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
 Mysterious worlds, untraveled by the sun ! 
 Where Time's far wandering tide has never run, 
 From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, 
 A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
 'T is Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud. 
 Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
 While nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
 The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
 And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
 The roaring waves, and called upon his God, 
 With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
 And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 
 
 Daughter of faith, awake, arise, illume 
 The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb : 
 Melt, and dispel, ye specter-doubts, that roll 
 Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! 
 Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay. 
 Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
 The strife is o'er ; the pangs of Nature close, 
 A.nd life's last rapture triuinphs o'er her woes. 
 Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze. 
 The noon of heaven, undazzled by the blaze. 
 On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky. 
 Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
 Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail 
 Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale. 
 When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still 
 Watched on the holy towers of Zion's hill ! Campbell. 
 
 LESSON CLXVII. 
 
 MEMORY AND HOPE. 
 
 Hope is the leading-string of youth; memory the staff of 
 ags. Yet, foi: a long time they were at variance, and scarcely 
 ever associated together. Memoty was almost always grave, 
 nay, sad and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose, 
 amid rocks and waterfalls ; and whenever she raised her eyes 
 from the ground, it was only to look hack over her shoulder 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 353 
 
 Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with sparkling eyes, 
 and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired 
 by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went, he 
 diffused gladness and joy around him; the eyes of the young 
 sparlded brighter than ever at his approach ; old age, as it cast 
 its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed inspired 
 with new vigor ; the flowers looked more gay, the grass more 
 green, the birds sung more cheerily, and all nature seemed to 
 sympathize in his gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but 
 Hope partook of immortality. 
 
 One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproached 
 Hope with being a deceiver. She charged him with deluding 
 mankind with visionary, impracticable schemes, and exciting 
 expectations that led only to disappointment and regret; with 
 being the ignis fatuus of youth, and the scourge of old age. 
 But Hope cast back upon her the charge of deceit, and main- 
 tained that the pictures of the past were as rnuch exaggerated 
 by Memory, as were the anticipations of Hope. He declared 
 that she looked at objects at a great distance in the past, he in 
 the future, and that this distance magnified every thing. " Let 
 us make the circuit of the world," said he, " and try the experi- 
 ment." Memory reluctantly consented, and they went their 
 way together. 
 
 The first person they met was a schoolboy, lounging lazily 
 along, and stopping every moment to gaze around, as if unwil- 
 ling to proceed on his way. By and by, he sat down, and burst 
 into tears. "Whither so fast, my good lad?"- asked Hope, 
 jeeringly. "I am going to school," replied the lad, "to study, 
 when I would rather, a thousand times, be at play ; and sit on a 
 bench with a book in my hand, while I long to be sporting in 
 the fields. But never mind, I shall be a man soon, and then I 
 shall be as free as the air." Saying this, he skipped away 
 merrily in the hope of soon being a man. " It is thus you 
 play upon the inexperience of youth," said Memory, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slowly and 
 with a melancholy air, behind a party of gay young men and 
 maidens, who walked arm in arm with each other, and were 
 flirting and exchanging all those little harmless courtesies, which 
 nature prompts on such occasions. They were all gayly dressed 
 30 
 
354 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 in silks and ribbons ; but the little girl had on a simple frock, a 
 homely apron, and clumsy, thick-soled shoes. "Why do you 
 not join yonder group," asked Hope, "and partake in their 
 gayety, my pretty little girl?" "Alas !" replied she, "they take 
 no notice of me. They call me a child. But I shall soon be 
 a woman, and then I shall be so happy !" Inspired by this 
 hope, she quickened her pace, and soon was seen dancing 
 along merrily with the rest, 
 
 In this manner they wended their way, from nation to nation,' 
 and clime to clime, until they had made the circuit of the uni- 
 verse. Wherever they came, they found the human race, 
 who at this time were all young, (it being not many years 
 since the first creation of mankind,) repining at the present, 
 and looking forward to a riper age for happiness. All antici- 
 pated some future good, and Memory, had scarce any thing to 
 do but cast looks of reproach at her young companionr "Let 
 us return home," said she, " to that delightful spot where I 
 first drew my breath. I long to repose among its beautiful bow 
 ers ; to listen to the brooks that murmured a thousand times 
 more musically ; to the birds that sung a thousand times more 
 sweetly ; and to the echoes that were softer, than any I have 
 since heard. Ah ! there is nothing on earth so enchanting as 
 the scenes of my early youth!" Hope indulged himself in a 
 sly, significant smile, and they proceeded on their return home. 
 
 As they journeyed but slowly, many years elapsed ere they 
 approached the spot from which they had departed. It so hap- 
 pened one dayj that they met an old man, bending under the weight 
 of years, and walking with trembling steps, leaning on his staff. 
 Memory at once recognized him as the youth they had seen 
 going to school, on their first onset in the tour of the world. 
 As they came nearer, the old man reclined on his staff, and 
 looking at Hope, who, being immortal, was still a bUthe, young 
 boy, sighed, as if his heart was breaking. "What aileth thee, 
 old man?" asked the youth. "What aileth me?" he replied, 
 in a feeble, faltering voice. "What should ail me, but old age? 
 I have outlived my health and strength ; I have survived all 
 that was near and dear ; I have seen all that I loved, or that 
 loved me, struck down to the earth like dead leaves in autumn, 
 and now I stand like an old tree, withering, alone in the world, 
 withou* roots, without branches, and without verdure. I have 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 355 
 
 only just enough of sensation to know that I am miserable, and 
 the recollection of the happiness of my youthful days, when, 
 careless and full of hlissful anticipations, I was a laughing, 
 merry boy, only adds to the miseries I now endure." 
 
 "Behold!" said Memory, "the consequence of thy decep- 
 tions," and she looked reproachfully at her companion. " Be- 
 hold!" replied Hope, "the deception practiced by thyself. 
 Thou persuadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dosl 
 thou remember the boy we met when we first set out together, 
 who was weeping on his way to school, and sighed to be a 
 man?" Memory cast down her eyes, and was silent. 
 
 A little way onward they came to a miserable cottage, at the 
 door of which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and shalung 
 with palsy. She sat all alone, her head, resting on her bosom, 
 and, as the pair approached, vainly tried to raise it up to look 
 at them. " Good-morrow, old lady, and all happiness to you," 
 cried Hope, gayly, and the old woman thought it was a long 
 time since she had heard such a cheering salutation. " Hap- 
 piness !" said she, in a voice that quivered with weakness and 
 infirmity. " Happiness ! I have not known it since I was a 
 little girl, without care or sorrow. O, I remember those de- 
 lightful days, when I thought of nothing but the present mo- 
 ment, nor cared for the future or the past.- When I laughed, 
 and played, and sung, from morning till night, and envied no 
 one, and wished to be no other than I was. But those happy 
 times are passed, never to return. O, could I but once more 
 return to the days of my childhood !" The old woman sunk 
 back on her seat, and the tears flowed from her hollow eyes. 
 Memory again reproached her companion, but he only asked 
 her if she recollected the little girl they had met a long time 
 ago, who was so miserable because she. was so young? 
 Memory knew it well enough, and said not another word. 
 
 They now approached their home, and Memory was on 
 tiptoe, with the thought of once more enjoying the unequaled 
 beauties of those scepes from which she had been so long 
 separated. But, some how or other, it seemed that they were 
 sadly changed. Neither the grass was so green, the flowers so 
 sweet and lovely, nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes 
 answer, nor the 'jirds sing half so enchantingly, as she remem- 
 bered them in time past. "Alas!" she exclaimed, "how 
 
356 YOUNG LADIES' KEADER. 
 
 changed is every thing! I alone am the same." "Every- 
 thing is the same, and thou alone art changed," answered 
 Hope. " Thou hast deceived thyself in the past, just as much 
 as I deceive others in the future." 
 
 "What are you disputing about?" asked an old man, 
 whom they had not observed before, though he was standing 
 close by them. "I have lived almost four-score and ten years, 
 and my experience may, perhaps, enable me to decide between 
 you." They told him the occasion of their disagreement, and 
 related the history of their journey round the earth. The old 
 man smiled, and, for a few moments, sat buried in thought. 
 He then said to them : " I, too, have lived to see all the hopes 
 of my youth turn into shadows, clouds, and darkness, and van- 
 ish into nothing. I, too, have survived my fortune, my 
 friends, my children ; the hilarity of youth, and the blessing of 
 health." " And dost thou not despair ?" said Memory. " No, 
 I have still one hope left me." "And what is that?" "The 
 hope of heaven!" 
 
 Memory turned toward Hope, threw herself into his arms, 
 which opened to receive her, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed: 
 " Forgive me, I have done thee injustice. Let us never again 
 separate from each other." "With all my heart," said Hope, 
 and they continued forever after to travel together, hand in 
 hand, through the world. J. K. Padiding. 
 
 LESSON CLXVIII. 
 
 (ElHpiical.) 
 
 BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION. 
 
 In the days of knightrerrantry and paganism, one of the 
 old British princes set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, 
 in a point where four roads met together. In the right hand 
 she held a spear, and her left hand (...) upon a shield ; 
 the outside of this shield was of gold, and the ( . . . ) 
 of silver. On the former was inscribed, in the old British 
 language, " To the goddess ever favorable ;" and on the other, 
 " For four victories obtained successively over the Picts and 
 other (...) of the northern islands." 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 357 
 
 It happened, one day, that two knights, completely armed, 
 one in black armor, the other in white, arrived from opposite 
 parts of the country at this statue, just about the same time ; 
 and, as neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to 
 read the ( . . . ), and observe the excellence of its 
 workmanship. 
 
 After ( . . . ) it for some time, " This golden shield," 
 says the black knight — « Golden shield !" cried the white 
 knight, who was as strictly (...) the opposite side, 
 " why, if I have my eyes, it is silver." " I know nothing of 
 your eyes," replied the black knight ; " but, if ever I saw a 
 ( . . . ) shield in my life, this is one." " Yes," returned 
 the white knight, smiling, " it is very {...), indeed, 
 that they should expose a shield of gold in so public a place as 
 this ! For my part, I wonder even a ( . . . ) one is not 
 too strong a temptation for the devotion of some people who 
 pass this way ; and it appears, by the date, that this has been 
 here above three years." 
 
 The black knight could not bear the smile with which this 
 was (...), and grew so warm in the (...), 
 that it soon ended in a challenge. They both, therefore, turned 
 their horses, and rode back so far as to have sufficient space 
 for their career ; then, fixing their spears in their rests, they 
 flew at each other with the ( . . . ) fury and impetu- 
 osity. The shock was so rude, and the blow on each side so 
 (...), that they both fell to the ground much wounded 
 and bruised ; and lay there for some time, as in a trance. 
 
 A good Druid, who was traveling that way, found them in 
 this (...). The Druids were the physicians of those 
 times, as well as the priests. He had a sovereign -balsam 
 about him, which he had composed himself; for he was very 
 ( . . . ) in all the plants that grew in the fields or in. the 
 forests. He stanched their blood, applied his balsam to their 
 wounds, and brought them, as it were, from death to life again. 
 As soon as they were sufficiently (...), he began to 
 inquire into the occasion of their quarrel. "Why, this man," 
 cried the black knight, "will have it that yonder shield is 
 sUver." "And he will have it," replied the white knight, 
 " that it is gold." And then they told him all the ( . . . ^ 
 
 of the affair. 
 
358 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 "Ah !" said the Druid with a sigh, "you are both of you, iny 
 brethren, in the right, and both of you in the wroHg. Had either 
 of you given himself time to look at the ( , . . ) side of 
 the shield, as well as that which first presented itself to view, 
 all this passion and bloodshed might have been (...). 
 However, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the 
 evils that have befallen you on this occasion. Permit me, 
 therefore, to entreat you never to enter into any (...), 
 for the future, till you have fairly considered both sides of, the 
 question." BBAUMoifT. 
 
 LESSON CLXIX. 
 
 A LEAF FROM TH&LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 It being very much the custom, as I am informed, even 
 for obscure individuals to furnish some account of themselves, 
 for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be deemed 
 impertinent for calling your attention to a few particulars of 
 my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of any very extraor- 
 dinary incidents ; but having had, during the course of a long 
 life, much leisure and oppor|unity for observation, and being 
 naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it might be in my power 
 to offer some remarks that may not be wholly unprofitable to 
 your readers. 
 
 My earliest recollection is that of the work-shop of a carver 
 and gilder, where I remained for many months, leaning with my 
 face to the wall ; and, having never known any livelier scene, 
 I was very well contented with my quiet condition. The first 
 object that I remember to have arrested my attention, was 
 what I now believe must have been a large spider, which, after 
 a vast deal of scampering about, began, very deliberately, to 
 weave a curious web all over my face. This afibrded me 
 great amusement, and, not th«n knowing what far lovelier 
 objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resent the indignity 
 
 At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, 
 I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and imme- 
 diately afterward, underwent a curious operation, which, at 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 359 
 
 the time, gave me considerable apprehensions for my safely. 
 These were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding myself array- 
 ed in a broad, black frame, handsomely carved and gilt ; for, 
 you will please to observe that the period, of which I am now 
 speaking, was upward of fourscore years ago. This process 
 being finished, I was presently placed in the shop window, 
 with my face to the street, which was one of the most public 
 in the city. Here my attention was, at first, distracted by the 
 constant succession of objects that passed before me. But it 
 was not long before I began to remark the considerable degree 
 of attention I myself excited; and how much I was distin- 
 guished in this respect, from the other articles, my neighbors, 
 in the shop window. 
 
 I observed, that passengers, . who appeared to be posting 
 away upon urgent business, would often turn and give me 
 a friendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly 
 gratified to observe, that, while the old, the shabby, and the 
 wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the young, the gay, 
 and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment; and 
 that these good-looking people always seemed the best pleased 
 with me ; which I attributed ti5 their superior discernm'ent. I 
 well remember one young lady, who used to pass my master's 
 shop regularly every morning, in her way to school, and who 
 never omitted to turn her head to look at me as she went by , 
 so that, at last, we became well acquainted with each other. I 
 must confess, that at this period of my life, I was in great 
 danger of becoming insuflferably vain, from the regards that 
 were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I am not the only individual, 
 who has formed mistaken notions of the attentions he receives 
 in society. 
 
 My vanity, however, received a considerable check from 
 one circumstance. Nearly all the goods by which I was sur 
 rounded in the shop window, — though, many of them, mucl 
 more homely in their structure, and humble in their destin? 
 tions, — were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the mortiti- 
 cation of seeing one after another bargained for and sent away, 
 while I remained, month after month, without a purchaser. At 
 last, however, a gentleman and lady from the country, who had 
 been standing some time in the street, inspecting, and, as I 
 perceived, conversing about me, walked into the shop ; and, 
 
360 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 after some altercation with my master, agreed to purchase me ; 
 upon which I was packed up, and sent off. I was very curi- 
 ous, you may suppose, upon arriving at my new quarters, to 
 see what kind of life I was likely to lead. I remained, how- 
 ever, some time, unmolested in my packing-case, and very jflat 
 I felt there. 
 
 Upon being unpacked, I found myself in the hall of a 
 large, lone house in the country. My master and mistress, I 
 soon learned, were new married people, just setting up house- 
 keeping ; and I was intended to decorate their best parlor, to 
 which I was presently conveyed, and, after some little discus- 
 sion between them in fixing my longitude and latitude, I was 
 hung up opposite the fire-place, in an angle of ten degrees from 
 the wall, according to the fashion of those times. And there I 
 hung, year after year, almost in perpetual solitude. My master 
 and mistress were sober, regular, old-fashioned people. They 
 saw no company, except at fair-time and Christmas-day ; on 
 which occasions, only, they occupied the best parlor. My 
 countenance used to brighten up, when I saw the annual fire 
 kindled in that ample grate, and when a cheerful circle of 
 country cousins assembled round it. At those times I always 
 got a little notice from the young folks ; but, those festivities 
 over, I was condemned to another half year of complete lone- 
 liness. 
 
 How familiar to my recollection, at this hour, is that large, 
 old-fashioned parlor ! I can remember, as well as if I had 
 seen them but yesterday, the noble flowers on the crimson 
 damask chair-covers and window-curtains ; and those curiously 
 carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one of the 
 stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate, the rich 
 China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece, and the pattern of 
 the paper hangings, which consisted alternately of a parrot, a 
 poppy, and a shepherdess ; a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherdess 
 
 The room being so little used, the window-shutters were 
 rarely opened; but there were three holes cut in each, in the 
 shape of a heart, through which, day after day, and j'ear after 
 year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sunbeams, streaming 
 across the dark parlor. I should mention, however, that I sel- 
 dom missed a short visit from my master and mistress on a 
 -Sunday morning, when they came down stairs ready dressed 
 
rOUNG LADIES' READER. 361 
 
 for church. I can remember how my mistress used to trot in 
 upon her high-heeled shoes ; unfold a leaf of one of the shut- 
 ters ; then come and staled straight before me ; then turn half 
 round to the right and left ; never failing to see if the corner 
 of her weE-starched handkerchief was pinned exactly in the 
 middle. I think I can see her now, in her favorite dove-color- 
 ed lustring, (which she wore every Sunday in every summer, 
 for seven years, at the least,) and her long, full ruffles, and 
 worked apron. Then followed my good master, who, though 
 his visit was somewhat shorter, never failed to come and settle 
 his Sunday wig before me. 
 
 Time rolled away, and my master and mistress, with all 
 that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influence. 
 When I first knew them, they were a young, blooming couple 
 as you would wish to see ; but I gradually perceived an altera- 
 tion. My mistress began to stoop a little ; and my master got 
 a cough, which troubled him, more or less, to the end of his 
 days. At first, and for many years, my mistress' foot upon the 
 stairs was light and nimble, and she would come in as blithe 
 and as brisk as a lark ; but, at last, it was a slow, heavy step ; 
 and even my master's began to totter. And, in these respects, 
 every thing else kept pace with them. The crimson damask, 
 that I remembered so fresh and bright, was now faded and 
 worn ; the dark polished mahogany was, in some places, worm 
 eaten ; the parrot's gay plumage on the walls grew dull ; and I 
 myself, though long unconscious of it, partook of the universal 
 decay. 
 
 The dissipated taste I acquired upon my first introduction to 
 society, had, long since, subsided ; and the quiet, somber life I 
 led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change, which I 
 witnessed in aU things around me, caused me to reflect much 
 on their vanity ; and when, upon the occasions before-mention- 
 ed, I used to see the gay, blooming faces of the young, saluting 
 me with so much complacence, I would fain have admonished 
 them of the alteration they must soon undergo, and have told 
 them how certainly their bloom, also, must fade away as a 
 flower. But, alas ! you know, looking-glasses can only reflect. 
 
 jAiri Tatlou 
 
 31 
 
362 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXX. 
 
 THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 
 
 The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, 
 Sits gazing on her lovely face, ay, lovely even now ; 
 Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care T 
 Why steals that tear across her cheek ? She sees her first gray hair, 
 
 Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace : 
 His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face ; 
 Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gayly trip, 
 So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip. 
 
 The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than years. 
 The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears ; 
 The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confessed, 
 And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest. 
 
 But she hath been a happy wife : the lover of her youth 
 May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth ; 
 A sense of slight, of loneliness, hath never banished sleep : 
 Her life hath been a cloudless one : then wherefore doth she weep? 
 
 She looked upon her raven looks, what thoughts did they recall I 
 Oh ! not of nights when they were decked for banquet or for ball ; 
 They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learned to 
 
 check. 
 With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck. 
 
 She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair, 
 And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there ; 
 She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch 
 That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much 
 
 And now she sees her first gray hair ! ohj deem it not a crime 
 For her to weep, when she beholds the first footmark of time ! 
 She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase, 
 And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall ceaso 
 
 'T is not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane; 
 
 Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom ig%in. 
 
 It cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret, 
 
 The spring for ever gone, the summer sun so nearly set 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 363 
 
 Ah, lady ! heed the monitor ! thy mirror tells thee truth ; 
 Assume the matron's folded vail, resign the wreath of youth ; 
 Go, bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt stiJl look fair : 
 'T weie well would all learn wisdom who behold the fi-st gray hair. 
 
 TV H. Bailt. 
 
 LESSON CLXXI. 
 
 THE OLD WEDDING RTH« 
 
 [The device — two hearts united. 
 
 The motto — " Dear love of mine, my heart is thine.* 
 
 I LIKE that ring, that ancient ring. 
 
 Of massive form, of virgin gold, 
 As firm, as free from base alloy. 
 
 As were the sterling hearts of old. 
 I like it, for it wafts me back. 
 
 Far, far along the stream of time. 
 To other men, and other days. 
 
 The men and days of deeds sublime. 
 
 But most I like it, as it tells 
 
 The tale of well requited love ; 
 How youthful fondrfess persevered. 
 
 And youthful faith disdained to rove ; 
 How warmly he his suit preferred. 
 
 Though she unpitying, long denied. 
 Till, softened and subdued, at last, 
 
 He won his fair and blooming bride ; 
 
 How, till th^ appointed day arrived, 
 
 They blamed the lazy-footed hours ; 
 How then the white-robed maiden train 
 
 Strewed their glad way with freshest flowers ; 
 And how, before the holy man 
 
 They stood in all their yoathful pride, 
 And spoke those words, and vowed those vows 
 
 Which bind the husband to his bride. 
 
 All this it tells ; the plighted truth. 
 
 The gift of ev?ry earthly thing. 
 The hand in hand, the heart in heart ; 
 
 For this I like that ancient ring. 
 
364 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 I like its old and quaint device ; 
 
 Two blended hearts ; though time may wear them, 
 No mortal change, no mortal chance, 
 
 Till death, shall e'er in sunder tear them. 
 
 Year after year, 'neath sun and storm. 
 
 Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God, 
 In changeless, heartfelt, holy love. 
 
 These two the world's rough pathway trod. 
 Age might impair their youthful fires, 
 
 Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather, 
 Still, hand in hand, they traveled on ; , 
 
 True hearts ! they slumber now together. 
 
 I like its simple poesy too ; 
 
 " Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" 
 Thine, when the dark storm howls along, 
 As when the cloudless sunbeams shine : 
 " This heart is thine, mine own dear love !" 
 
 Thine, and thine only, and forever ; 
 Thine, till the springs of life shall fail ; 
 Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. 
 
 Remnant of days departed long, 
 
 Emblem of plighted troth unbroken. 
 
 Pledge of devoted faithfulness. 
 Of heartfelt, holy love, the token ; 
 
 What varied feelings round it cling ! 
 For these, I like that ancient ring. g. W. Doxhs. 
 
 LESSON CLXXII. 
 
 KOUE AND LOVE. 
 
 Rienzi. Claudia — ^nay, start not ! Thou art sad to-day ; 
 1 found thee sitting idly, 'mid thy maids ; 
 A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied 
 Quick tongue and nimble finger. Mute, and pale 
 As marble, those unseeing eyes were fixed 
 On vacant air ; and that fair brow was bent 
 As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought, 
 Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought, 
 Had knocked at thy young, giddy brain. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 365 
 
 Claudia. Nay, father. 
 Mock not thine own poor Claudia. 
 
 Hie. Claudia used 
 To bear a merry heart with that clear voice. 
 Prattling, and that light, busy foot, astir 
 In her small housewifery, the blithest bee 
 That ever wrought in hive. 
 Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! 
 Hie. What ails thee, lady-bird ? 
 Cla. Mine own dear home ! 
 Father, I love not this new state ; these halls. 
 Where comfort dies in vastness ; these trim maids. 
 Whose service wearies me. Oh ! mine old home ! 
 My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle. 
 Woven round the casement; and the cedar by. 
 Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown 
 With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields ; 
 My pretty, snow-white doves ; my kindest nurse ; 
 And old Camillo. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 
 
 JRte. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse. 
 And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves, 
 Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars: a whole province 
 Laid in a garden if thou wilt. My Claudia, 
 Hast thou not learnt thy power ? Ask orient gems, 
 Diamonds, and sapphiresj^in rich caskets, wrought 
 By cunning goldsmiths ; sigh for rarest birds. 
 Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers to flit 
 Around thy stately bower ; and, at thy wish. 
 The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo ? 
 Thou shalt have nobler servants ; emperors, kings, 
 Electors, princes ! Not a bachelor 
 In Christendom but would right proudly kneel 
 To my fair daughter. 
 
 Cla. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 
 Hie. Wilt have a list to choose from ? Listen, sweet ! 
 If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, 
 And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them, 
 Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall? 
 And if, at eventide they heard not oft 
 A tuneful mandolin, and then, a voice, 
 Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song 
 O'erwhelmed the quivering instrument ; and then, 
 A world of whispers, mixed with low response. 
 Sweet, short, and broken as divided strains 
 Of nightingales. 
 
366 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Cla. Oh, father! father! \rimstoh,im,andfalbuponMsneck,'\ 
 
 Rie. Well ! 
 Dost love him, Claudia ? 
 
 Cla. Father! 
 
 Rie. Dost thou love 
 Young Angelo? Yes? Said'st thou yes ? That heart, 
 That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, 
 I cannot hear thy words. He is returned 
 To Rome ; he left thee on mine errand, dear one ; 
 And now, is there no casement, myrtle-wreathed, 
 No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night 
 The lover's song ? 
 
 Cla. Oh, father! father! 
 
 Rie. Now, 
 Back to thy maidens, with a lightened heart. 
 Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first 
 In Rome, as thou ait fairest ; never princess 
 Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower 
 As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate 
 From out an eagle's nest. 
 
 Cla. Alas ! alas ! 
 I tremble at the hight. Whene'er I think 
 Of the hot barons, of the fickle people. 
 And the inconstancy of power, I tremble 
 For thee, dear father. j^ 
 
 Rie. Tremble % let them tretable. 
 I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorned. 
 Endured, protected. Sweet, go dream of love ! 
 I am their master, Claudia. Miss Mitfobd 
 
 LESSON CLXXIII. 
 
 CLAUDIA PLEADING FOR HER HUSBAND 
 
 Claudia. [Without.'] Father! father! 
 Rienzi. Guard the door! 
 Be sure ye give not way, 
 Cla. IWithout.l Father! 
 Rie. To see 
 Her looks ! her tears ! 
 
 Enter Claudia hastily. 
 Cla. Who dares to stop me ? Father ! 
 
 [Rushes into the arms of Rienzi. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 367 
 
 Hie. I bade ye guard the entrance. 
 
 Cla. Against me ? 
 Ye must have men and gates of steel, to bar 
 Claudia from her dear father. Where is he ? 
 They said he was with you — ^he — thou know'st 
 Whom I would say. I heard you loud. 1 thought 
 I heard you ; but perchance, the dizzying throb 
 Of my poor temples — Where is he ! I see 
 No corse — if he were dead — Oh, no, no, no ! 
 Thou couldst not, wouldst not ! — say, he lives ! 
 
 Sie. As yet 
 He lives. 
 
 Cla. Oh ! blessings on thy heart, dear father ! 
 Blessings on thy kind heart ! When shall I see him % 
 Is he in prison ? Fear hath made me weak. 
 And wordless as a child. Oh ! send for him. 
 Thou hast pardoned him ; didst thou not say but now 
 Thou hadst pardoned him 7 
 
 Bie. No. 
 
 Cla. Oh, thou hast ! thou hast ! 
 This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold 
 When I have craved some girlish boon, a bird, 
 A flower, a moonlight walk ; but now I ask thee 
 Life, more than life. Thou hast pardoned him ? 
 
 Rie. My Claudia ! 
 
 Cla. Ay ! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word 
 Was father ! These are the same hands that clung 
 Around thy knees, a tottering babe ; the lips 
 That, ere they had learned speech, would smile, and seek 
 To meet thee with an infant's kiss ; these eyes 
 Thou hast called so like my mother's, eyes that never 
 Looked on thee, but with looks of love. Oh, pardon ! 
 Nay, father, speak not yet; thy brows are knit 
 Into a sternness. Pr'ythee speak not yet ! 
 
 Hie. This traitor — 
 
 Cla. Call him as thou wilt, but pardon ! 
 Oh, pardon ! 
 
 Rie. He defies me. 
 
 Cla. See, I kneel. 
 And he shall kneel, shall kiss thy feet; wilt pardon? 
 
 Rie. Mine own dear Claudia. 
 
 Cla. Pardon ! 
 
 Rie. Raise thee up ; 
 Rest on my bosom; let thy beating heart 
 Lie upon mine ; so shall the mutual pang 
 
368 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Be stilled. Oh ! that thy father's soul could bear 
 This grief for thee, my sweet one ! Oh, forgive — 
 
 Cla. Forgive thee what? 'T is so the headsman speaks 
 To his poor victim, ere he strikes. Do fathers 
 Make widows of their children ? send them down 
 To the cold grave, heart-broken? Tell me not 
 Of fathers — I have none ! All else that breathes, 
 Hath known that natural love ; the wolf is kind 
 To her vile cubs ; the little wren hath care 
 For each, small, young one of her brood ; and thou — 
 The word that widowed, orphaned me ! Henceforth 
 My home shall be his grave ; and yet thou canst not — 
 Father ! [^Rushing into Rienzi's arms."] 
 
 Rie. Ay ! Dost call me father once again, my Claudia, 
 Mine own sweet child ! 
 
 Cla. Oh, father, pardon him ! 
 Oh pardon, pardon ! 'T is my life I ask 
 In his. Our lives, dear father ' 
 
 Rie. Ho, Camillo ! 
 Where loiters he ? \_Enter Camillo. 
 
 Camillo, take my ring ; 
 Fly to the captain of the guard, Alberti ; 
 Bid him release Lord Angelo. 
 
 Cla. Now bless thee, 
 Bless thee, my father! 
 
 Rie. Fly, Camillo, fly ! 
 Why loiterest thou ? 
 
 Cam. The ring. 
 
 [^Rienzi gives the ring to Camillo — Exit Camillo. 
 
 Miss Mitfoiu). 
 
 LESSON CLXXIV. 
 
 ON APPARITIONS. 
 
 At a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the ruins 
 of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms, which are 
 shot up so very high, that, when one passes under them, the 
 rooks and crows, that rest upon the tops of them, seem to be 
 cawing in another region. I am very much delighted with 
 this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of natural prayer 
 to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole creation. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READEK. 369 
 
 and who, in the beautiful language of the Psalms, feedeth the 
 young ravens that call upon him. I like this retirement the 
 better, because of an ill report it lies under of being haunted , 
 for which reason (as I have been told in the family) no 
 living creature ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good 
 friend the butler desired me, with a very grave face, not to ven- 
 ture myself in it after sunset, for that one of the footmen' had 
 been almost frightened out of his wits by a spirit that appeared 
 to him in the shape of a black horse without a head ; to which 
 he added, that, about a month ago, one of the maids, coming 
 home late that way with a paU of milk upon her head, heard 
 such a rustling among the bushes, that she let it fall. 
 
 I was taking a walk in this place last night between th,e 
 hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the 
 most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to appear in. The 
 ruins of the abbey are scattered up and down on every side, 
 and half covered with ivy and elder-bushes, the harbors of 
 several solitary birds, which seldom make their appearance till 
 the dusk of the evening. The place was formerly a church- 
 yard, and has still several marks in it of graves and burying 
 places. There is such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, 
 that, if you stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you hear 
 the sound repeated. At the same time, the walk of elms, and 
 the croaking of the ravens which from time to time are heard 
 from the tops of them, seem exceeding solemn and venerable. 
 These objects naturally raise seriousness and attention; and 
 when night hightens the awfulness of the place, and pours 
 out her supernumerary horrors upon every thing in it, I do 
 not at all wonder that weak minds fill it with specters and 
 apparitions. 
 
 Mr. Locke, in his chapter on the Association of Ideas, has 
 some very curious remarks to show how, by the prejudice of 
 education, one idea often introduces into the mind a whole set, 
 that bear no resemblance to one another in the nature of things. 
 Among several examples of this kind, he produces the follow- 
 ing instance. " The ideas of goblins and spirits have really 
 no more to do with darkness than light : yet, let but a foolish 
 maid inculcate these often on the mind of a child, and raise 
 them there together, possibly he will never be able to separate 
 them again so long as he lives ; but darkness will ever after- 
 
370 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 ward bring with it those frightful ideas, and they will be so 
 joined, that he can no more bear the one than the other." 
 
 As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of tlie 
 evening conspired with so many other occasions of terror, I 
 observed a cow grazing not far from me, which an imagination, 
 that was apt to startle, might easily have construed into a black 
 horse without a head ; and I dare say the poor footman lost his 
 wits upon such a trivial occasion. 
 
 My friend, Sir Roger, has often told me, with a great deal 
 of mirth, that, at his first coming to his estate, he found three 
 parts of his house altogether useless ; that the best room in it 
 had the reputation of being haunted, and by that means was 
 locked up ; that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so 
 that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at 
 night; that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up, 
 because there went a story in the family that a butler had for- 
 merly hanged himself in it ; and that his mother, who lived to 
 a great age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which 
 either her husband, a son, or daughter had died. The knight, 
 seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and him- 
 self in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of 
 his mother, ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and 
 exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in evet'y room, one after 
 another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had so 
 long reigned in his family. Addisow 
 
 LESSON CLXXV. 
 
 ANECDOTES OF CHILDREN. 
 
 I REMEMBER a little boy who was a lexicographer from his 
 birth, a language-master, and a philosopher. From the hour 
 he was able to ask for a piece of bread and butter, he never 
 hesitated for a word, not he ! If one would not serve, another 
 would, with a little twisting and turning. He assured me one 
 day, when I was holding him by the hand rather tighter than 
 he wished, (he was but just able to speak at the time,) that I 
 should choice his hand; at another, he came to me, all out of 
 
yOUNG LADIES' HEADER. 371 
 
 breath, to announce, that a man was below shaving the wall. 
 Upon due inquiry, it turned out that he was only ttiAiYe- 
 washing. But how should he know the difference between 
 white-wash and lather, a big brush and a little one ? Show 
 me, if you can, a prettier example of synthesis or generaliza- 
 tion, or a more beautiful adaptation of old words to new 
 purposes. 
 
 I have heard another complain of a school-fellow for wink- 
 ing at him with his lip; and he took the affront very much to 
 heart, I assure you, and would not be pacified till the matter 
 was cleared up. Other children talk about the bones in 
 peaches ; osteologists are they : and others, when they have 
 the toothache, aver that it burns them. Of such is the empire 
 of poetry. I have heard another give a public challenge in 
 these words, to every child that came near, as she sat upon the 
 door-step, with a pile of tamarind-stones, nut-shells, and peb- 
 bles lying before her. " Ah, I 've got many-er than you !" 
 That child was a better grammarian than Lindley Murray. 
 And her wealth, in what was it unlike the hoarded and useless 
 wealth of millions ? 
 
 Never shall I forget another incident which occurred in my 
 presence between two boys. One was trying to jump over a 
 wheel-barrow. Another was going by ; he stopped, and after 
 considering a moment, spoke, " I '11 tell you what you can 't 
 do," said he. "Well, what is it?" "You can't jump down 
 your own throat." "Well, yoM can't." " Can't I, though?" 
 The simplicity of "Well, you can 't," and the roguishness of 
 "Can't I, though?" tickled me prodigiously. They reminded 
 me of sparring I had seen elsewhere, I should not like to say 
 where, having a great respect for the temples of justice and 
 the halls of legislation. 
 
 "I say 'tis white-oak." "I say 'tis red-oak." "Well, 1 
 say 'tis white-oak." "I tell you 'tis n't white-oak." Here 
 they had joined issue for the first time. " I say 't is." " I say 
 'tis n't." "I '11 bet you ten thousand dollars of it." "Well, 
 I '11 bet you ten ten thousand dollars." Such were the very 
 words of a conversation I have just heard between two 
 M^ren, the elder six, the other about five. Were not these 
 Viiniature men ? Stockbrokers and theologians ? 
 
 4' Well, my lad, you've been to meeting, hey!" "Yes, 
 
372 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Sir." "And who preached for you?" "Mr. P ." "Al.l 
 
 and what did he say?" "I can 't remember, Sir, he put nie 
 out so." "Put you out?" "Yes, Sir; he kept lookin' at my 
 new clothes all meetin' time !" That child must have been a 
 close observer. Will any body tell me, that he did not know 
 what some people go to meeting for ? 
 
 It was but yesterday that 1 passed a fat, little girl, with 
 large, hazel eyes, sitting by herself in a gateway, with her feet 
 stretching straight out into the street. She was holding a book 
 in one hand, and, with a bit of stick in the other, was pointing 
 to the letters. "What 's that?" cried she, in a sweet, chirping 
 voice, " hey ! look on ! What 's that, I say ? F. No— o — 
 o — oh!" shaking her little head with the air of a school- 
 mistress, who has made up her mind not to be trifled with. 
 
 But children have other characters. At times they are 
 creatures to be afraid of. Every case I give, is a fact within 
 my own observation. There are children, and I have had to 
 do with them, whose very eyes were terrible; children, who, 
 after years of watchful and anxious discipline, were as indom- 
 itable as the young of the wild beast, dropped in the wilder- 
 ness, crafty, and treacherous, and cruel. And others I have 
 known, who, if they live, must have dominion over the multi- 
 tude, being evidently of them, that, from the foundations of the 
 world, have been always thundering at the gates of power. 
 
 Parents ! Fathers ! Mothers ! if it be true that, "just as the 
 twig is bent the tree is inclined," how much have you to 
 answer for! If "men are but children of a larger growth," 
 watch your children forever, by day and by night ! pray for 
 them forever, by night and by day ! and not as children, but as 
 men of a smaller growth ; as men with most of the evil pas- 
 sions, and with all the evil propensities, that go to make man 
 terrible to his fellow-men. John Nbal. 
 
 LESSON OLXXVI. 
 
 THE UNCALLED AVENGER. 
 
 The return of the victorious Russian army, which haa con- 
 quered Finland, was attended with a circumstance which, it is 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 375 
 
 true, has, at all times, been usual in the train of large armies, 
 but which naturally took place to a much greater extent in 
 these high northern latitudes, where the hand of man has so 
 imperfectly subdued the original savageness of the soil. 
 Whole droves of famished bears and wolves foUowed the 
 troops, on their return to the south, to feed on the chance prey 
 afforded by the carcasses of the artillery and baggage horses 
 that dropped on the road. In consequence of this, the prov- 
 ince of Esthonia, to which several regiments directed theit 
 march, was so overrun with these animals, as greatly to en- 
 danger the safety of travelers. 
 
 In a single circle of the government, no less than forty 
 persons, of different ages, were enumerated, who had been 
 devoured, during the winter, by these ravenous beasts. It 
 became hazardous to venture alone and unarmed, into the 
 uninhabited parts of the country. Nevertheless, an Esthonian 
 country woman boldly undertook a journey to a distant rela- 
 tion, not only without any male companion, but with three 
 children, the youngest of which was still an infant. A light 
 sledge, drawn by one horse, received the little party ; the way 
 was narrow, but well beaten ; the snow, on each side, deep 
 and impassable ; and to turn back, without danger of sticking 
 fast, was not to be thought of. 
 
 The first half of the journey was passed without accident. 
 The road now ran along the skirts of a pine forest, when the 
 traveler suddenly heard a suspicious noise behind her. 
 Casting back a look of alarm, she saw a troop of wolves trot- 
 ting along the road, the number of which her fears prevented 
 her from estimating. To escape by flight is her first thought; 
 and, with unsparing whip, she urges into a gallop the horse, 
 which itself snuffs the danger. Soon, two of the strongest 
 and most hungry of the beasts appear at her side, and seem 
 disposed to stop the way. Though their intention seems to 
 be only to attack the horse, yet the safety both of the mother 
 and of the children, depends on the preservation of the animal. 
 The danger raises its value ; it seems entitled to claim for its 
 preservation an extraordinary sacrifice. 
 
 As the mariner throws overboard his richest treasures, to 
 appease the raging waves, so here has necessity reached a 
 hight, at which the emotions of the heart are dumb before the 
 
374 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 dark commands of instinct; the latter alone suffers the un- 
 happy woman to act in this distress. She seizes her second 
 child, whose bodily infirmities have often made it an object of 
 anxious care, whose cry, even now, offends her ear, and 
 threatens to whet the appetite of the blood-thirsty monsters; 
 she seizes it with an involuntary motion, and, before the 
 mother is conscious of what she is doing, it is cast out, — and 
 — enough of the horrid tale ! 
 
 The last cry of the victim still sounded in her ear, when 
 she discovered that the troop, which had remained some 
 minutes behind, again pressed closely on the sledge. The 
 anguish of her soul increases, for again the murder-breathing 
 forms are at her side. Pressing the infant to her heaving 
 bosom, she casts a look on her boy, four years old, who 
 crowds closer and closer to her knee : " But, dear mother, I 
 am good, am I not? You will not throw me into the snow, 
 like the bawler." "And yet! and yet!" cried the wretched 
 woman, in the wild tumult of despair; "thou art good, but 
 God is merciful! Away!" The dreadful deed was done. 
 To escape the furies that raged within her, the woman exerted 
 herself, with powerless lash, to accelerate the gallop of the 
 exhausted horse. 
 
 With the thick and gloomy forest before and behind her, 
 and the nearer and nearer tramping of her ravenous pursuers, 
 she almost sinks under her anguish. Only the recollection of 
 the infant that she holds in her arms, only the desire to save it, 
 occupies her heart, and with difficulty enables it to bear up. 
 She did not venture to look behind her. All at once, two 
 rough paws are laid upon her shoulders, and the wide-open, 
 bloody jaws of an enormous wolf, hung over her head. It is 
 the most ravenous beast of the troop, which, having partly 
 missed its leap at the sledge, is dragged along with it, in vain 
 seeking, with its hinder legs, for a resting place, to enable it to 
 get wholly on the frail vehicle. The weight of the body of the 
 monster draws the woman backward ; her arms rise with the 
 child : half torn from her, half abandoned, it becomes the prey 
 of the ravening beast, which hastily carries it off into the forest. 
 Exhausted, stunned, senseless,- she drops the reins, and con- 
 tinues her journey, ignorant and careless whether or not she 
 is delivered from her pur"""*" 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 375 
 
 Meantime, the forest grows thinner, and an insulated farm- 
 house, to which a side road leads, appears at a moderate dis- 
 tance. The horse, left to itself, follows this new path: it 
 enters through an open gate ; panting and foaming it stands 
 still ; and, amid a circle of persons, who crowd round with 
 good-natured surprise, the unhappy woman recovers from her 
 stupefaction, to throw herself, with a loud scream of anguish 
 and horror, into the arms of the nearest human being, who 
 appears to her as a guardian angel. All leave their work ; the 
 mistress of the house, the kitchen, — the thrasher, the barn, — the 
 eldest son of the family, with his ax in his hand, the wood 
 which he had just cleft, — to assist the unfortunate woman ; and, 
 with a mixture of curiosity and pity, to learn, by a hundred 
 inquiries, the circumstances of her singular appearance. Re- 
 freshed by whatever can be procured at the moment, the 
 stranger gradually recovers the power of speech, and the ability 
 to give an intelligible account of the dreadful trial which she has 
 undergone. 
 
 The insensibility, with which fear and distress had steeled 
 her heart, begins to disappear ; but new terrors seize her ; the 
 dry eye seeks in vain a tear ; she is on the brink of boundless 
 misery. But her narrative had also excited conflicting feelings 
 in the bosoms of her auditors; though pity, commiseration, 
 dismay, and abhorrence, imposed alike on all the same invol- 
 untary silence. One only, unable to command the over- 
 powering emotions of his heart, advanced before the rest ; it 
 was the young man with the ax: his cheeks were pale 
 with affright; his wildly-rolling eyes flashed ill-omened fire. 
 "What!" he exclaimed, "three children? thy own children? 
 the sickly innocent, the imploring boy, the infant suckling, all 
 cast out by the mother, to be devoured by the wolves? 
 Woman, thou art unworthy to live!" And, at the same 
 instant, the uplifted steel descends, with resisdess force, on the 
 skull of the wretched woman, who falls dead at his feet. The 
 perpetrator then calmly wipes the blood from the murderous ax, 
 and returns to his work. 
 
 The dreadful tale speedily came to the knowledge of the 
 magistrates, who caused the uncaUed avenger to be arrested, 
 and brought to trial. He was, of course, sentenced to the 
 pu nishmen t ordained by the laws; but the sentence still 
 
376 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 wanted the eanction of the emperor. Alexander caused all the 
 circumstances of this crime, so extraordinary in the motives in 
 which it originated, to be reported to him, in the most careful 
 and detailed manner. Here, or nowhere, he thought himself 
 called on to exercise the God-like privilege of mercy, by com- 
 muting the sentence passed on the criminal , into a condemnation 
 to labor, not very severe. Anostmous 
 
 LESSON CLXXVII. 
 
 THE MANIAC* 
 
 Stav, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 
 
 She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
 For what I'm now, too well I know, 
 
 And what I was, and what should be. 
 I'll rave no more in proud despair; 
 
 My language shall be mild, though sad : 
 But yet I'll firmly, truly swear, 
 
 I am not mad ; I am not mad. 
 
 My tyrant husband forged the tale. 
 
 Which chains me in this dismal cell ; 
 My fate unknown my friends bewail ; 
 
 Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell ; 
 Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer : 
 
 His heart at once 't will grieve and glad 
 To know, though kept a captive here, 
 
 I am not mad ; I am not mad. 
 
 He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 
 
 He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 
 His glimmering lamp, still, still I see ; 
 
 'T is gone, and all is gloom again. 
 Cold ! bi-tter cold ! no warmth ! no light ! 
 
 Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
 Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, 
 
 Although not mad ; no, no, not mad. 
 
 * 11 IS said, that a gentleman in England, in order to gain possession of his wile's 
 property, confined her in a mad-house, under pretence of insanity, until she became 
 really a maniac. 
 
YOUNR LADIES' READER. 377 
 
 'T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; 
 
 What ! I, — the child of rank and wealth ? 
 Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,' 
 
 Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? 
 Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, 
 
 Which never more my heart must glad, 
 How aches my heart, how burns my head ; 
 
 But 't is not mad ; no, 't is not mad. 
 
 Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 
 
 A mother's face, a mother's tongue t 
 She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss. 
 
 Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; 
 Nor how with me you sued to stay ; 
 
 Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
 Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away; 
 
 They'll make me mad ; they'll make me mad. 
 
 His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 
 
 His mild, blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
 None ever bore a lovelier child : 
 
 And art thou now for ever gone? 
 And must I never see thee more. 
 
 My pretty, pretty, pretty lad'! 
 [ will be free ! unbar the door ! 
 
 I am not mad ; I am not mad. 
 
 Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries 1 
 
 His chain some furious madman breaks ; 
 He comes ; I see his glaring eyes ; 
 
 Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes. 
 Help ! help ! He's gone ! Oh ! fearful woe. 
 
 Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 
 My brain, my brain, — I know, I know, 
 
 I am not mad, but soon shall be. 
 
 Yes, soon ;— for, lo you '.—while 1 speak— 
 
 Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare ! 
 He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek. 
 
 He whirls a serpent high in air. 
 Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth 
 
 Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
 Ay, laugh, ye fiends ;— I feel the truth ; 
 
 Your task is done l—Pm mad! I'm mad! 
 
 M. G CiEWia. 
 
 32 
 
378 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXXVIII. 
 
 DARKNE SS. 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
 Morn came, and went ; and came, and brought no day ; 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. 
 And they did live by watch-fires ; and the thrones, 
 The palaces of crowned kings, the huts. 
 The habitations of all things which dwell. 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed. 
 And men were gathered round their blazing homes 
 To look once more into each other's face : 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch. 
 
 A fearfol hope* was allthe world Qontained^ 
 Forests' were' set on fire^ but, hour-by hour, ' ^ 
 They fpll and faded, and 'the cracHijig trunks 
 Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. 
 The brows of men, by the despairing light. 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down. 
 And hid their eyes, and wept ; and some did rest 
 Their chins upon their clinched hands, and smiled ; 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again. 
 With curses, cast them down upon the dust. 
 And gnashed their teeth and howled. 
 
 The wild birds shrieked, 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
 And flap their useless wings : the wildest brutes 
 Came, tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 
 And twined themselves among the multitude. 
 Hissing, but stingless : they were slain for food : 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 379 
 
 Did glut himself a^ain ; a meal was bought 
 
 With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, 
 
 Gorging himself in, gloom : no love was left. 
 
 All earth was but one thought, and that was death, 
 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and men 
 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh. 
 
 The meager by the meager were devoured ; 
 
 Even dogs assailed their masters ; all, save one, 
 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 
 The birds, and beasts, and famished men at bay, 
 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food. 
 
 But, with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
 
 And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand 
 
 Which answered not with a caress, he died. 
 
 The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two 
 Of an enormous city did survive. 
 And they were enemies ; they met beside 
 The dying embers of an altar-place. 
 Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 
 For an unholy usage : they raked up. 
 And, shivering, scraped, with their cold, skeleton hands. 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 Blew for a little life, and made aflame. 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 Each other's aspects ; saw, and shrieked, and died ; 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died. 
 Unknowing who he was, upon whose brow 
 Famine had written jfJcnd. 
 
 The world was void ; 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump ; 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless ; 
 A lump of death ; a chaos of hard clay. 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still. 
 And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; 
 Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped, 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge. 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; 
 The moon, their mistress, had expired before; 
 The winds were withered in the stagnant air. 
 And the clouds perished. Darkness had no need 
 Of aid from them. She was the universe. Bxiioir 
 
380 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CLXXIX. 
 
 A WORLD WITHOUT WATER 
 
 I HAD a dream in the dead of night, 
 
 A dream of agony ; 
 1 thought the world stood in affright, 
 Beneath the hot and parching light 
 
 Of an unclouded sky ; 
 I thought there had fallen no cooling rain 
 For months upon the feverish plain, 
 
 And that all the springs were dry. 
 
 And I' was standing on a hill, 
 
 And looking all around ; 
 I know not how it was, but still 
 
 Strength in my limbs was found. 
 As if with a spell of three-fold life. 
 
 My destinies were bound. 
 
 Beneath me was a far-spread heath, 
 
 Where once had risen a spring. 
 Looking as bright as a silver wreath 
 
 In its graceful wandering ; 
 But now the sultry glance of the sun. 
 
 And the glare of the dark, blue sky. 
 Had checked its course, no more to run 
 
 In light waves wandering by. 
 
 And further on was a istately wood. 
 
 With its tall trees rising high ; 
 But now like autumn wrecks they stood 
 
 Beneath a summer sky : 
 And ev^ry leaf, though dead, did keep 
 
 Its station in mockery; 
 For there was not one breath to sweep 
 
 The leaves from each perishing tree ; 
 And there they hung, dead, motionless ; 
 
 Tljey hung there day by day, 
 As though death were too blisy with other trjngs 
 
 To sweep their corpses away. 
 
 Oh, terrible it was' to think* 
 
 Of human creatures then ! 
 How they did seek in vain for drink 
 
 In every vale and glen ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 381 
 
 And how the scorched foot did shrink 
 
 As it touched the slippery plain : 
 And some had gathered beneath the trees 
 
 In hope of finding shade ; 
 But, alas ! there was not a single breeze 
 
 Astir in any glade ! 
 
 The cities were forsaken. 
 
 For their marble wells were spent ; 
 And the walls gave back the scorching glare 
 
 Of that hot firmament: 
 But the corses of those who died were strewn 
 
 In the street, as dead leaves lay, 
 And dry they withered, and withered alone ; 
 
 They felt no foul decay. 
 
 Night came. The fiejy sun sank down, 
 
 And the people's tope grew strong : 
 It was a night without a moon. 
 It was a night in the depth of June, 
 
 And there swept awind along ; 
 'T was almost c8oh and then they thought 
 Some blessed dew it would have brought. 
 
 Vain was the hope ! there was no cloud 
 
 In the clear, dark, blue Heaven ; 
 But, bright and beautiful, the crowd 
 
 Of stars looked through the even. 
 And women sat them down to weep 
 
 Over their hopeless pain ; 
 And men had visions dark and deep, 
 
 Clouding the dizzy brain ; 
 And children sobbed themselves to sleep, 
 
 And never woke again. 
 
 The morning came ; not as it comes 
 
 Softly 'mid rose and dew ; 
 Not with those cool and fresh perfumes 
 
 That the weariest heart renew ; 
 But the sun sprang up, as if eager to see 
 
 What next his power could do. 
 
 A mother held her child to her breast, 
 
 And kissed it tenderly, 
 And then she saw her infant smile: 
 
 What could that soft smile be? 
 
382 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 A tear had sprang with a sudden start. 
 
 To her hot, feverish eye ; 
 It had fallen upon that faint child's lip, 
 
 That was so parched and dry. 
 
 I looked upon the mighty sea ; 
 
 O, what a sight it was ! 
 All its waves were gone, save two or three, 
 
 That lay, like burning glass. 
 Within the caves of those deep rocks 
 
 Where no human foot could pass. 
 
 And in the very midst, a ship 
 
 Lay in the slime and sand ; 
 With all its sailors perishing. 
 
 Even in sight of land ; 
 Oh, water had been a welcome sight 
 
 To that pale, dying band ! 
 
 Oh, what a sight was the bed of the sea ! 
 
 The bed where he had slept. 
 Or tossed and tumbled restlessly. 
 
 And all his treasures kept 
 For ages ; he was gone : and all 
 
 His rocky pillows shown, 
 With their clustering shells, and searweed pall, 
 
 And the rich gems round them thrown. 
 
 And the monsters of the deep lay dead. 
 
 With many a human form. 
 That there had found a quiet bed, 
 
 Away from the raging storm ; 
 And the fishes, sodden in the sun. 
 
 Were strewn by thousands round ; 
 And a myriad things, long lostand won, 
 
 Were there, unsought for, found. 
 
 I turned away from earth and sea, 
 
 And looked on the burning sky. 
 But no drop fell, like an angel's tear. 
 
 The founts of heaven were dry ; 
 The birds had perished every one ; 
 
 Not a cloud was in the air ; 
 And desolate seemed the very sun, 
 
 He looked so lonely there. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 383 
 
 And I began to feel the pang, 
 
 The agony of thirst; 
 I had a scorching, swelling pain, 
 
 As if my heart would burst. 
 My tongue seemed parched ; I tried to speak ; 
 
 The spell that instant broke ; 
 And, starting at my own wild shriek. 
 
 In mercy I awoke. miss M. A. Bbowhi. 
 
 LESSON CLXXX. 
 
 CALM AT SEA. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 
 'T was sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 \11 in a hot and copper sky, 
 
 The bloody sun, at noon. 
 Right up above the mast did stand. 
 
 No bigger than the moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day. 
 We stuck; no breath nor motion; 
 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water, every where. 
 
 And all the boards did shrink : 
 Water, water, every where, 
 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : alas ! 
 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 Burnt green, and blue, and white. 
 
384 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought 
 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 
 How glazed each weary eye, 
 When looking westward, I beheld 
 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck. 
 
 And then it seemed a mist ; 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
 
 It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood ; 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. 
 
 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! Colxbisge. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXI, 
 
 dnAIilTlES OF A WELL-REGULATED IHINO. 
 
 A PROPER discipline and regulation of the mind, require : 
 1st. The cultivation of a habit of steady and continuous 
 attention; or of properly directing the mind to any subject 
 which is before it, so as fully to contemplate its elements and 
 relations. This is necessary for the due exercise of every 
 other mental process, and is the foundation of all improvement 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 385 
 
 ot character, both intellectual and moral. We frequently have 
 occasion to remark, how often sophistical opinions and various 
 distortions of character may be traced to errors in this first act 
 of the mind, or to a misdirection and want of due regulation 
 of the attention. There is, indeed, every reason to believe, 
 that the diversities in the power of judging, in different indi- 
 viduals, are much less than we are apt to imagine ; and that 
 the remarkable differences observed in the act of judging, are 
 rather to be ascribed to the manner in which the mind is pre- 
 viously directed to the facts, on which the judgment is after- 
 ward to be exercised. It is related of Sir Isaac Newton, that, 
 when he was questioned respecting the rnental qualities which 
 formed the peculiarity of his character, he referred it entirely 
 to the power which he had acquired of continuous attention. 
 
 2d. A careful regulation and control of the succession of 
 our thoughts. This remarkable faculty is very much under 
 the influence of cultivation; and on the power so acquired 
 depends the important habit of regular and connected thinking. 
 It is primarily a voluntary act ; and in the exercise of it in dif- 
 ferent individuals there are the most remarkable differences. 
 In some, the thoughts are allowed to wander at large without 
 any regulation, or are devoted only to frivolous and transient 
 objects ; while others habitually exercise over them a sl^Wi 
 control, directing them to subjects of real importance* and 
 prosecuting these in a regular and connected manner. This 
 important habit gains strength by exercise ; and nothing, cer- 
 tainly, has a greater influence in giving tone and consistency to 
 the whole character. It may not, indeed, be going too far to 
 assert, that our condition, in the scale both of moral and intel- 
 lectual beings, is in a great measure determined by the control 
 which we have acquired over the succession of our thoughts, 
 and by the subjects on which they are habitually exercised. 
 
 3d. The cultivation of an active, inquiring state of mind, 
 which seeks for information from every source that comes 
 within its reach, whether in reading, conversation, or personal 
 observation. With this state of mental activity ought to be 
 closely connected attention to the authenticity of facts so re- 
 ceived; avoiding the two extremes of credulity and skepticism. 
 
 4th. The habit of correct association; that is, connecting 
 facts in the mind according to their true relations, and to the 
 33 
 
386 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 manner in wliich they tend to illustrate each other. This is 
 one of the principal means of improving the memory ; parti- 
 cularly of the kind of memory which is an essential quality of 
 a cultivated mind ; namely, that vi^hich is founded not upon 
 incidental connections, but on true and important relations. 
 Nearly allied to this is the habit of reflection, or of tracing care- 
 fully the relations of facts, and the conclusions and principles 
 which arise out of them. It is in this manner, that the 
 philosophical mind often traces remarkable relations, and 
 deduces important conclusions; while to the common under- 
 standing the facts appear to be very remote or entirely 
 unconnected. 
 
 5th. A careful selection of the subjects to which the mind 
 ought to be directed. These are, in some respects, different in 
 different persons, according to their situations in life ; but there 
 are certain objects of attention which are peculiarly adapted to 
 each individual, and there are some which are equally interest- 
 ing to all. In regard to the latter, an appropriate degree»ot 
 attention is the part of every wise man ; in regard to the for- 
 mer, a proper selection is the foundation of excellence. One 
 individual may waste his powers in that desultory application 
 of them which leads to an imperfect acquaintance with a variety 
 of subjects ; while another allows his life to steal over him in 
 listless inactivity, or application to trifling pursuits. 
 
 For rising to eminence in any intellectual pursuit, there is 
 not a rule of more essential importance, than that of doing one 
 thing at a time; avoiding distracting and desultory occupations; 
 and keeping a leading object habitually before the mind, as one 
 in which it can at all times find an interesting resource when 
 necessary avocations allow the thoughts to recur to it. If along 
 with this habit there be cultivated the practice of constantly 
 writing such views as arise, we perhaps describe that state of 
 mental discipline by which talents of a very moderate ordei 
 may be applied in a conspicuous and useful manner to any sub- 
 ject to which they are devoted. Such writing need not b« 
 made at first with any great attention to method, but merely 
 put aside for future consideration ; and in this manner the dif 
 ferent departments of a subject will develop and arrange them 
 selves as they advance, in a manner equally pleasing and 
 wonderful. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 387 
 
 6th. A due regulation and proper control of the imagina- 
 tion ; that is, restricting its range to objects which harmonize 
 with truth, and are adapted to the real state of things with 
 which the individual is or may be connected. We can easily 
 see how much the character is influenced by this exercise of 
 the mind ; that it may be turned to purposes of the greatest 
 moment, both in the pursuits of science and in the cultivation 
 of benevolence and virtue ; but that, on the other hand, it may 
 be so employed as to debase both the moral and intellectual 
 character. 
 
 7th. The cultivation of calm and correct judgment, appli- 
 cable alike to the formation of opinions and the regulation of 
 conduct. This is founded upon the habit of directing the 
 attention distinctly and steadily to all the facts and considera- 
 tions bearing upon a subject ; and it consists in contemplating 
 them in their true relations, and assigning to each the degree of 
 importance of which it is worthy. This mental habit tends to 
 guard us against forming conclusions, either with listless inat- 
 tention to the views by which we ought to be influenced, or 
 with attention directed to some of these, while we neglect 
 others of equal or greater importance. It is, therefore, opposed 
 to the influence of prejudice and passion, to the formation of 
 sophistical opinions, to party spirit, and to every propensity 
 which leads to the adoption of principles on any other ground 
 than calm and candid examination, guided by sincere desire to 
 discover the truth. Abebchombie. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXII. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? 
 And doth death cancel the great bond, that holds 
 Commingling spirits 1 Are thoughts, that know no bounas. 
 But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
 The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought. 
 Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? 
 Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
 Of uncreated light have visited, and lived 1 
 
388 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne. 
 Which One, with gentle hand, thb vail of flesh 
 Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
 In glory ? throne, before which, even now. 
 Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, 
 Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? 
 Souh, that know Thee by a mysterious sense. 
 Thou awful, unseen Presence, are they quenched, 
 Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
 By that bright day which ends not ; as the sun 
 His robe of light flings round the glittering stars t 
 
 And with our frames do perish all our loves ? 
 Do those that took their root, and put forth buds. 
 And their soft leaves unfolded, in the warmth 
 Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
 Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers ? 
 Are thoughts and passions, that to the tongue give speech. 
 And make it send forth winning harmonies ; 
 That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
 And vision in the eye the soul intense 
 With that for which there is no utterance ; 
 Are these the body's accidents ? no more ? 
 To live in it, and, when that dies, go out 
 Like the burnt taper's flame? 
 
 listen, man ! 
 A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
 ' Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
 Hymn it unto our souls ; according harps. 
 By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 The song of our great immortality : 
 Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. 
 The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas. 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 O listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in 
 From all the air. 'T is in the gentle moonlight ; 
 'Tis ftoating'mid day's setting glories; night. 
 Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
 Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
 Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
 All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
 As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 389 
 
 By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
 
 The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth 
 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. r. h. Daka. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXIII. 
 
 ON DECISION OP CHARACTER. 
 
 One signal advantage possessed by a mind of this character 
 is, that its passions are not wasted. The whole amount of 
 passion of which any mind, with important transactions before 
 it, is capable, is not more than enough to supply interest and 
 energy to its practical exertions ; and, therefore, as little as pos- 
 sible of this sacred fire should be expended in a way that does 
 not augment the force of action. But nothing can less con- 
 tribute to vigor of effort, than protracted anxious fluctuation ^ 
 intermixed with resolutions decided and revoked, while yei 
 nothing causes a greater expense of feeling. The heart is 
 fretted and exhausted by being subjected to an alternation of 
 contrary excitements, with the ultimate, mortifying conscious- 
 ness of their contributing to no end. 
 
 The long-wavering deliberation, whether to perform some 
 bold action of difficult virtue, has often cost more to feeling 
 than the action itself, or a series of such actions, would have 
 cost ; with the great disadvantage, too, of being relieved by 
 none of that invigoration which, to the man in action, would 
 have sprung from the spirit of the action itself, and have reno- 
 vated the ardor which it was expending. A person of decisive 
 character, by consuming as little passion as possible in dubious 
 musings and abortive resolutions, can secure its utmost value 
 and use, by throwing it all into effective operation. 
 
 Another advantage of this character is, that it exempts from 
 a great deal of interference and persecution, to which an irreso- 
 lute man is subjected. Weakness, in every form, tempts arro- 
 gance; and a man may be allowed to wish for a kind of 
 character with which stupidity and impertinence may not 
 make so free. When a firm, decisive spirit is recognized, it is 
 
390 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 curious to see how the space clears around a man, and leaves 
 him room and freedom. The disposition to interrogate, dictate, 
 or banter, preserves a respectful and politic distance, judging it 
 not unwise to keep the peace with a person of so much energy. 
 A conviction that he understands and that he wills with extra- 
 ordinary force, silences the conceit that intended to perplex or 
 instruct him, and intimidates the malice that was disposed to 
 attack him. There is a feeling, as in respect to fate, that the 
 decrees of so inflexible a spirit must be right, or that, at least, 
 they will be accomplished. 
 
 Not only will he secure the freedom of acting for himself, 
 but he will obtain also, by degrees, the coincidence of those 
 in whose company he is to transact the business of life. If 
 the manners of such a man are free from arrogance, and he 
 can qualify his firmness with a moderate degree of insinuation ; 
 and if his measures have partly lost the appearance of being 
 the dictates of his will, under the wider and softer sanction of 
 some experience that they are reasonable ; both competition 
 and fear will be laid to sleep, and his will may acquire an un- 
 resisted ascendency over many who will be pleased to fall into 
 the mechanism of a system, which they find makes them more 
 successful and happy than they could have been amid the 
 anxiety of adjusting plans and expedients of their own, and 
 the consequences of often adjusting them ill. I have known 
 several parents, both fathers and mothers, whose management 
 of their families has answered this description ; and has dis- 
 played a striking example of the facile complacency with 
 which a number of persons, of different ages and dispositions, 
 will yield to the decisions of a firm mind, acting on an equita- 
 ble and enlightened system. 
 
 The last resource of this character is hard, inflexible perti- 
 nacity, on which it may be allowed to rest its strength, after 
 finding it can be effectual in none of its milder forms. I 
 remember admiring an instance of this kind, in a firm, saga- 
 cious, and very estimable old man, whom I well knew, and 
 who is now dead. Being on a jury, in a trial of life and 
 death, he was completely satisfied of the innocence of the 
 prisoner. The other eleven were of the opposite opinion. But 
 he was resolved the man should not be condemned; and, as 
 the first efibrt for preventing it, very properly made applicr 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 391 
 
 tion to the minds of his associates, spending several hours in 
 laboring to convince them. But he found he made no impres- 
 sion, while he was exhausting the strength which was to be 
 reserved for another mode of operation. He then calmly told 
 them, it should now be a trial who could endure confinement 
 and famine the longest, and that they might be quite assured 
 he would sooner die than release them at the expense of the 
 prisoner's life. In this situation they spent about twenty-four 
 hours, when, at length, all acceded to his verdict of acquittal. 
 
 John Foster 
 
 LESSON CLXXXIV. 
 
 CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 The person of Washington was commanding, graceful, and 
 fitly proportioned ; his stature six feet, his chest broad and full, 
 his limbs long and somewhat slender, but well shaped and 
 muscular. His features were regular and symmetrical, his 
 eyes of a light blue color, and his whole countenance, in 
 its quiet state, was grave, placid, and benignant. When alone, 
 or not engaged in conversation, he appeared sedate and thought- 
 ful; but when his attention was excited, his eye kindled 
 quickly, and his face beamed with animation and intelligence. 
 
 He was not fluent in speech, but what he said was apposite, 
 and listened to with the more interest as being known to come 
 from the heart. He seldom attempted sallies of wit or humor, 
 but no man received more pleasure from an exhibition of them 
 by others ; and, although contented in seclusion, he sought his 
 chief happiness in society, and participated with delight in all 
 its rational and innocent amusements. Without austerity on 
 the one hand, or an appearance of condescending familiarity on 
 the other, he was afi-able, courteous, and cheerful; but it has 
 often been remarked, that there was a dignity in his person and 
 manner not easy to be defined, which impressed every one that 
 saw him for the first time, with an instinctive deference and 
 awe. This may have arisen, in part, from a conviction of his 
 superiority, as well as from the effect produced by his external 
 form and deportment. 
 
392 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The character of his mind was unfolded in the public and 
 private acts of his life ; and the proofs of his greatness are seen 
 almost as much in the one as in the other. The same qualities 
 which raised him to the ascendency he possessed over the will 
 of a nation, as the commander of armies and chief magistrate, 
 caused him to be loved and respected as an individual. Wis- 
 dom, judgment, prudence, and firmness, were his predominant 
 traits. No man ever saw more clearly the relative importance 
 of things and actions, or divested himself more entirely of the 
 bias of personal interest, partiality, and prejudice, in discrim- 
 inating between the true and the false, the right and the wrong, 
 in all questions and subjects that were presented to him. He 
 deliberated slowly, but decided surely ; and, when his decision 
 was once formed, he seldom reversed it, and never relaxed 
 from the execution of a measure till it was completed. Cour- 
 age, physical and moral, was a part of his nature ; and, whether 
 in battle, or in the midst of popular excitement he was fearless 
 of danger, and regardless of consequences to himself. 
 
 His ambition was of that noble kind, which aims to excel in 
 whatever it undertakes, and to acquire a power over the hearts 
 of men by promoting their happiness and winning their affec- 
 tions. Sensitive to the approbation of others, and solicitous to 
 deserve it, he made no concession to gain their applause, either 
 by flattering their vanity, or yielding to their caprices. Cautious 
 without timidity, bold without rashness, cool in counsel, delib- 
 erate, but firm in action, clear in foresight, patient under reverses, 
 steady, persevering, and self-possessed, he met and conquered 
 every obstacle that obstructed his path to honor, renown, and 
 haccess. More confident in the uprightness of his intention, 
 than in his resources, he sought knowledge and advice from 
 other men. He chose his counselors with unerring sagacity ; 
 and his quick perception of the soundness of an opinion, and 
 -of the strong points in an argument, enabled him to draw to hi? 
 aid the best fruits of their talents, and the light of their colleote(? 
 wisdom. ■ 
 
 His moral qualities were in perfect harmony with those of 
 his intellect. Duty was the ruling principle of his conduct; 
 and the rare endowments of his understanding were not more 
 constantly tasked to devise the best methods of effecting an 
 object, than they were to guard the sanctity of conscience, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 393 
 
 No instance can be adduced, in which he was actuated by a 
 sinister motive, or endeavored to attain an end by unworthy 
 means. Truth, integrity, and justice, were deeply rooted in 
 his mind ; and nothing could rouse his indignation so soon, or 
 so utterly destroy his confidence, as the discovery of the want 
 of these virtues in any one whom he had trusted. Weaknesses, 
 follies, indiscretions, he could forgive ; but subterfuge and dis- 
 honesty he never forgot, rarely pardoned. 
 
 He was candid and sincere, true to his friends, and faithful to 
 all, neither practicing dissimulation, descending to artifice, nor 
 holding out expectations which he did not intend should be 
 realized. His passions were strong, and sometimes they broke 
 out with vehemence ; but he had the power of checking them 
 in an instant. Perhaps self-control was the most remarkable 
 trait of his character. It was, in part, the effect of discipline ; 
 yet he seems by nature to have possessed this power to a 
 degree which has been denied to other men. 
 
 A christian in faith and practice, he was habitually devout. 
 His reverence for religion is seen in his example, his public 
 communications, and his private writings. He uniformly 
 ascribed his successes to the beneficent agency of the Supreme 
 Being. Charitable and humane, he was liberal to the poor, 
 and kind to those in distress. As a husband, son, and brother, 
 he was tender and affectionate. Without vanity, ostentation, 
 or pride, he never spoke of himself or his actions, unless re- 
 quired by circumstances which concerned the public interests. 
 
 As he was free from envy, so he had the good fortune 
 to escape the envy of others, by standing on an elevation 
 which none could hope to attain. If he had one passion 
 more powerful than another, it was love of his country. 
 The purity and ardor of his patriotism were commensurate 
 with the greatness of its object. Love of country in him 
 was invested with the sacred obligation of a duty; and from 
 the faithful discharge of this duty he never swerved for a 
 moment, either in thought or deed, through the whole period 
 of his eventful career. 
 
 Such are some of the traits in the character of Washmgton, 
 which have acquired for him the love and veneration of man- 
 kind If they are not marked with the brilliancy, extrava- 
 gance, and eccentricity, which, in other men, have exejted the 
 
394 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 astonishment of the world, so neither are they tarnished by 
 the follies, nor disgraced by the crimes of those men. It is 
 the happy combination of rare talents and qualities, the har- 
 monious union of the intellectual and moral powers, rather 
 than the dazzling splendor of any one trait, which constitute 
 the grandeur of his character. If the title of great man ought 
 to be reserved for him who cannot be charged with an indis- 
 cretion or a vice ; who spent his life in establishing the inde- 
 pendence, the glory, and durable prosperity of his country; 
 who succeeded in all that he undertook ; and whose successes 
 were never won at the expense of honor, justice, integrity, or 
 by the sacrifice of a single principle, — this title will not be 
 denied to Washington. J. Spahks. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXV. 
 
 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 
 [On laying the corner-stone of a monument to her memory.] 
 Long hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole 
 In her soft ministry around thy bed, 
 Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed. 
 And pearled with dews. She bade bright Summer bring 
 Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds. 
 And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet 
 Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak 
 Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come 
 To do thee homage, mother of our chief! 
 Fit homage, such as honoreth him who pays. 
 
 Methinks we see thee, as in olden time, 
 Simple in garb, majestic and serene. 
 Unmoved by pomp or circunlstance, in truth 
 Inflexible, and, with a Spartan zeal 
 Repressing vice, and making folly grave. 
 Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste 
 Life in inglorious sloth; to sport awhile 
 Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave. 
 Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, 
 Building no temple in her children's hearts. 
 Save to the vanity and pride of life 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 395 
 
 Which she had worshiped. For the might that clothed 
 His " Country's Father," for the glorious deeds 
 That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine 
 For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due. 
 Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought, 
 We know not : Heaven can tell. 
 
 Rise, sculptured pile ! 
 And show a race unborn who rests below ; 
 And say to mothers, what a holy charge 
 [s theirs ; with what a kingly power their love 
 Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. 
 Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow 
 Good seed before the world hath sown her tares ; 
 Nor in their toil decline ; that angel bands 
 May put the sickle in, and reap for God, 
 And gather to his garner. 
 
 Ye, who stand, 
 With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise, 
 Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief; 
 Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, 
 Whose first at waking, is your cradled son ; 
 What though no high ambition prompts to rear 
 A second Washington ; or leave your name 
 Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears 
 Of deathless gratitude: yet may you raise 
 A monument above the stars ; a soul 
 Led by your teachings and your prayers to God. 
 
 Mrs. SieounirEr. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXVI 
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Land of the forest and the rock. 
 
 Of dark blue. lake and mighty river, 
 Of mountains reared aloft to mock 
 The storm's career, the lightning's shock, 
 
 My own green land forever ! 
 Land of the beautiful and brave, 
 The freeman's home, the martyr's grave, 
 The nursery of giant men, 
 Whose deeds have linked with every glen, 
 And every hill and every stream, 
 
396 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The romance of some warrior-dream ! 
 
 ! never may a son of thine, 
 
 Where'er his wandering steps incline, 
 
 Forget the sky which bent ahove 
 
 His childhood like a dream of love ; 
 
 The stream beneath the green hill flowing, 
 
 The broad-armed trees above it growing, 
 
 The clear breeze through the foliage blowing : 
 
 Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn 
 
 Breathed o'er the brave New England born; 
 
 Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand 
 
 Disturb the ashes of thy dead. 
 The buried glory of a land 
 
 Whose soil with noble blood is red. 
 And sanctified in every part, 
 
 Nor feel resentment like a brand. 
 Unsheathing from his fiery heart I 
 
 O ! greener hills may catch the sun 
 
 Beneath the glorious heaven of France ; 
 And streams, rejoicing as they run 
 
 Like life beneath the day-beam's glance, 
 May wander where the orange-bofigh 
 With golden fruit is bending low , 
 And there may bend a brighter sky 
 O'er green and classic Italy, 
 And pillared fane and ancient grave 
 
 Bear record of another time, 
 And over shaft and architrave 
 
 The green, luxuriant ivy climb ; 
 And nearer to the rising sun 
 
 The palm may shake its leaves on high. 
 Where flowers are opening, one by one, 
 
 Like stars upon the twilight sky ; 
 And breezes soft as sighs of love 
 
 Above the broad banana stray. 
 And through the Brahmin's sacred grove 
 
 A thousand bright-hued pinions play ! 
 Yet unto thee, New England, still 
 
 Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms 
 And thy rude chart of rock and hill 
 
 Seem dearer than the land of palms; 
 Thy massy oak, and mountain-pine 
 
 More welcome than the banian's shade ! 
 And every free, blue stream of thine 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 397 
 
 Seem richer than the golden bed 
 Of oriental waves, which glow 
 And sparkle with the wealth below ! 
 
 J. G. Whittieb. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXVII. 
 
 THE WESTERN HUNTER. 
 
 At, this is freedom ! These pure skies 
 
 Were never stained with village smoke ; 
 The fragrant wind, that through them flies. 
 
 Is breathed from wastes by plow unbroke. 
 Here, with my rifle and my steed. 
 
 And her who left the world for me, 
 I plant me, where the red deer feed 
 
 In the green desert — and am free. 
 
 For here the fair savannas know 
 
 No barriers in the bloomy grass : 
 Wherever breeze of Heaven may blow. 
 
 Or beam of Heaven may glance, I pass. 
 In pastures measureless as air. 
 
 The bison is my noble game ; 
 The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
 
 The branches, falls before my aim. 
 
 Mine are the river fowl that scream 
 
 From the long line of waving sedge ; 
 The bear that marks my weapon's gleam. 
 
 Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
 In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 
 
 The brindled catamount, that lies 
 High in the boughs to watch his prey. 
 
 Even in the act of springing, dies. 
 
 With what free growth the elm and plane 
 
 Fling their huge arms across my way ! 
 Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 
 
 Of vines as huge, and old, and gray ! 
 Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
 
 No taint in these fresh lawns and shades . 
 Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 
 
 Where never scythe hap swept the glades. 
 
398 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Alone, the fire, when frost winds sear 
 
 The heavy herbage of the ground. 
 Gathers his annual harvest here, 
 
 With roaring like the battle's sound, 
 And trains of smoke that heavenward tower. 
 
 And streaming flames that sweep the plain. 
 Fierce, as if kindled to devour 
 
 Earth to the well-springs of the main. 
 
 Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
 
 Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
 The boundless future in the vast 
 
 And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
 Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ? 
 
 Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass. 
 And trains the bordering vines, whose blue. 
 
 Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 
 
 Broad are these streams ; my steed obeys. 
 
 Plunges, and, bears me through the tide. 
 Wide are these woods ; I thread the maze 
 
 Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
 [ hunt till day's last glimmer dies 
 
 O'er woody vale and grassy hight; 
 And kind the voice, and glad the eyes. 
 
 That welcome my return at night. W. (• Bbtast 
 
 LESSON CLXXXVIII, 
 
 THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 
 
 O, YONDER is the well known spot, 
 
 My dear, my long-lost, native home ; 
 O, welcome is yon little cot, 
 
 Where I shall rest, no more to roam 
 0, 1 have traveled far and wide. 
 
 O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
 Each place, each province I have tried. 
 
 And sung and danced my saraband ; 
 But all their charms eould not prevail 
 To steal my heart from vender vale. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 399 
 
 Of distant climes the false report 
 
 Allured me from my native land, 
 It bade me rove, my sole support 
 
 My cymbals and my saraband. 
 The woody dell, the hanging rock, 
 
 The chamois skipping o'er the bights. 
 The plain, adorned with many a flock. 
 
 And, oh, a thousand more delights 
 That grace yon dear, beloved retreat. 
 Have backward won my weary feet. 
 
 Now safe returned, with wandering tired. 
 
 No more my little home I'll leave ; 
 And many a tale of what I've seen 
 
 Shall wile away the winter's eve. 
 O, I have wandered far and wide, 
 
 O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
 Each place, each province I have tried 
 
 And sung and da»iced my saraband ; 
 But all their charms could not prevail 
 To steal my heart from yonder vale. h. K. W hits. 
 
 LESSON CLXXXIX. 
 
 THE UMBRELLA. 
 
 [This is a lecture of Mrs. Caudle to her husband for having loaned an 
 umbrella. His part in the conversation is left to be inferred from her occa- 
 sional repetition of his words.] 
 
 Bah ! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What 
 were you to do ? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be 
 sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could 
 spoil ! Take cold, indeed ! He doesn't look like one of the 
 sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold, than 
 taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? 
 I say, do you hear the rain ? Do you hear it against the win- 
 dows? Nonsense: you don't impose upon me; you can't 
 be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? 
 Oh ! you do hear it ! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to 
 last for six weeks ; and no stirring all the time out of the house. 
 Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don't insult me; 
 
400 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 he return the umbrella ? Any body would think you were born 
 yesterday. As if any body ever did return an umbrella! 
 There: do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and </og-«.' 
 and for six weeks ; always six weeks ; and no umbrella ! I 
 should like to know how the children are to go to school to- 
 morrow. They sha'n't go through such weather; I am deter- 
 mined. No ; they shall stop at home and never learn anything, 
 (the blessed creatures!) sooner than go and get wet! And 
 when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for 
 knowing nothing; whom, indeed, but their father? People 
 who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. 
 
 But I know why you lent the umbrella : oh, yes, I know 
 very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow: 
 you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you 
 hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to 
 hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir; if 
 it comes down in buckets full, I'll go all the more. No ; and 
 I'U not have a cab ! Where do you think the money's to 
 come from ? You've got nice, high notions at that club of 
 yours. A cab, indeed ! Cost me sixteen-pence, at least ; six- 
 teen-pence ! two-and-eight-pence ; for there's back again. 
 Cabs, indeed ! I should like to know who's to pay for' em ; 
 for I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do, throwing 
 away your property, and beggaring your children, buying 
 umbrellas ! 
 
 Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear it? 
 But I don't care; I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and 
 what's more I'll walk every step of the way; and you 
 know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish 
 woman; 'tis you that's the foolish man. You know I can't 
 wear clogs ; and with no umbrella, the wet 's sure to give me 
 a cold : it always does : but what do you care for that ? 
 Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare 
 say I shall ; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope 
 there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. 
 I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death : yes, and that's 
 what you lent the umbrella for. Of course ! 
 
 Nice clothes I get, too, tramping through weather like this. 
 My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear 
 'era then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I «AaZ/ wear'em. No, sir; 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 401 
 
 I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or any body else. 
 Gracious knows ! it isn't often that I step over the threshold; 
 indeed, I might as well be a slave at once : better, I should 
 say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a 
 lady. Oh! that rain! if it isn't enough to break in the win- 
 dows. Ugh ! I look forward with dread for to-morrow !. How 
 I am to go to mother's, I'm sure I can't tell, but if I die. Til 
 do it. No, sir; I'll not borrow an umbrella: no; and you 
 sha'n't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another 
 umbrella, I '11 throw it in the street. 
 
 Ha ! And it was only last week I had a new nozzle put on 
 that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd known as much as I do now, 
 it might have gone without one. Paying for new nozzles for 
 other people to laugh at you ! Oh ! 'tis all very well for you. 
 You've no thought of your poor, patient wife, and your own 
 dear children ; you think of nothing but lending umbrellas ! 
 Men, indeed! call themselves lords of the creation! pretty 
 lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella! 
 
 I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me, but 
 that's what you want : then you may go to your club, and do 
 as you like; and then, nicely my poor, 'dear children will be 
 used; but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh! don't tell 
 me! I know you will: else you'd never have lent the um- 
 brella ! You have to go on Thursday about that summons ; 
 and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed: you don't go with- 
 out the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care ; 
 'tis not so bad as spoiling your clothes; better lose it; people 
 deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas ! 
 
 And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's 
 without the umbrella. Oh ! don't tell me that I said I would 
 go; that's nothing to do with it: nothing at all. She'll think 
 I'm neglectmg her; and the little money we're to have, we 
 sha'n't have' at all : because we've no umbrella. The chil- 
 dren too! (dear things!) they'll be sopping wet; for they 
 sha'n't stay at home; they sha'n't lose their learning; 'tis all 
 their father will leave them, I'm sure. But they shall go to 
 school. Don't teU me they shouldn't; (you are so aggravating. 
 Caudle, you'd spoil the temper of an angel;) they shall go to 
 school; mark that; and if they get their deaths of cold, 'tis 
 not my fault ; I didn't lend the umbrella. Asontmous 
 
 34 
 
402 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CXC. 
 
 EFFECTS OF UNIVERSAL FALSEHOOD. 
 
 Let us consider, for a little, some of the effects which 
 would inevitably follow, were the law of truth universally 
 vfolated. In this case, a scene of horror and confusion would 
 ensue, of which it is difficult for the mind to form any distinct 
 conception. It is obvious, in the first place, that rational 
 beings could never improve in knowledge, beyond the range 
 of the sensitive objects that happened to be placed within the 
 sphere of their personal observation; for by far the greater 
 part of our knowledge is derived from the communications of 
 others, and from the stimulus to intellectual exertion which 
 such communications produce. 
 
 Let us suppose a human being trained up, from infancy, 
 in a wilderness, by a bear or a wolf, as history records to 
 have been the case of several individuals in the forests of 
 France, Germany, and Lithuania, what knowledge could 
 such a being acquire beyond that of a brute ? He might dis- 
 tinguish a horse from a cow, and a man from a dog, and know 
 that such objects as trees, shrubs, grass, flowers, and water, 
 existed around him ; but knowledge, strictly so called, and the 
 proper exercise of his rational faculties, he could not acquire, 
 so long as he remained detached from other rational beings. 
 Such would be our situation, were falsehood universal among 
 men. We could acquire a knowledge of nothing but what 
 was obvious to our senses, in the objects with which we were 
 surrounded. We could not know whether the earth were 
 twenty miles, or twenty thousand miles, in extent, and whether 
 oceans, seas, rivers, and ranges of mountains, existed on its 
 surface, unless we had made the tour of it in person, and with 
 our own eyes, surveyed the various objects it contains. 
 
 Of course, we should remain in absolute ignorance of the 
 existence and the attributes of God, of the moral relations of 
 intelligent beings to their Creator, and to one another, and of 
 the realities of a future state. For it is only, or chiefly, 
 through the medium of testimony, combined with the evidence 
 of our senses, that we acquire a knowledge of such truths and 
 objects. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 403 
 
 In the next place, all confidence among intelligent beings 
 would be completely destroyed. Disappointment would invari- 
 ably attend every purpose and resolution, and every scheme we 
 wished to execute, if it depended, in the least degree, upon 
 the direction or assistance of others. We should not dare to 
 taste an article of food which we might receive from another, 
 lest it should contain poison ; nor could we ever constr«Ct a 
 house, to shelter us from the storm, unless our own physical 
 power? were adequate to the work. Were we living in Edin- 
 burgh, we could never go to Musselburgh and Dalkeith, if we 
 were previously ignorant of the situation of those places ; or 
 were we residing in London, it would be impossible for us 
 ever to find our way to Hommerton or Hampstead, unless, 
 after a thousand attempts, chance should happen to direct us ; 
 and when we might arrive at either of these villages, we should 
 still be in as much uncertainty as ever, whether it was the 
 place to which we intended to direct our steps. 
 
 Confidence being destroyed, there could be no friendship, no 
 union of hearts, no a3"ectionate intercourse, no social converse, 
 no consolation or comfort in the hour of distress, no hopes of 
 deliverance in the midst of danger, and no prospect of the 
 least enjoyment from any being around us. In such a case, 
 the mind would feel itself as in a wilderness, even when sur- 
 rounded by fellow-intelligences; and, wherever it roamed over 
 the vast expanse of nature, or among the mass of living beings 
 around it, it would meet with no affectionate interchange of 
 feelings and sentiments, and no object on which it could rest 
 for solace and enjoyment. Every one would feel as if he 
 were placed in the midst of an infinite void, and as if he were 
 the only being residing in the universe. We should flee from 
 the society of men, as we would do from a lion or a tiger 
 when rushing on his prey; and hide ourselves in dens, and 
 forests, and caverns of the earth, tiU death should put a period 
 to a cheerless and miserable existence. 
 
 AU social intercourse and relations would cease; families 
 could not possibly exist, nor any affectionate intercourse 
 between the sexes; for truth, and the confidence which is 
 founded upon it, are implied in all the intercourse of husbands 
 and wives, of brothers and sisters, and of parents and children; 
 and consequently the human race, dropping into the grave, 
 
404 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 one after another, like the leaves of autumn, without any suc- 
 cessors, would, in a short time, be extirpated from the earth. 
 In such a state, kindness and affection would never be exer- 
 cised; trade and commerce, buying and selling, social com- 
 pacts and agreements would be annihilated ; science, literature, 
 and the arts, could not exist; and consequently universities, 
 colleges, churches, academies, schools, and every other sem- 
 inary of instruction, would be unknown. No villages, towns, 
 nor cities, would be buUt; no fields cultivated; no orchards, 
 vineyards, nor gardens planted; no intercourse would exist 
 between different regions of the globe ; and nothing br.t one 
 dreary, barren waste would be presented to the eye, thiough- 
 out the whole expanse of nature. Dick 
 
 LESSON CXCI. 
 
 THE WARRIOR. 
 
 A. GALLANT form is passing by ; 
 
 The plnme bends o'er his lordly brow ; 
 A. thousand tongues have raised on high 
 
 His song of triumph now : 
 Young knees are bending round his way. 
 And age makes bare his locks of gray. 
 
 Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile, 
 White hands have waved the conqueror on, 
 
 And flowers have decked his path the while, 
 By gentle fingers strown. 
 
 Soft tones have cheered him, and the brow 
 
 Of beauty beams uncovered now. 
 
 The bard has waked the song for him, 
 And poured his boldest numbers forth ; 
 
 The wine-cup, sparkling to the brim. 
 Adds frenzy to the mirth ; 
 
 And every tongue, and every eye. 
 
 Does homage to the passer by. 
 
 The gallant steed treads proudly on ; 
 His foot falls firmly now, as when, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' RKADKR. 405 
 
 In strife that iron heel went down 
 
 Upoa the hearts of men, 
 And, foremost in the ranlis of strife. 
 Trod out the last, dim spark of life. 
 
 Dream they of these, the glad and gay. 
 
 That bend around the conqueror's path ? 
 The horrors of the conflict day, 
 
 The gloomy field of death. 
 The ghastly stain, the severed head, 
 The raven stooping o'er the dead % 
 
 Dark thoughts, and fearful ! yet they bring 
 
 No terrors to the triumph hour, 
 Nor stay the reckless worshiping 
 
 Of blended crime and power. 
 The fair of form, the mild of mood. 
 Do honor to the man of blood. 
 
 Men! christians! pause! The air ye breathe 
 
 Is poisoned by your idol now ; 
 A.nd will you turn to him, and wreathe 
 
 Your chaplets round his brow ? 
 Nay, call his darkest deeds sublime, 
 And smile assent to giant crime ? 
 
 Forbid it. Heaven ! A voice hath gone 
 
 In mildness and in meekness forth. 
 Hushing, before its silvery tone. 
 
 The stormy things of earth. 
 And whispering sweetly through the gloom 
 An earnest of the peace to come. ANouiMors. 
 
 LESSON CXCII. 
 
 THE DUEL . 
 
 She said she was alone within the world : 
 
 How could she but be sad ? 
 
 She whispered something of a lad. 
 With eyes of blue, and light hair sweetly curled; 
 
 But the grave had the child ! 
 And yet his voice she heard. 
 
406 YOXT^G LADIES- READER. 
 
 When at the lattice, calm and mild, 
 The mother in the twilight saw the vine-leaves stirred. 
 " Mother," it seemed to say, 
 
 "I love thee; 
 When thou dost by the side of thy lone pillow pray, 
 My spirit writes the words above thee ; 
 Mother ! I watch o'er thee ; I love thee !" 
 
 Where was the husband of that widowed thing. 
 That seraph's earthly sire? 
 A soldier dares a soldier's fire : 
 The murderous ball brought death upon its wing; 
 
 Beneath a foreign sky , 
 
 He fell, in sunny Spain ; 
 
 The wife, in silence, saw him die, 
 But the fond boy's blue eyes gave drops like sunny rain. 
 " Mother I" the poor lad cried, 
 
 " He 's dying ! 
 We are close by thee, father ; at thy bleeding side ; 
 Dost thou not hear thy Arthur crying? 
 Mother ! his lips are closed ; he 's dying !" 
 
 [t was a stormy time, where the man fell ; 
 And the youth shrunk and pined ; 
 Consumption's worm his pulse entwined ; 
 '^Prepare his shroud" rang out the convent-bell. 
 
 Yet through his pain he smiled, 
 To soothe a parent's grief; 
 
 Sad soul ! she could not be beguiled ; 
 She saw the bud would leave the guardian leaf! 
 " Mother !" he faintly said, 
 
 " Come near me ! 
 Kiss me ; and let me in my father's grave be laid ; 
 I 've prayed that I might still be near thee ; 
 Mother ! I '11 come again and cheer thee." 
 
 Edwibds. 
 
 LESSON CXCIII. 
 
 THE FESTAL BOARD. 
 
 Come 'to the festal board to-night. 
 For bright^eyed beauty will be there, 
 
 Her coral lips in nectar steeped, 
 And garlanded her hair. 
 
yOUNG LADIES' READER. 407 
 
 Come to the festal board to-night, 
 
 For there the joyous laugh of youth, 
 Will ring those silvery peals, which speak 
 
 Of bosoms pure, and stainless truth. 
 
 Come to the festal board to-night, 
 
 For friendship, there, with stronger chain, 
 
 Devoted hearts already bound 
 For good or ill, will bind again. 
 / went. 
 
 Nature and art their stores out-poured ; 
 
 Joy beamed in every kindling glance ; 
 Love, friendship, youth, and beauty, smiled : 
 
 What could that evening's bliss enhance T 
 We parted. 
 
 And years have flown ; but where are now 
 
 The guests, who round that table met ? 
 Rises their sun as gloriously 
 
 As on the banquet's eve it set 1 
 
 How holds the chain which friendship wove? 
 
 It broke; and, soon, the hearts it bound 
 Were widely sundered ; and for peace. 
 
 Envy, and strife, and blood, were found. 
 
 The merriest laugh which then was heard 
 Has changed its tones to maniac screams; 
 
 As half-quenched memory kindles up 
 Glimmerings of guilt in feverish dreams. 
 
 And where is she, whose diamond eyes 
 
 Golconda's purest gems outshone ? 
 Whose roseate lips of Eden breathed 1 
 
 Say, where is she, the beauteous one ? 
 
 Beneath yon willow's drooping shade. 
 
 With eyes now dim, and lips all pale, 
 She sleeps in peace.' Read on her urn, 
 
 "ji broken heart." This tells her tale. 
 
 And where is he, that tower of strength. 
 Whose fate with hers, for life was joined \ 
 
 How beats his heart, once honor's throne ? 
 How high has soared his daring mind ? 
 
408 VOUNG LADIES' READER 
 
 Go to the dungeon's gloom to-night! 
 
 His wasted form, his aching head, 
 And all that now remains of him, 
 
 Lies, shuddering, on a felon's bed. 
 
 Ask you of all these woes the cause ? 
 
 The festal board, the enticing bowl, 
 More often came, and reason fled, 
 
 And maddened passions spurned control. 
 
 Learn wisdom then. The frequent feast 
 Avoid; for there, with stealthy tread. 
 
 Temptation walks, to lure you on. 
 Till death, at last, the banquet spread. 
 
 And shun, oh, shun the enchanted cup ! 
 
 Though now its draught like joy appears. 
 Ere long it will be fanned by sighs. 
 
 And sadly mixed with blood and tears. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 LESSON CXCIV. 
 
 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 That is not likely to be a profitable Sabbath which is com- 
 menced without some suitable recollection, some sincere desire 
 to improve and to sanctify it. Our first waking thoughts 
 should be thus consecrated ; should thus take possession of 
 the mind, and pre-occupy it; otherwise those of a worldly 
 kind will soon flow in; so that if we "do not our own 
 works," we shall "think our own thoughts," which is as 
 p:eat a sin in the sight of God. The Sabbath dawns not on 
 ourselves alone, but also on the millions of our favored land; 
 mviting all to forget the six days, in which they have labored, 
 and done their work, and to remember this, and keep it holy. 
 Mas ! to multitudes how vain the summons ! It is melan- 
 choly to reflect on the thousands who welcome it only as a 
 day of indulgence, idleness, or amusement. The Sabbath sun, 
 which ought to arouse them betimes to its sacred duties, does 
 but witness their longer indulgence. 
 
 How many, who "rise early and sit up late," on other 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 409 
 
 flays, to attend diligently to their worldly affairs, when they 
 awake and recollect that it is Sunday, resolve to have "a little 
 more sleep, a litde more folding of the hands to sleep !" And 
 when at last they arise, if they do not allow themselves to 
 engage in the business of other days, they do but fill up the 
 heavy hours in the meanest indulgences ; in the prpparation or 
 enjoyment of a luxurious meal, in the most trifling occupations, 
 or in absolute idleness. Others rise early, indeed, but it is only 
 in order to lengthen their holiday. How many such are thus 
 preparing to profane the Sabbath! How are the roads and 
 fields, in almost every part of our beautiful country, disfigured 
 by these unhallowed visitants ! How are our streets thronged 
 with Sabbath-breakers ! The doors of the houses of God arr 
 thrown wide open, and they would be welcome as well as 
 others. "Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by ?" In vain 
 is the affectionate invitation ! They pass on, resolved to have 
 their pleasure at whatever price. 
 
 But there is a brighter view of Sunday morning, to which it 
 IS refreshing to turn. How many are there, who have said of 
 it, "Early will I seek thee," and who, from their various and 
 distant dwellings, have been, at the same hour, seeking, in 
 their closets, a blessing on the welcome Sabbath ! Their 
 united supplications, uttered in various accents, and rising from 
 the lowly cottage, the darksome hovel, as well as from abodes 
 of comfort and affluence, ascend together, as an acceptable 
 morning sacrifice to the throne of grace. Again : see from the 
 streets and lanes, from the courts and alleys of our crowded 
 cities, from the hamlets and villages, from the highways and 
 hedges, what numbers of decent children now issue forth to 
 their respective Sunday Schools ! How many little feet are, at 
 the same moment, pacing the streets on this blessed errand! 
 What an innumerable multitude would they form, could the 
 whole of them be assembled on some vast plain before our 
 view ! 
 
 The crowded streets of a large city, on a Sunday morning, 
 may also afford another observation which should excite our 
 liveliest gratitude. To see multitudes, of every different 
 denomination, quietly proceeding, in open day, unmolested and 
 unquestioned, to their respective places of worship, is a beau 
 tiful evidence of the religious privileges we enjoy. Every 
 
410 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 man may now sit under his own vine; and, whoever might 
 imsh to do it, none dares to make him afraid. And now the 
 voice of prayer and of praise is heard in our land. What 
 numberless voices unite in that universal chorus, which 
 ascends, like a cloud of incense, to the heavens ! This, then, 
 is another animating reflection for Sunday morning. But 
 there are many who are absent from these solemnities, not 
 from choice, but necessity. Sunday morning has a peculiar 
 aspect in a sick chamber. Those now on the bed of lan- 
 guishing, who have hitherto neglected their Sabbaths, view it 
 with peculiar emotions, feel its value, and resolve, if they are 
 restored to health, to improve these precious seasons in future ; 
 whUe the true christian, from his sick bed, hails its cheerful 
 beams, and hopes for a Sabbath of rest and profit, even there. 
 
 Let us now look at our own hearts, and make a practical 
 reflection. This Sabbath sun, that shines on the millions of 
 the human race, beams also on us; "on me," let every reader 
 say; and to me the question is, how shall / employ it? I 
 may not be one of the open Sabbath-breakers of the land ; but 
 am I not one of the countless multitude, who, while in form 
 they "keep a holy day," yet secretly say, "What a weariness 
 it is! When will it be over?" If so, reader, no longer, we 
 beseech you, waste your time in pitying or despising the poor 
 Indian and Hindoo, who have no Sabbath. No longer censure 
 the pleasure-taking Sabbath-breaker. Let your charity begin at 
 home, and remember, that if your Sabbaths are misimproved, 
 you are in a far more alarming situation than the untaught 
 savage, "who knows not his Lord's wiU!" Recollect, also, 
 that the period is hastening, when the angel of Death shall 
 swear concerning you, that "Time," and its Sabbaths, "shall 
 be no longer." Jake Tayxob. 
 
 LESSON CXCV. 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 How still the morning of the hallowed day ! 
 Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
 The plowboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song 
 
YOUNfi LADIES' READER. 41] 
 
 Thescythelie8 glittering in the dewy wreath 
 Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, 
 That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze. 
 Sounds the most faint attract the ear : the hum 
 Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. 
 The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 
 Calmness sits throned on you unmoving cloud. 
 To him who wanders o'er the upland leas. 
 The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; 
 And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
 Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling brook 
 Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
 While, from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke 
 O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, 
 The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. 
 
 With dovelike wings, peace o'er yon village broods ; 
 The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din 
 Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
 Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
 Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man. 
 Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
 And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls. 
 His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 
 
 But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
 On other days the man of toil is doomed 
 To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground 
 Both seat and board ; screened from the winter's cold 
 And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; 
 But on this day, imbosomed in his home. 
 He shares tlie frugal meal with those he loves ; 
 With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy 
 Of giving thanks to God ; not thanks of form, 
 A word and a grimace, but reverently. 
 With covered face, and upward, earnest eye. 
 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
 The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 
 The morning air, pure from the city's smoke ; 
 While, wandering slowly up the river side, 
 He meditates on Him, whose power he marks 
 
412 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 In each gieen tree that proudly spreads the bough, 
 As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom 
 Around its roots ; and, while he thus surveys, 
 With elevated joy, each rural charm, 
 He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope. 
 That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end. 
 
 J. Gbahaiib 
 
 LESSON CXCVI. 
 
 CONSOLATION OF RELIGION. 
 
 There is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; 
 
 She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; 
 Her only hope is in that sacred token 
 
 Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er ; 
 She asks, nor wealth, nor pleasure, begs no more 
 
 Than heaven's delightful volume, and the sight 
 Of her Redeemer. Skeptics ! would you pour 
 
 Your blasting vials on her head, and blight 
 Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms, and charms her being's night ? 
 
 She lives in her affections ; for the grave 
 Has closed upon her husband, children ; all 
 
 Her hopes are with the arms she trusts will save 
 Her treasured jewels ; though her views are small, 
 Though she has never mounted high to fall 
 
 And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring 
 Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall 
 
 Upon her unperverted palate, but will bring 
 A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. 
 
 Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave 
 Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er 
 
 With silent waters, kissing, as they lave. 
 
 The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore 
 Of matted grass and flowers ; so, softly pour 
 
 The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, 
 Low-bowed, before her Maker ; then, no more 
 
 She muses on the griefs of former days : 
 Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 413 
 
 And faith can see a new world, and the eyes 
 Of saints look pity on her. Death will come : 
 
 A few short moments over, and the prize 
 Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb 
 Becomes her fondest pillow : all its gloom 
 
 Is scattered. What a meeting there will be 
 
 To her and all she loved while here ! and the bloom 
 
 Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee. 
 There is the health which lasts through all eternity. 
 
 J. G. Pebcival 
 
 LESSON CXCVII. 
 time's last visit. 
 
 [There is a Persian legend, representing Time, before commencing his "Ntw 
 year's Flight," warning those wlio are to die during the coming season, of their 
 inevitable fate."J 
 
 The night was a cold and stormy one. 
 
 And the year was running low, 
 When Time threw his traveling mantle on, 
 
 As he was about to go : 
 And he cast on his glass a rueful look ; 
 
 " The sands will be out," he said, 
 (Seizing his memorandum book,) 
 
 "And these visits must be made : 
 But it does little good the fools to warn ; 
 
 I almost lose my labors ; 
 They think the last visit I make to them 
 
 Is always meant for their neighbors. 
 
 Last year my duty was faithfully done ; 
 
 I traversed the city through. 
 Revealing to every devoted one, 
 
 I had come for a final adieu : 
 Why, they treated my warning as Nicholas treats 
 
 The groans of the dying Poles : 
 Or thought 'twas to save (how this avarice cheats !) 
 
 Their money, not their souls. 
 That my hint of a speedy departure was given. 
 
 Though I bade them farewell like a lover; 
 And how few there were who prepared for heaven ! 
 
 I can easily reckon them over 
 
414 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And first to a Banker's house I hied, 
 
 Though I knew he was often surly. 
 But these Rothchilds, one must humor their pride ; 
 
 So I hastened to warn him early. 
 I found him within, at a sumptuous feast. 
 
 An Apioian sauce was before him, 
 And its flavor he praised to each smiling guest ; 
 
 ' 'Tis Death !' thus my warning came o'er him. 
 Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee ! 
 
 I was off like a twinkle of light, 
 And he ate at that dinner enough for three. 
 
 And he died of a spasm that night. 
 
 I hurried away to a Doctor, then, 
 
 Though I knew I might spare my pains. 
 That he thought of disease as the end of men, 
 
 And of death as the doctor's gains; 
 ' My patient must die,' he was maundering on ; 
 
 As' he glanced a fee-bill o'er, 
 'And his money will go to his graceless son. 
 
 My bill might be somewhat more ; 
 For the youth will ne'er take the trouble to note 
 
 That I've charged five visits a day.' 
 So he figured away, while I laughed in his ear, 
 
 ' Remember mt visits to pat !' 
 
 1 told an Old Man it was time he should go. 
 
 And he was too deaf to hear : 
 I called, at the play, on a dashing Beau, 
 
 And he was too gay to fear : 
 I paused in a Merchant's counting-room, 
 
 And a dunce was I to stop. 
 Scarce would he have heeded the crash of doom, 
 
 While reckoning his leger up. 
 ' There is one demand,' I began to say, 
 
 He burst with a hurried breath, 
 ' Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay ;' 
 
 I left him to settle with death ! 
 
 I stopped at a Poor Man's humble shed. 
 And thought 'twould delight him so. 
 
 For I knew he had often wished he was dead ; 
 But he flatly refused to go : 
 
 And O, the wild agony of his eye, 
 As he begged me one year to give ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' EEADER. 415 
 
 Saying 't was too bad for a man to die 
 
 Who liad struggled so hard to live ; 
 That his wife must beg, and his children starve : 
 
 I whispered of charity ; 
 He raised his eye with a look of despair ; 
 
 "T is a broken reed,' sighed he. 
 
 I had fared so ill with the lords of earth, 
 
 Of the earth they had proved indeed, 
 That I turned to the sex of gentler birth. 
 
 Hoping more kindly to speed ! 
 On the beautiful Bellk I made a call ; 
 
 A milliner's girl stood by, 
 She brought a new dress for the New Year's ball ; 
 
 I breathed a sepulchral sigh, 
 And the rich, red flowers looked ghastly white ; 
 
 ' How odd !' cried the beauty, in sorrow ; 
 ' These do not become me at all to-night, 
 
 But bring me some brighter to-morrow.' 
 
 And then — but why continue the list. 
 
 So fraught with chagrin to me : 
 Who likes to remember the times he has missed, 
 
 When recounting his archery ? 
 I called, in fine, on the old and the young. 
 
 Fair, ugly, and sober, and gay, 
 The chorus the same to the tune they all sung ; 
 
 They would not be hurried away. 
 There were many who hated the world, to be sure, 
 
 And called Time an old, villainous cheat. 
 But Heaven was so distant, so bright, and so pure ; 
 
 They had no inclination to see 't. 
 
 Worms of the dost ! I murmured in wrath, 
 
 As I entered a stately dome. 
 And, following the clue of my fated path. 
 
 Repaired to a nursery room ; 
 The children were sleeping like nestled birds, 
 
 And SHE, the sweet mother dove. 
 With a face too happy to paint by words. 
 
 Was choosing her gifts of love 
 For the New Year's morn ; I touched her cheek. 
 
 She knew the deadly thrill, 
 And raising her eyes with a smile so meek ; 
 
 'My Father, 'tis thy will.' 
 
416 YOUNG LADIES' READEK. 
 
 Yes, Woman should always be ready to go. 
 
 She has nothing on earth but Love ; 
 A dowry that bears little value below. 
 
 But 'tis priceless, transferred above: 
 O, lavish it not on my brightest joys, 
 
 'Tis folly, 't is worse than vain ; 
 I never bestow them except as toys, 
 
 I mean to resume again. 
 Even now I shall gather a thousand fair things, 
 
 I gave when this year was new. 
 And the hopes for the next, that I shake from my wings, 
 
 Will prove as deceitful too. Mns. S. J. Halk. 
 
 LESSON CXCVIII. 
 
 THE LITTLE BROOK AND THE STAR. 
 
 Once upon a time, in the leafy covert of a wild, woody 
 dingle, there lived (for it was, indeed, a thing of life) a certain 
 little brook, that might have been the happiest creature in the 
 world, if it had but known when it was well off, and been con- 
 tent with the station assigned to it by an unerring Providence. 
 But in that knowledge and that content, consists the true secret 
 of happiness ; and the silly little brook never found out the 
 mystery, until it was too late to profit by it. 
 
 I cannot say, positively, from what source the little brook 
 came ; but it appeared to well out from beneath the hollow 
 root of an old thorn ; and, collecting together its pellucid waters, 
 so as to form a small pool, within that knotty reservoir, it 
 swelled imperceptibly over its irregular margin, and slipped 
 away, unheard, almost unseen, among mossy stones and en- 
 tangling branches. No emerald was ever so green : never was 
 velvet so soft,- as the beautiful moss which encircled that tiny 
 lake : and it was gemmed and embroidered, too, by all flowers 
 that love the shade ; pale primroses and nodding violets ; ane- 
 mones, with their fair, down-oast heads ; and starry clusters of 
 forget-me-not, looking lovingly, with their pale, tender eyes, 
 into the bosom of their native rill. 
 
 The hawthorn's branches were interwoven above, with those 
 of a holly ; and a woodbine, climbing up the stem of one tree, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 417 
 
 flung across to the other its flexible arms, knotting together 
 the mingled foliage, with its rich clusters and elegant festoons, 
 like a fair sister, growing up under the guardianship of two 
 beloved brothers, and, by her endearing witchery, drawing 
 together, in closer union, their already united hearts. Never 
 was little brook so delightfully situated; for its existence, 
 tliough secluded, was neither monotonous nor solitary. A 
 thousand trifling incidents (trifling, but not uninteresting,) were 
 perpetually varying the scene; and innumerable living crea- 
 tures, the gentlest and loveliest of the silvan tribes, familiarly 
 haunted its retreat. 
 
 Beautiful, there, was every season with its changes. In 
 the year's fresh morning, delicious May or ripening June, if a 
 light breeze but stirred in the hawthorn tops, down on the 
 dimpling water came a shower of milky blossoms, loading the 
 air with fragrance as they fell. Then, came the squirrel with 
 his mirthful antics. Then, rustling through fern and brush- 
 wood, stole the timid hare, half startled, as she slaked her thirst 
 at the still fountain, by the liquid reflection of her own large, 
 lustrous eyes. There was no lack of music round about. A 
 song-thrush had his domicil hard by ; and, even at night, his 
 mellow voice was heard, contending with a nightingale, in 
 scarce unequal rivalry. And other vocalists, innumerable, 
 awoke those woodland echoes. Sweetest of all, the low, 
 tremulous caU of the ring-dove floated, at intervals, through 
 the shivering foliage, — the very soul of sound and tenderness. 
 
 In winter, the glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly, 
 flung down their rich reflections on the little pool, then visited 
 through the leafless boughs with a gleam of more perfect day- 
 light ; and a red-breast, which had built its nest, and reared its 
 young among the twisted roots of that old tree, still hovered 
 about his summer bower, still quenched his thirst at the little 
 brook, stUl sought his food on its mossy banks ; and, timing 
 his small pipe, when every other feathered throat, but his own, 
 was mute, took up the eternal hymn of gratitude, which began 
 with the birth-day of Nature, and shall only cease with her 
 expiring breath. So, every season brought but changes of 
 pleasantness to that happy litde brook : and happier still it was, 
 or mi<rht have been, in one sweet and tender companionship, 
 to which passing time and revolving seasons brought no change 
 
418 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 True it was, no unintercepted sunshine ever glittered on its 
 shaded waters ; but, just above the spot where they were 
 gathered into that fairy fount, a small opening in the overarch- 
 ing fohage admitted, by day, a ghmpse of the blue sky; and, 
 by night, the mild, pale ray of a bright tixed-star, which looked 
 down into the stilly water, with such tender radiance as beams 
 from the eyes we love best, when they rest upon us with an 
 earnest gaze of serious tenderness. Forever, and forever, 
 when night came, the beautiful star still gazed upon its earth- 
 born love, which seemed, if a wandei-ing air but skimmed its 
 surface, to stir, as if with life, in responsive intercourse with 
 its bright visitant. 
 
 Some malicious whispers went abroad, indeed, that the 
 enamored gaze of that radiant eye was not always exclusively 
 fixed on the little brook ; that it had its oblique glances for 
 other favorites. But, I take it, those rumors v/ere altogether 
 libelous, mere rural gossip, scandalous tittle-tattle, got up be- 
 tween two old, gray, mousing owls, who went prowling about 
 and prying into their neighbor's concerns, when they ought to 
 have been in their beds, at home. However that may be — 
 though I warrant the kind creatures were too conscientious to 
 leave the little brook in ignorance of their candid conjectures- 
 it did not care one fig about the matter, utterly disregarding 
 every syllable they said. This would have been highly credi- 
 table to the little brook, if its light mode of dismissing the 
 subject had not been partly owing to the engrossing influence 
 of certain new-fangled notions and desires, which, in an unhappy 
 hour, had insinuated themselves into its hitherto untroubled 
 bosom. 
 
 Alas ! that elementary, as well as human natures, should be 
 liable to moral infirmity ! But that they are, was strongly 
 exemplified in the instance of our luckless little brook. You 
 must know, that, notwithstanding the leafy recess, in which it 
 was so snugly located, was, to all inward appearance, seques- 
 tered as in the heart of a vast forest, in point of fact, it only 
 skirted the edge of an extensive plain, in one part of which 
 lay a large pond, to which herds of kine and oxen came down 
 to drink, morning and evening, and wherein they might be seen 
 standing motionless for hours together, during the sultry sum- 
 mer noon; when the waveless water, glowing like a fiery 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 419 
 
 mirror under the meridian blaze, reflected, with magical t-ffect, 
 the huge forms and varied coloring of the congregated cattle, 
 as well as those ol' a flock of stately, milk-white geese, accus- 
 tomed to swim upon its bosom. 
 
 Now, it so chanced, that from the nook of which we, have 
 spoken, encircled as it was by leafy walls, there opened, pre- 
 cisely in the direction of the plain and the pond, a cunning 
 little peep-hole, which must have been perforated by the demon 
 of mischief, and which no eye would ever have spied out, save 
 that of a lynx, or an idle person. Alas ! our little brook was 
 an idle person. She had nothing in the world to do from morn- 
 ing to night, and that is the root of all evil. So, though she 
 might have found useful occupation, (every body can, if they 
 seek it in right earnest,) she spent her whole time in peering 
 and prying about, till, one unlucky day, what should she hit 
 upon, but that identical peep-hole, through which, as through a 
 telescope, she discovered with unspeakable amazement the great 
 pond, all glowing in the noon-day sun ; the herds of cattle and 
 the flocks of geese, so brilliantly redoubled on its broad mirror. 
 
 "My stars!" ejaculated the little brook, (little thought she 
 at that moment of the one faithful star.) " My stars ! what 
 can all this be ? It looks something like me, only a thousand 
 times as big. What can be shining so upon it ? and what can 
 those great creatures be ? Not hares, sure, though they have 
 legs and tails ; but such tails ! And those other white things, 
 that float about, they cannot be birds, for they have no legs, 
 and yet they seem to have feathers and wings. What a life of 
 ignorance have I led, huddled up in this poor, little, dull place, 
 visited only by a few, mean, humdrum creatures, and never 
 suspecting that the world contained finer things and grander 
 
 company !" 
 
 Till this unfortunate discovery, the litfle brook had been 
 well enough satisfied with her condition, contented with the 
 society of the beautiful and gende creatures which frequented 
 her retreat, and with the tender admiration of her own "bright, 
 unchanging star." But now there was an end to all content, 
 and no end to garrulous discontent and endless curiosity. The 
 latter, she soon found means to satisfy, for the sky-lark brought 
 her flaming accounts of the sun, at whose court he pretended 
 to be a frequent visiter; and the water-wagtail was dispatched 
 
420 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 to ascertain the precise nature of those other mysterious objects, 
 so bewildering to the limited faculties of the curious little brook- 
 Back came the messenger, mopping,* and mowing,* and 
 wagging his tail with the most fantastic airs of conceited im- 
 portance. " Well, what is it !" quoth my lady brook. "Water, 
 upon my veracity," quoth Master Wagtail, " monstrous piece 
 of water, five hundred thousand million times as big as your 
 ladyship." "And what makes it so bright and glowing, 
 instead of my dull color?" quoth my lady. "The sun, that 
 shines full upon it," rejoins the envoy. "Oh! that glorious 
 globe, the sky-lark talks of. How delightful it must be to 
 enjoy his notice ! But what are those fine creatures with legs, 
 and those others with wings and no legs?" "Oh! those are 
 cows, and oxen, and geese; but you cannot possibly compre- 
 hend their natures, never having seen any thing larger than a 
 hare or wood-pigeon." " How now, Master Malapert !" 
 quoth my lady, nettled to the quick at his impertinence. But 
 her curiosity was not half satiated; so she was fain to gulp 
 down her own insulted dignity, and went on questioning and 
 cross-questioning, till she was ready to bubble over with spite 
 and envy at Master Wagtail's marvelous relations. Poor 
 thing! she did not know what allowance to make for travel- 
 ers' stories. Anonymous. 
 
 LESSON CXCIX. 
 
 THE SAME, CONCLUDED. 
 
 Thenceforward, the little brook perfectly loathed her own 
 peaceful, unobtrusive lot. She would have shrunk away, had 
 it been possible, from the poor, innocent creatures, who had so 
 long enlivened her pleasant solitude. And, worst of all, most 
 unpardonable of all, she sickened at the sight of her benignant 
 star, which continued to look down upon her as fondly and 
 kindly as ever, still happily unconscious of her heartless 
 estrangement. Well, she went on fretting and repining, from 
 day to day, till jiame Nature, fairly tired out with her wayward 
 humor, resolved to punish her, as she deserved, by granting 
 
 * Making wry faces. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 42] 
 
 her heart's desire. One summer morning, came U sturdy 
 woodmen, armed with saws, axes, and bill-hook. To v ork they 
 went, lopping, hewing, and clearing, and before night-fall, there 
 lay the little brook, exposed to the broad canopy of heaven, 
 revealed in all its littleness, and effectually relieved from the 
 intrusion of those insignificant creatures, which had been scared 
 from their old familiar haunt, by that day's ruthless execution. 
 
 " Well !" quoth the litde brook, " this is something like life ! 
 What a fine world this is ! A little chilly though, and I feel, I 
 don't know how, quite dazzled and confounded. But to-mor- 
 row, when that great, red orb comes over-head again, I shall 
 be warm and comfortable enough, no doubt ; and then, I dare 
 say, some of those fine, great creatures will come and visit 
 me ; and who knows but I may grow as big as that great pond, 
 in time, now that I enjoy the same advantages." Down went 
 the sun ; up rose the moon ; out shone innumerable hosts of 
 sparkling orbs, and among them, that "bright, particular star" 
 looked out, pre-eminent in luster. Doubtless, its pure and 
 radiant eye dwelt,, with tender sorrow, on the altered condition 
 of its beloved litde brook. But that volatile and inconstant 
 creature, quite intoxicated with her change of fortune, and 
 with the fancied admiration of the twinkling myriads she 
 beheld, danced and dimpled, in the true spirit of flirtation, 
 with every glittering spark, till she was quite bewildered 
 among the multitude of her adorers, and welcomed the gray 
 hour of dawn, without having vouchsafed so much as one 
 glance of recognition at her old, unalienated friend. 
 
 Down went the moon and stars ; up rose the sun, and 
 higher and higher he mounted in the cloudless heaven, and 
 keener waxed the impatience of the ambitious little brook. 
 Never did court beauty so eagerly anticipate her first presen- 
 tation to the eye of majesty. And, at last, arrived the hour of 
 fruition. Bright over-head careered the radiant orb; down 
 darted his fervid, fiery beams vertically upon the center of the 
 little brook, penetrating its shallow waters to the very pebbles 
 beneath. At first, it was so awed and agitated, and overpow- 
 ered by the condescending notice of majesty, fancying, (as 
 small folks are apt to fancy,) that it had attracted peculiar obser- 
 vation, th'at it was hardly sensible of the unusual degree of 
 warmth, which began to pervade its elementary system: but, 
 
422 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 presently, when the fermentation of its wits had a littl* sub- 
 sided, it began to wonder how much hotter it should grow, 
 still assuring itself that the sensation, though very novel, was' 
 exceedingly delightful. 
 
 But, at length, such an accession of fever came on, that the 
 self-delusion was no longer practicable, and it began to hiss, as 
 if set over a great furnace. Oh, what would the little brook 
 have given now for only one bough of the holly or the haw- 
 thorn, to intercept those intolerable rays ! or for the gende 
 winnowing of the black-bird's wing, or even the poor robin's, 
 to fan its glowing bosom ! But those protecting boughs lay 
 scattered around ; those small, shy creatures had sought out a 
 distant refuge, and my lady brook had nothing left but to 
 endure what she could not alter. '-And after aU," quoth she, 
 " 'tis only for a little while ; by and by, when his majesty only 
 looks sidewise at me, I shall be less overcome with his royal 
 favor, and in time, no doubt, be able to sustain his full gaze, 
 without any of these unbecoming flutters, all owing to my 
 rustic education and the confined life I have hitherto led." 
 
 Well, " his majesty" withdrew westward as usual, and my 
 lady brook began to subside into a comfortable degree of tem- 
 perature, and to gaze about her again, with restored compla- 
 cency. What was her exultation, when she beheld the whole 
 train of geese waddling toward her from the great pond, taking 
 that way homeward out of sheer curiosity, as I suppose. As 
 the goodly company drew nearer and nearer, our brook ad- 
 mired the stateliness of their carriage, and persuaded herself, it 
 was eminently graceful, " for undoubtedly, they are persons of 
 distinguished rank," quoth she; "and how much finer voices 
 they must have, than those little, vulgar fowls, whose twittering 
 used to make me so nervous." Just then, the whole flock set 
 up such a gabbling and screeching, as they passed close by, 
 that the little brook well nigh leaped out of her reservoir, with 
 horror and amazement; and to complete her consternation, one 
 fat, old, dowager goose, straggling awkwardly out of the line 
 of march, plumped right down into the middle of the pool, 
 flouncing and floundering about at a terrible rate, filling its 
 whole circumference with her ungainly person, and scrambling 
 out again with an unfeeling precipitation, which cruelly disor- 
 dered the unhappy victim of her barbarous outrage. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 423 
 
 Hardly were they out of sight, those awkward and unman- 
 nerly creatures; hardly had the poor little brook begun to 
 breathe, after that terrible visitation, when all her powers of 
 self-possession were called for, by the abrupt approach of 
 another and more prodigious personage. A huge ox, goaded 
 by the intolerable stinging of a gad-fly, broke away from his 
 fellows of the lierd, and from his cool station in the great pond, 
 and came galloping down, in his blind agony, lashing the air 
 with his tail, and making the vale echo with his furious bel- 
 lowing. To the woods just beyond the new cleared spot, he 
 took his frantic course, and, the little brook lying in his way, 
 he splashed into it and out of it without ceremony, or probably 
 so much as heeding the hapless object, subjected to his ruffian 
 treatment. That one splash pretty nearly annihilated the 
 miserable little brook. The huge fore-hoofs forped themselves 
 into its mossy bank ; the hind ones, with a single extricating 
 plunge, pounded bank and brook together into a muddy hole ; 
 and the tail, with one insolent whisk, spattered half the black 
 mass over the surrounding herbage. 
 
 And now, what was wanting to complete the ruin and degra- 
 dation of the unhappy little brook ? A thick, black puddle 
 was all that remained of the once pellucid pool. Poor little 
 brook ! if it had erred greatly, was it not greatly humbled ? 
 Night came again ; but darkness was on the face of the unhappy 
 brook, and well for it, that it was total darkness ; for in that 
 state of conscious degradation, how could it have sustained the 
 searching gaze of its pure, forsaken star ? Long, dark, and 
 companionless was the first night of misery, and when morning 
 dawned, though the turbid water had regained a degree of trans- 
 parency, it had shrunk away to a tenth part of its former " fair 
 proportions," so much had it lost by evaporation in that fierce 
 solar alembic ; so much from absorption in the loosened and 
 choking soil of its once firm and beautiful margin; and so 
 much by dispersion, from the wasteful havoc of its destructive 
 
 invaders. 
 
 Again, the great sun looked down upon it; again, the vertical 
 beams drank fiercely of its shrunken water; and when evening 
 came, no more remained of the poor little brook, than just so 
 many drops as filled the hollow of one of those large pebbles 
 which had paved its unsuUied basin, in the day of its bright- 
 
424 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 ness and beauty. But never, in the season of its brightest 
 plenitude, was the water of the little brook so clear, so per- 
 fectly clear and pure, as that last portion, which lay, like a 
 liquid gem, in the small concave of that polished stone. It had 
 been filtered from every grosser particle, refined by rough disci- 
 pline, purified by adversity, even from those lees of vanity 
 and light-mindedness, which had adulterated its sparkling wa- 
 ters in their prosperous state. Just as the last sunbeam was 
 withdrawing its amber light from that small pool, the old, 
 familiar robin hopped on the edge of the hollow pebble, and 
 dipping his beak once and again in the diminished fount, which 
 had slaked his thirst so often and so long, drooped his russet 
 wings with a slight, quivering motion, and broke forth into a 
 short, sweet gush of parting song, before he winged his way 
 forever from his expiring benefactress. 
 
 Twilight had melted into night — dark night ; for neither moon 
 nor stars were visible through the dark clouds that canopied 
 the earth. In darkness and silence lay the little brook ; for- 
 gotten it seemed, even by its benignant star, as though its last 
 drops were exhaled into nothingness ; its languishing existence 
 already struck out of the list of created things. Time had 
 been, when such apparent neglect would have excited its 
 highest indignation ; but now, it submitted humbly and resign- 
 edly to the deserved infliction. And, after a little while, look- 
 ing fixedly upward, it almost fancied that the ybrm, if not the 
 radiance of the beloved star was faintly perceptible through 
 the intervening darkness. 
 
 The little brook was not deceived : cloud after cloud rolled 
 away from the central heaven, till, at last, the unchanging star 
 was plainly discernible through the fleecy vapor which yet 
 obscured its perfect luster. But, through that silvery vail, the 
 beautiful star looked intently on its repentant love ; and there 
 was more of tenderness, of pity, and reconciliation in that dim, 
 trembling gaze, than if the pure, heavenly dweller had shone 
 out in perfect brightness on the frail, humbled creature below. 
 Just then, a few large drops fell heavily from the disparting 
 cloud ; and one, trembling for a moment with starry light, fell, 
 like a forgiving tear, into the bosom of the little pool. 
 
 Long, long and undisturbed (for no other eye looked out 
 from heaven that night) was the last mysterious communion of 
 
YOUNG LADIES READER. 425 
 
 the reconciled friends. No doubt, that voiceless intercourse 
 was yet eloquent of hope and futurity ; for, though all that 
 remained of the pure littlebrook was sure to be exhausted by 
 the next day's fiery trial, it would but change its visible form, 
 to become an imperishable essence : and who can tell whether 
 the elementary nature, so purged from earthly impurities, may 
 not have been received up into the sphere of its heavenly friend, 
 and indissolubly united with the celestial substance ? 
 
 AirONTMOUS. 
 
 LESSON CC. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 (^EllipUcal.') 
 
 Who may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid. 
 In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed ? 
 Her head is with a flowery garland crowned, 
 And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring around; 
 Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow ; 
 Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow ; 
 At sight of her the lambkins bound along. 
 And each glad warbler thrills his sweetest (...); 
 Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled, 
 And all prepare their mossy (...) to build. 
 Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
 The name and lineage of this smiling fair. 
 
 Who from the south is this, with lingering tread 
 Advancing, in transparent garments clad ] 
 Her breath is hot and sultry : now she loves 
 To seek the inmost shelter of the ( . . . ) ; 
 The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams. 
 To ( . . . ) the heat that preys upon her limbs. 
 From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly ; 
 At her approach their currents quickly (...). 
 Berries and every acid fruit she sips. 
 To allay the fervor of her parching lips ; 
 A-pples and melons, and the cherry's juice 
 She loves, which orchards plenteously (...) 
 The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who sheers 
 The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears, 
 
 5)A 
 
426 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 At her approach, O, be it mine to lie 
 
 Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply ; 
 
 Or with her let me ( . . . ) at early morn, 
 
 When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn ; 
 
 Or, at soft twilight, when the ilocks repose. 
 
 And the bright star of evening mildly (...). 
 
 Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare 
 
 The name and lineage of this blooming fair. 
 
 Who may he be that next, with sober pace. 
 Comes stealing on us ? Sallow is his ( . . . ) ; 
 The grape's red blood distains his robes around ; 
 His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound ; 
 His hair hath just begun to fall away. 
 The auburn (...) with the mournful ( . ) 
 
 The ripe, brown nuts he scatters to the swain ; 
 He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train ; 
 The gun is heard ; the trembling partridge bleeds ; 
 The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds. 
 Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare, 
 [f ye can tell, ye youths and maidens (...). 
 
 Who is he from the north that speeds his way 1 
 Thick furs and wool (...) his warm array : 
 His cloak is closely folded ; bald his head; 
 His beard of clear, sharp icicles is made. 
 By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ; 
 With skate-bound feet the frozen lakes he ( . . . y. 
 When he is by with breath so piercing cold, 
 No floweret dares its tender (...) unfold. 
 Naught can his powerful, freezing touch withstand ; 
 And, should he smite you with his chilling (...) 
 Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast, 
 Or stand, like marble, breathless as he passed. 
 Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear ? 
 Fast he. approaches, and will soon be ( . . . ). 
 Declare, I pray you, tell me, if you can. 
 The name and lineage of this aged man. 
 
 Mrs. Babbauid 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 427 
 
 LESSON CGI. 
 
 MORNING IN SPRING. 
 
 How sv\i;pet the landscape ! Morning twines 
 
 Her tresses round the brow of Day, 
 And bright mists, o'er the forest pines, 
 
 Lilte happy spirits, float away. 
 To revel on the mountain's crown, 
 Whence the glad stream comes shouting down. 
 Through woods and rocks, that hang on high. 
 Like clouds against the deep-blue sky. 
 
 The woven sounds of bird and stream 
 
 Are falling beautiful and deep 
 Upon the spirit, like a dream 
 
 Of music on the hour of sleep ; 
 A.nd gently from the dewy bowers 
 Soft murmurs, like the breath of flowers, 
 Are winding through the purple grove. 
 And blending with the notes of love 
 
 The streams in veins of silver flow; 
 
 The sunrise gale o'er flower and tree 
 So lightly breathes, it scarce would blow 
 
 A fairy bark upon the sea ; 
 [t comes so fresh, so calm, so sweet. 
 It draws the heart from its retreat, 
 To mingle in the glories born 
 
 In the first holy light of mom. 
 
 A cloud is on the sky above ; 
 
 And calmly, o'er the young year blue, 
 'T is coming like a thing of love, 
 
 To gladden in the rising dew : 
 Its white waves with the sunlight blend. 
 And gentle spirits seem to bend 
 From its unrolling folds, to hear 
 The glad sounds of our joyous sphere. 
 
 The lake, unruffled by the breeze, 
 
 Smiles in its deep, unbroken rest, 
 As it were dreaming of the trees 
 
 And blossoms pictured on its breast ; 
 Its depths are glowing, bright, and fair, 
 And the far skies seem hollowed there. 
 
428 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Soft trembling as they felt the thrill 
 Of music echoed from the hill. 
 
 The living soul of beauty fills 
 
 The air with glorious visions : bright 
 
 They linger round the sunny hills, 
 And wander in the clear, blue light : 
 
 Off to the breathing heavens they go. 
 
 Along the earth they live and glow, 
 
 Shed o'er the lake their happy smiles, 
 
 And beckon to its glittering isles. 
 
 O, at this hour, when air and earth 
 
 Are gushing love, and joy, and light. 
 And songs of gladness, at the birth 
 
 Of all that 's beautiful and bright, 
 Each heart beats high ; each thought is blown 
 To flame ; the spirit drinks the tone 
 Of brighter worlds, and melts away. 
 In visions of eternal day. G. d. Pjixnticb 
 
 LESSON ecu. 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 Dust on thy mantle ! dust. 
 Bright Summer, on thy livery of green ! 
 
 A tarnish, as of rust. 
 
 Dims thy late brilliant sheen ; 
 And thy young glories, — leaf, and bud, and flower,- 
 Change cometh over them with every hour. 
 
 Thee hath the August sun 
 Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face : 
 And still and lazily run. 
 Scarce whispering in their pace, 
 The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent 
 A shout of gladness up, as on they went. 
 
 Flame-like, the long mid-day ! 
 With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred 
 The down upon the spray, 
 Where rests the panting bird 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 429 
 
 Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, 
 With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune. 
 
 Seeds in the sultry air, 
 A.nd gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees ! 
 
 E'en the tall pines, that rear 
 
 Their plumes to catch the breeze. 
 The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, 
 Partake the general languor and deep rest. 
 
 Happy, as man may be, 
 Stretched on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, 
 
 While the voluptuous bee 
 
 Robs each surrounding flower 
 And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast. 
 The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest. 
 
 Against the hazy sky 
 The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. 
 
 Beneath them far, yet high 
 
 In the dim, distant west. 
 The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare. 
 Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air. 
 
 Soberly, in the shade. 
 Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox ; 
 
 Or in the shoal stream wade. 
 
 Sheltered by jutting rocks: 
 The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush 
 Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. 
 
 Tediously pass the hours. 
 And vegetation wilts, with blistered root. 
 
 And droop the thirsting flowers, 
 
 Where the slant sunbeams shoot : 
 But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line. 
 Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline. 
 
 Faster, along the plain. 
 Moves now the shad^, and on the meadow's edge 
 
 The kine are forth again. 
 
 The bird flits in the hedge. 
 Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. 
 Welcome, mild eve ! the sultry day is done. 
 
430 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Pleasantly comest thou, 
 Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass ; 
 
 And the curled corn-blades bow. 
 
 As the light breezes pass. 
 That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand, 
 Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land. 
 
 So, to the thirsting soul, 
 Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love : 
 
 And the scathed heart, made whole, 
 
 Turneth in joy above. 
 To where the spirit freely may expand. 
 And rove untrammeled in that " better land." 
 
 W. D. Gazlaghfb, 
 
 LESSON CCIII. 
 
 SUMIUER EVENING. 
 
 The summer day has closed, the sun is set: 
 Well have they done their office, those bright hours, 
 The latest of whose train goes softly out 
 In the red west. The green blade of the ground 
 Has risen, and herds have cropped it ; the young t»-'ig 
 Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; 
 Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown, 
 And withered ; seeds have fallen upon the soil 
 From bursting cells, and, in their graves, await 
 Their resurrection. 
 
 Insects from the pools 
 Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, 
 That now are still forever ; painted moths 
 Have wandered the blue sky, and died again ; 
 The mother-bird hath broken for her brood 
 Their prison-shells, or shoved them from their nest 
 Plumed for their earliest flight. 
 
 In bright alcoves, 
 In woodland cottages with earthy walls, 
 In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, 
 Mothers have clasped with joy the new-bom babe. 
 Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore 
 Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
 Of the thronged city, have been hollcwed out. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 431 
 
 And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends, 
 That ne'er before were parted : it hath knit 
 New friendships ; it hath seen the maiden plight 
 Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long 
 Hath wooed ; and it hath heard, from lips which late 
 Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word. 
 That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 
 
 Farewell to the sweet sunshine ! one glad day, 
 Is added now to childhood's merry days. 
 And one calm day to those of quiet age. 
 Still the fleet hours run on ; and, as I lean 
 Amiid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit 
 By those who watch the dead, and those who twine 
 Flowers for the bride. W. C. BnxAiiT 
 
 LESSON CCIV- 
 
 RAIN IN SUMMER. 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 After the dust and heat, 
 
 In the broad and fiery street. 
 
 In the narrow lane. 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 How it clatters upon the roofs. 
 
 Like the tramp of hoofs ! 
 
 How it gushes and struggles out 
 
 From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 
 
 Across the window-pane, 
 
 It pours and pours ; 
 
 And swift and wide, 
 
 With a muddy tide, 
 
 Like a river, down the gutter roars 
 
 The rain, the welcome rain ! 
 
 The sick man, from his chamber, looks 
 
 At the twisted brooks ; 
 
 He can feel the cool 
 
 Breath of each little pool ; 
 
 His fevered brain 
 
 Grows calm again ; 
 
 And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 
 
432 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 From the neighboring school 
 
 Come the boys, 
 
 With more than their wonted noise 
 
 And commotion ; 
 
 And down the wet streets 
 
 Sail their mimic fleets, 
 
 Till the treacherous pool 
 
 Engnlfs them in its whirling 
 
 And turbulent ocean. 
 
 In the country on every side, 
 Where, far and wide. 
 Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. 
 Stretches the plain. 
 To the dry grass and the drier grain. 
 How welcome is the rain ! 
 In the furrowed land 
 The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 
 ^ Lifting the yoke-encumbered head. 
 With their dilated nostrils spread, 
 They silently inhale 
 The clover-scented gale. 
 And the vapors that arise 
 From the well watered and smoking eotL 
 For this rest in the furrow after toil, 
 "Their large and lustrous eyes 
 Seem to thank the Lord, 
 More than man's spoken word. 
 
 Near at hand, 
 
 From under the sheltering trees. 
 
 The farmer sees 
 
 His pastures and his fields of grain, 
 
 As they bend their tops 
 
 To the numberless, beating drops 
 
 Of the incessant rain. 
 
 He counts it as no sin. 
 
 That he sees therein 
 
 Only his own thrift and gain. 
 
 These, and far more than these. 
 
 The Poet sees. 
 
 He can behold 
 
 Aquarius old 
 
 Walking the fenceless fields of air, 
 
 And from each ample fold 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 433 
 
 Of the clouds about him rolled, 
 
 Scattering every where 
 
 The showery rain, 
 
 As the farmer scatters his grain. 
 
 He can behold 
 
 Things manifold, 
 
 That have not yet been wholly told ; 
 
 Have not been wholly sung nor said ; 
 
 For his thought, which never stops. 
 
 Follows the water drops 
 
 Down to the graves of the dead, 
 
 Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 
 
 To the dreary fountain-head 
 
 Of lakes and rivers under ground. 
 
 And sees them, when the rain is done. 
 
 On the bridge of colors seven, 
 
 Climbing up once more to heaven, 
 
 Opposite the setting sun. 
 
 Thus the seer 
 
 With vision clear, 
 
 Sees forms appear and disappear. 
 
 In the perpetual round of strange 
 
 Mysterious change 
 
 From birth to death, from death to birth ; 
 
 From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 
 
 Till glimpses more sublime 
 
 Of things unseen before. 
 
 Unto his wondering eyes reveal 
 
 The universe, as an immeasurable wheel 
 
 Turning for evermore. 
 
 In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 
 
 H. W. LoNeFiiiLOW 
 
 LESSON GOV. 
 
 AUTtTMN NOON. 
 
 All was so still that I could almost count 
 The tinklings of the falling leaves. At times. 
 Perchance, a nut was heard to drop, and then— 
 As if it had slipped from him as he struck 
 The meat— a squirrel's short and fretful bark. 
 
434 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Anon, a troop of noisy, roving jays, 
 
 Whisking their gaudy topknots, would su rise 
 
 And seize upon the top of some tall tree. 
 
 Shrieking, as if on purpose to enjoy 
 
 The consternation of the noontide stillness. 
 
 Roused by the din, the squirrel from his hole. 
 
 Like some grave justice bent to keep the peace, 
 
 Thrust his gray pate, much wondering what it meant. 
 
 And squatted near me on a stone, there basked 
 
 A fly of larger breed and o'ergrown bulk, 
 
 In the warm sunshine, vain of his green coat 
 
 Of variable velvet, laced with gold, 
 
 That, ever and anon, would whisk about. 
 
 Vexing the stillness with his buzzing din, 
 
 As human fopling will do with his talk : 
 
 And o'er the mossy post of an old fence. 
 
 Lured from its crannies by the warmth, was spied 
 
 A swarm of gay motes waltzing to a tune 
 
 Of their own humming : quiet sounds, that serve 
 
 More deeply to impress us with a sense 
 
 Of silent loneliness and trackless ways. Geo. Hili. 
 
 LESSON CCVI. 
 
 A WINTER SCENE. 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing so peculiar in American meteor- 
 ology, as the phenomenon which I alone, probably, of all the 
 imprisoned inhabitants of Skaneateles, attributed to a kind and 
 " special Providence." Summer had come back, like Napo- 
 leon from Elba, and astonished usurping Winter in the pleni- 
 tude of apparent possession and security. No cloud foreboded 
 the change, as no alarm preceded the, apparition of the " child 
 of destiny." We awoke on a February morning, with the 
 «now lying chin-deep on the earth, and it was June ! The air 
 (vas soft and warm : the sky was clear and of the milky-ceru- 
 lean of chrysoprase : the south wind stole back suddenly from 
 the tropics, and found his flowery mistress asleep, and insen- 
 sible to his kisses, beneath her snowy mantle. The sunset 
 warmed back from its wintry purple to the golden tints of 
 heat ; the sta's burnt with a less vitreous sparkle; the meteors 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 435 
 
 slid once more lambently down the sky ; aftd the house-dove 
 sat on the eaves, washing her breast in the sn 5w water, and 
 thinking, like a neglected wife at a capricious return of her 
 truant's tenderness, that the sunshine would last forever. 
 
 The air wa* now full of music. The water trickled under 
 the snow ; and, as you looked around and saw no change 
 or motion in the white carpet of the earth, it seemed as if a 
 myriad of small bells were ringing under ground : fairies, per- 
 haps, started in mid-revel with the false alarm of summer, and 
 hurrying about with their silver anklets, to wake up the slum- 
 bering flowers. The mountain torrents were loosed, and rush- 
 ed down upon the valleys like the children of the mist; and 
 the hoarse war-cry, swelling and falling upon the wind, main- 
 tained its perpetual undertone like an accompaniment of bas- 
 soons ; and, occasionally, in a sudden lull of the breeze, you 
 would hear the click of the undermined snow-drifts dropping 
 upon the earth, as if the choristers of Spring were beating 
 time to the reviving anthem o^ nature. 
 
 The snow sunk, perhaps, a foot in a day ; but it was only 
 perceptible to the eye where you could measure its wet mark 
 against a tree from which it had fallen away, or by the rock 
 from which the dissolving bank shrunk and separated, as if 
 rocks and snow were as heartless as ourselves, and threw ofi 
 their friends, too, in their extremity. The low-lying lake, 
 meantime, surrounded by melting mountains, received the 
 abandoned waters upon its frozen bosom, and spreading them 
 into a placid and shallow lagoon, separated by a crystal plane 
 from its own lower depths, gave them the repose denied in the 
 more elevated sphere in which lay their birthright. And thus 
 (oh how full is nature of these gentle moralities!) and thus, 
 sometimes do the lowly, whose bosom, like the frozen lake, i.' 
 at first cold and unsympathetic to the rich and noble, still 
 ■ eceive them in adversity; and, when neighborhood and de 
 pendence have convinced them that they are made of the 
 same common element, as the lake melts its dividing and icy 
 plane, and mingles the strange waters with its own, do they 
 dissolve the unnatural barrier of prejudice, and take the 
 humbled wanderer to their bosom ! 
 
 It was a night of extraordinary beauty. The full moon was 
 high in the heavens at midnight; and there bad been a slight 
 
436 YOUNG LADIKS' READER. 
 
 shower soon after sunset, whieh, with the clearing up wind, had 
 frozen thinly into a most fragile rime, and glazed with trans- 
 parent crystal every thing open to tlie sky. The distant forest 
 looked serried with metallic trees, dazzling, and unspeakably 
 gorgeous ; and, as the night wind stirred through them, and 
 shook their crystal points in the moonlight, the aggregated 
 stars of heaven springing from their Maker's hand to the 
 spheres of their destiny, or the march of the host of the arch 
 angel Michael with their irradiate spear-points glittering in the 
 air, or the diamond beds of central earth thrust up to tlie sun 
 in some throe of the universe, would, each and all, have been 
 well bodied forth by such similitude. N. P. Wiiiis. 
 
 LESSON CCVII. 
 
 I DEEM thee not unlovely ; though thou comest 
 With a stern visage. To the tuneless bird, 
 The tender floweret, the rejoicing stream. 
 Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man, 
 Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry ; 
 Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys. 
 And deathless linking of warm heart to heart ; 
 So that the hoarse stream passes by unheard. 
 Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds. 
 And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet. 
 
 Man should rest 
 Thus from his feverish passions, and exhale 
 The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought. 
 And drink in holy health. As the tossed bark 
 Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay, 
 To trim its shattered cordage, and repair 
 Its riven sails ; so should the toil-worn mind 
 Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance, 
 Soured by the world's rough commerce, or impaired 
 By the wild wanderings of his summer's way. 
 Turns like a truant scholar to his home. 
 And yields his nature to sweet influencee 
 That purify and save. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 437 
 
 The ruddy boy 
 Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport, 
 And throwing off his skates, with boisterous glee, 
 Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand 
 Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls. 
 And draw him nearer, and, with gentle voice. 
 Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart 
 Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven 
 To bless the lad. 
 
 The timid infant learns 
 Better to love its father, longer sits 
 Upon his knee, and, with a velvet lip. 
 Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue 
 Hath never spoken. 
 
 Come thou to life's feast, 
 With dove-eyed meekness and bland charity. 
 And thou shalt find even winter's rugged blast 
 The minstrel teacher of the well-tuned loul. 
 And, when the last drop of its cup is drained, 
 Arising with a song of praise, go up 
 To the eternal banquet. Mns. SiGOTrniTET. 
 
 LESSON covin. 
 
 IT SNOWS. 
 
 " It snows !" cries the School-boy, " Hurrah !" and his shout 
 
 Is ringing through parlor and hall, 
 While swift as the wing of a swallow, he 's out. 
 
 And his play-mates have answered his call ; 
 It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy ; 
 
 Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow. 
 Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy. 
 
 As he gathers his treasures of snow ; 
 Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs. 
 While health, and the riches of nature, are theirs. 
 
 "It snows !" sighs the Imbecile, "Ah !" and his breath 
 
 Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight : 
 While, from the pale aspect of nature in death 
 
 He turns to the blaze of his grate ; 
 
438 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And nearer and nearer, his soft, cushioned chair 
 
 Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame ; 
 He dreads a chill pulF of the snow-burdened air. 
 
 Lest it wither His delicate frame ; 
 Oh ! small is the pleasure existence can give. 
 When the fear we shall die only proves that we live ! 
 
 "It snows!" cries the Traveler, "Ho!" and the word 
 
 Has quickened his steed's lagging pace ; 
 The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard, 
 
 Unfelt the sharp drift in his face ; 
 For bright through the tempest his own home appeared. 
 
 Ay, through leagues intervened he can see ; 
 There 's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared, 
 
 And his wife with her babes at her knee ; 
 Blest thought ! how it lightens the grief-laden hour. 
 That those we love dearest are safe from its power ! 
 
 " It snows !" cries the Belle, " Dear, how lucky !" and turns 
 
 From her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; 
 Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns. 
 
 While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : 
 There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth, 
 
 Floating over each drear winter's day ; 
 But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth. 
 
 Will melt like the snow-flakes away : 
 Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; 
 That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this. 
 
 "It snows!" cries the Widow, " Oh God !" and her sighs 
 
 Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; 
 Its burden ye '11 read, in her tear-swollen eyes, 
 
 On her cheek sunk with fasting and care. 
 'Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread. 
 
 But " He gives the young ravens their food," 
 And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread. 
 
 And she lays on her last chip of wood. 
 Poor suflerer ! that sorrow thy God only knows ; 
 'T is a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows ! 
 
 Mrs. S. J Hai*. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 439 
 
 LESSON CCIX. 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 During my residence in the^country, I used frequently to 
 attend at the old village church, which stood in a neighborhood 
 filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and 
 silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. 
 Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, its dark oaken 
 panneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, 
 seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, 
 too, in the country, is so holy in its repose, such a pensive 
 quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless pas- 
 sion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of 
 the soul gently springing up within us. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky !" 
 
 I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but 
 there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the 
 beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where 
 else ; and, if not a more religious, I think I am a better man 
 on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back 
 upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms 
 around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel 
 the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor, 
 decrepit, old woman, bending under the weight of years and 
 infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than ab- 
 ject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in 
 her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, 
 was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been 
 awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
 poor, but sat alone, on the steps of the altar. 
 
 She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all 
 society ; and to have nothing left her but the hope of heaven. 
 When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 
 prayer, habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied 
 hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which 
 she evidently knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering 
 voice of that poor woman arose to Heaven far before the 
 
440 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, oi the chanting 
 of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitermg about countiy churches, and this was 
 so delightfully situated, that it frequently atti'acted me. It stood 
 on a knoll, around which a stream made a beautiful bend, and 
 then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow 
 scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which 
 seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall, Gothic spire shot 
 up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally 
 wheeling about it. I was seated there, one still, sunny morn- 
 ing, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They 
 had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of 
 the church-yard; where, from the number of nameless graves 
 around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were 
 huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave 
 was for the only son of a poor widow. 
 
 While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, 
 which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of tlie bell 
 announced the approach of the funeral. They were the 
 obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. 
 A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other cover- 
 ing, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked 
 before, with an air of cold indifference. There were no 
 mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but there 
 was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It 
 was the aged mother of the deceased; the poor, old woman 
 whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was 
 supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to com- 
 fort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, 
 and some children of the village were running hand in hand, 
 now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, 
 with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
 from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer- 
 book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, how- 
 ever, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been desti- 
 tute, and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuffled through, 
 therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed 
 priest moved but a few steps from the church-door ; his voice 
 could 8car(?ely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 44] 
 
 funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned 
 into such a frigid mummery of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
 ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
 deceased; "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
 mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her 
 withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could 
 perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive 
 motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her 
 son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 
 
 The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit 
 the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which 
 breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection : 
 directions given in the cold tones of business ; the striking of 
 spades into sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we 
 love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around 
 seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched reverie. She 
 raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wild- 
 ness. As the men approached with cords, to lower the coffin 
 mto the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony 
 of grief. The poor woman who attended her, took her by the 
 arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper 
 something like consolation ; " Nay, now ; nay, now ; do n't 
 take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head, 
 and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
 cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental 
 obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tender- 
 ness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to 
 him, who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 1 
 could see no more; my heart swelled into my throat; my 
 eyes filled with tears ; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous 
 part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal 
 anguish; I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where 
 T remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
 grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
 her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart 
 ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the 
 rich? They have friends to soothe; pleasures to beguile; a 
 
442 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sor- 
 rows of the young ? Their growing minds soon close above 
 the wound; their elastic spirits soon rise from beneath the 
 pressure j their green and ductile affections soon twine around 
 new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no out- 
 ward appliances to soothe; the sorrows of the aged, with 
 wliom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for 
 no after-growth of joy; the sorrows of a widow, aged, soli- 
 tary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
 her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the 
 impotence of consolation. W. Ikyino. 
 
 LESSON CCX. 
 
 T H B SAME , C ONCLUDED. 
 
 It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my 
 way homeward, I met the woman who had acted as comforter. 
 She was just returning from accompanying the mother to her 
 lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con- 
 nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
 childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, 
 and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small 
 garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, 
 and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who 
 had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. "Oh, 
 sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a likely lad, so 
 sweet tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful 
 to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sun- 
 day, drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, sup- 
 porting his old mother to church; for she was always fonder 
 of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's ; and, poor 
 soul, she miglit well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was 
 not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scar- 
 city and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of 
 the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READEIL 443 
 
 been long in this employ, when he was entrapped by a press- 
 gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of 
 his seizure, but beyond that, they could learn nothing. It was 
 the loss of their main prop. The father, who was already 
 infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. 
 The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no 
 longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still, there 
 was a kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a 
 certain respect, as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no 
 one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many 
 happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she 
 lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature 
 were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little 
 garden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for 
 her. 
 
 It was but a few days before the time at which these cir- 
 cumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegeta- 
 bles for her repast, when she, heard the cottage door, which 
 faced the garden, suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and 
 seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was 
 dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, 
 and bore the air of one broken down by sickness and hardships. 
 He saw her, and hastened toward her, but his steps were faint 
 and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, ind sobbed 
 like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant 
 and wandering eye. " Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you 
 know your son? your poor boy George?" It was, indeed, the 
 wreck of her once noble lad ; who, shattered by wounds, by 
 sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his 
 wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his 
 childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
 where joy and sorrow were so completely blended. Still he 
 was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort 
 and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in 
 him; and if anything had been wanting to finish the work of 
 death, the desolation of his native cottage would have been 
 sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his 
 widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he 
 never rose from it again. 
 
444 YOUNG LADIKS' READER. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
 returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and 
 assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too 
 weak, however, to talk ; he could only look his thanks. His 
 mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwilling 
 to be helped by any other hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
 of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
 feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in ad- 
 vanced life, in sickness and despondence ; who that has pined 
 on a weary bed, in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; 
 but has thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," 
 that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? 
 Oh, there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to 
 a son, that transcends all the other affections of the heart ! It 
 is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, 
 nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. 
 She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will 
 surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in 
 his fame, and exult in his prosperity: if adversity overtake 
 him, he will be dearer to her by misfortune ; if disgrace settle 
 upon his name, she will stiU love and cherish him ; and, if aU 
 the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 
 
 Poor George Somers had known well what it was to be in 
 sickness, and have none to soothe ; lonely and in prison, and 
 none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his 
 sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She 
 would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. 
 Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look 
 anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bending over 
 him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and 
 fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. 
 
 My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, 
 was, to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecu- 
 niary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, 
 on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted 
 them to do every thing that the case admitted ; and, as the poor 
 know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not 
 venture to intrude. The next Sunday I was at the village 
 church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the old woman tottering 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 445 
 
 down the aisle, to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 
 She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
 for her son, and nothing could be more touching than this 
 struggle between pious affection and utter poverty. A black 
 ribbon, or so, a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more 
 such humble attempts were the only expression, by outward 
 signs, of that grief which passes show. When I looked arounH 
 upon the storied monuments ; the stately hatchments ; the cold, 
 marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently 
 over departed pride ; and turned to this poor widow, bowed 
 down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up 
 the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt 
 that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
 congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted 
 themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 
 lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few 
 steps to the grave In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
 she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left 
 the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that 
 she had quietly breathed her last, and gone to rejoin those she 
 loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
 are never parted. w. Iutisg. 
 
 LESSON CCXI. 
 
 DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 
 
 DiNG-DONCf! ding-dong! 
 Merry, merry go the bells ; 
 Ding-dong! ding-dong! 
 Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, 
 
 " Swinging slow with sullen roar." 
 Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay ! 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 
 
 Round the oak, and round the elm. 
 Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
 
 The sentry ghost it stands aloof, 
 So merrily, merrily foot it around. 
 
146 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
 Merry, tnerry go the bells, 
 Swelling in the nightly gale, 
 The sentry ghost. 
 It keeps its post. 
 And soon, and soon our sports jnust fail; 
 But let us trip the nightly ground. 
 While the merry, merry bells ring round. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ; 
 See, see, the winding-sheet! 
 
 Our dance is done. 
 
 Our race is run, 
 And we must lie at the alder's feet! 
 
 Ding-dong! ding-dong! 
 
 Merry, merry go the bells. 
 Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 
 
 And we must seek 
 
 Our deathbeds bleak. 
 Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 
 
 The Goddess of Consumption. 
 
 Come, Melancholy, sister mine ! 
 
 Cold the dews, and chill the night ; 
 Come from thy dreary shrine ! 
 The wan moon climbs the -heavenly hight, 
 And underneath the sickly ray. 
 Troops of squalid specters play. 
 And the dying mortal's groan 
 Startles the Night on her dusky throne 
 Come, come, sister mine! 
 Gliding on the pale moonshine: 
 We'll ride at ease. 
 On the tainted breeze. 
 And, oh ! our sport will be divine. 
 
 The Goddess of Mehncholy, 
 Sister, from my dark abode. 
 Where nests the raven, sits the toad, 
 Hither I come, at thy command : 
 Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
 I will smooth the way for thee. 
 Thou shalt furnish food for me. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 447 
 
 Come, let us speed our way 
 Where the troops of specters play ; 
 To charnel-houses, churchyards drear. 
 Where Death sits with a horrible leer, 
 A lasting grin on a throne of bones, 
 And skim along the blue tombstones. 
 
 Come, let us speed away, 
 Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
 
 I will smooth the way for thee, 
 
 Thou shalt furnish food for me : 
 And the grass shall wave 
 O'er many a grave 
 Where youth and beauty sleep together. 
 
 Consumption. 
 Come, let us speed our way ! 
 Join our hands, and spread our tether ! 
 I will furnish food for thee. 
 Thou shalt smooth the way for me ; 
 And the grass shall wave 
 O'er many a grave 
 Where youth and beauty sleep together 
 
 Melancholy. 
 Hist ! sister, hist ! who comes here t 
 Oh ! I know her by that tear, 
 By that blue eye's languid glare, 
 By her skin and by her hair ; 
 
 She is mine. 
 
 And she is thine ; 
 Now the deadliest draught prepare. 
 
 Consumption. 
 In the dismal night-air dressed, 
 I will creep into her breast ! 
 Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin. 
 And feed on the vital fire within. 
 Lover, do not trust her eyes : 
 When they sparkle most, she dies ! 
 Mother, do not trust her breath : 
 Comfort she will breathe in death! 
 Father, do not strive to save her : 
 She is mine, and I must have her ! 
 The ooiEn must be her bridal bed, 
 The winding-sheet must wrap her head , 
 
448 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The whispering winds must o'er iier sigh, 
 For soon in the grave the maid must lie ; 
 
 The worm it will riot 
 
 On heavenly diet, 
 When death has deflowered her eye. H. K. Whitb. 
 
 LESSON CCXII. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, 
 
 The saddest of the year, 
 Of wailing winds, and nalced woods. 
 
 And meadows brown and sear. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove 
 
 The withered leaves lie dead ; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, 
 
 And to the rabbit's tread. 
 The robin and the wren have flown, 
 
 And from the shrub the jay. 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow 
 
 Through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young lilowers. 
 
 That lately sprung and stood 
 [n brighter light and softer airs, 
 
 A beauteous sisterhood 'i 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves , 
 
 The gentle race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds. 
 
 With the fair and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie, 
 
 But the cold November rain 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth 
 
 The lovely ones again. 
 
 The wall-flower and the violet, 
 
 Thei/ perished long ago, 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died 
 
 Amid the summer's glow ; 
 But on the hill, the golden rod, 
 
 And the aster in the wood, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 449 
 
 And the yellow sun-flower by the brook 
 
 In autumn beauty stood, 
 Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven. 
 
 As falls the plague on men, 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone 
 
 From upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm, mild day. 
 
 As still such days will come, 
 To call the squirrel and the bee 
 
 From out their winter home ; 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
 
 Though all the trees are still, 
 And twinkle in the smoky light 
 
 The waters of the rill. 
 The south wind searches for the flowers 
 
 Whose fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood 
 
 And by the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one, who in 
 
 Her youthful beauty died. 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up 
 
 And faded by my side ; 
 [n the cold, moist earth we laid her, 
 
 When the forest cast the leaf. 
 And we wept that one so lovely 
 
 Should have a life so brief: 
 Vet not unmeet it was that one. 
 
 Like that young friend of ours. 
 So gentle and so beautiful, 
 
 Should perish with the flowers. VV. C. BmAire, 
 
 LESSON CCXIII. 
 
 AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
 
 Those few, pale,autumn flowers, 
 
 How beautiful they are ! 
 Than all that went before, 
 Than all the summer store, 
 How lovelier far ! 
 38 
 
45f* YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And why 1 They are the last ! 
 
 The last! the last! the last! 
 Oh ! by that little word, 
 How many thoughts are stirred ' 
 
 That sister of the past I 
 
 Pale flowers ! pale, perishing floweiti 1 
 
 Ye 're types of g^recious things : 
 Types of those bitter moments, 
 That flit like life's enjoyments, 
 On rapid, rapid wings ; 
 
 Last hours with parting dear ones, 
 (That time the fastest spends,) 
 
 Last tears in silence shed. 
 
 Last words half uttered. 
 Last looks of dying friends. 
 
 Who would but fain compress 
 
 A life into a day ? 
 The last day spent with one 
 Who, ere the morrow's sun, 
 
 .Must leave us, and for aye ! 
 
 Oh, precious, precious moments ! 
 
 Pale flowers ! ye 're types of those 
 The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! 
 Because, like those, the nearest 
 
 To an eternal close. 
 
 Pale flowers ! pale, perishing flowers ; 
 
 I woo your gentle breath ; 
 I leave the summer rose 
 For younger, blither brows : 
 
 Tell me of change and death. 
 
 Miss C. howLES. 
 
 LESSON CCXIV. 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 The Moss-Mose. 
 The angel that nurses the flowers, and sprinkles the dew 
 apon them in the stilly night, was slumbering, one spring day. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 451 
 
 in the shadow of a rose-bush. When he awoke, with smiling 
 countenance, he said: "Loveliest of my children, I thank 
 thee for thy reviving odor, and thy cooling shade. Couldst 
 thou yet pray for anything more, how cheerfully would I 
 grant it to thee !" "Adorn me then with some new grace," at 
 once entreated the spirit of the rose-bush ; and the angel of 
 the flowers adorned the most beautiful of flowers with the 
 simple moss. Then stood it forth, in modest grace, the moss- 
 rose, the choicest of its kind. 
 
 Beautiful Lina, let alone the spangled attire and precious 
 stones, and follow the beck of maternal nature. 
 
 The Defense. 
 
 When Nature, by her almighty creative breath, had formed 
 the loveliest of flowers, the rose, the spirit of the rose-bush 
 said to the angel of flowers : " Wilt thou not grant also to the 
 noble bush a defense, which shall secure it from harm and evil ? 
 Nature has given to the thorn-bush large and sharp prickles !" 
 
 "The thorn -bush," replied the angel of flowers, "belongs 
 not to the noble, but to the servants in the kingdom of crea- 
 tion. Its design is to protect the tender plants against irra- 
 tional animals, and on that account nature gave to it the thorns. 
 Yet thy wish shall be fulfilled!" Thus he spake, and covered 
 the rose-bush with delicate prickles. Then said the spirit of 
 the rose : " To what purpose are these slender thorns ? they 
 will not defend the splendid flower." 
 
 The angel of flowers replied : " They are intended only to 
 restrain the hand of the thoughtless child. Eesistance would 
 only more powerfully allure to mischief. That which is holy 
 and beautiful has its defense in itself: therefore nature gave to 
 it the most delicate defense, which only admonishes, but does 
 not wound; for with the beautiful must only the delicate be 
 
 associated.' 
 
 So has she given to innocence, bashfulness and blushing. 
 
 F. A. KnuMMAcasn. 
 
452 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CCXV. 
 
 THE PENITENT SON. 
 
 Ere Ihe psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and a 
 tall, fine-looking man entered, but with a lowering, dark 
 countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse. 
 Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck, by the melancholy, and 
 dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, and looked, with a 
 ghastly face, towards his father's death-bed. When the psalm 
 ceased, the father said with a solemn voice, " My son, thou 
 art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May the 
 remembrance of what shall happen in this room, win thee 
 from the error of thy ways. Thou art here to witness the 
 mercy of thy God and Savior, whom thou hast denied." 
 
 The minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with an 
 upbraiding countenance, on the young man, who had not 
 recovered his speech, and said, " William ! for three years past 
 your shadow has not darkened the door of the house of God. 
 They who fear not the thunder, may tremble at the still, small 
 voice. Now is the hour for repentance, that your father's spirit 
 may carry up to heaven tidings of a contrite soul, saved from 
 the company of sinners." 
 
 The young man, with much eifort, advanced to the bed-side, 
 and at last found voice to say, " Father, I am not without the 
 affections of nature, and I hurried home as soon as I heard 
 that the minister had been seen riding toward our house. I 
 hope that you will yet recover ; and if ever 1 have made you 
 unhappy, I ask your forgiveness ; for though I may not think 
 as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. Fa- 
 ther, I may have been unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your 
 forgiveness." 
 
 " Come nearer to me, William ; kneel down by the bed- 
 side, and let my hand find the head of my beloved son, for 
 blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born, 
 and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters 
 are lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet face 
 thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert 
 thou the joy, the pride, ay, too much the pride of my soul. 
 If thy heart has since been changed, God may inspire it again 
 with right thoughts. Could I die for thy sake ! could I pur- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 453 
 
 chase thy salvation with the outpouring of my blood ! but this 
 the Son of God has done for thee, who hast denied him ! T 
 have sorely wept for thee, ay, William, when there was none 
 near me, even as David wept for Absalom ; for thee, my son, 
 my son !" 
 
 A long, deep groan was the only reply ; but the whole body 
 of the kneeling man, was convulsed ; and it was easy to see 
 his suffering, his contrition, his remorse, and his despair. 
 The pastor said, with a sterner voice and austerer countenance 
 than were natural to him, "Know you whose hand is now 
 lying on your rebellious head ? But what signifies the word 
 father to him who has denied God, the father of us all ?" 
 " Oh ! press him not so hardly," said the weeping wife, com- 
 ing forward from a dark corner of the room, where she had 
 tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame ; " spare, oh ! 
 spare my husband ! he has ever been kind to me :" and with 
 that she knelt down beside him, with her long, soft, white 
 arms mournfully and affectionately laid across his neck. " Go 
 thou, likewise, my sweet, little Jamie," said the dying man, 
 " go even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father 
 and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at once." 
 
 The child did as that solemn voice commanded, and knelt 
 down somewhat timidly by his father's side ; nor did that un- 
 happy man decline encircling in his arms the child, too much 
 neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in spite of the 
 deadening and debasing influence of infidelity. "Put the 
 Word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read 
 aloud to his dying father the 25th, 26th, and 27th verses of 
 the eleventh chapter of the gospel according to St. John." 
 The pastor went up to the kneelers, and with a voice of pity, 
 condolence, and pardon, said, "There was a time when none, 
 WiUiam, could read the scriptures better than couldst thou : 
 can it be that the son of my friend hath forgotten the lessons 
 
 of his youth?" 
 
 He had not forgotten them: there was no need for the re- 
 pentant sinner to raise his eyes from the bed-side The sacred 
 stream of the gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the 
 waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said, 
 "Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the hie; he 
 that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he hve; 
 
454 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 and whosoever liveth, and believeth in mo, shall never die. 
 Believest thou this ? She saith unto Him, Yea, Lord; I be- 
 lieve that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should 
 come into the world." " That is not an unbeliever's voice," 
 said the dying man, triumphantly ; " nor, William, hast thou 
 an unbeliever's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou 
 hast now read, and thy father shall die happy!" "I do be- 
 lieve ; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my 
 Father, who is in heaven." 
 
 The father seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new 
 life. His faded eyes kindled ; his pale cheek glowed ; his 
 palsied hand seemed to wax strong ; and his voice was . clear 
 as that of manhood in its prime. " Into thy hands, God, I 
 commit my spirit." And so saying, he gently sunk back on 
 his pillow, and I heard a sigh. There was then a long, deep 
 silence ; and the father, and mother, and child rose from their 
 knees. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white, 
 placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest ; and 
 without lamentations, save the lamentations of the resigned 
 soul, we stood around the death-bed of the father. 
 
 J. Wilson. 
 
 LESSON OCX VI. 
 the admonition. 
 
 The School-Bov had been rambling all the day, 
 A careless, thoughtless idler, till the night 
 Came on, and warned him homeward : then he left 
 The meadows, where the morning had been passed. 
 Chasing the butterfly, and took the road 
 Toward the cottage where his mother dwelt ; 
 He had her parting blessing, and she watched 
 Once more to >reathe a welcome to her child. 
 Who sauntered lazily — ungrateful boy ! 
 Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth; 
 And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown, 
 He passed within the wicket-gate, which led 
 Into the village church-yard : then be paused 
 And earnestly looked round ; for o'er his head 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 455 
 
 The gloomy cypress waved, and at his feet 
 Lay the last bed of many a villager. 
 
 But on again he pressed with quickened step, 
 " Whistling aloud to keep his courage up." 
 The bat came flapping by ; the ancient church 
 Threw its deep shadows o'er the path he trod. 
 And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf; 
 For now he fancied that all shapeless forms 
 Came flitting by him, each with bony hand, 
 And motion as if threatening; while a weight 
 Unearthly pressed the sachel and the slate 
 He strove to keep within his grasp. The wind 
 Played with the feather that adorned his cap. 
 And seemed to whisper something horrible. 
 The clouds had gathered thickly round the moon ; 
 But, now and then, her light shone gloriously 
 Upon the sculptured tombs and humble graves, 
 Ajid, in a moment, all was dark again. 
 
 O'ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down. 
 And wildly gazed around him, till his eye 
 Fell on a stone, on which these warning words 
 Were carved : 
 
 " TiMK ! thou art flying rapidly. 
 
 But whither art thou flying ?" 
 " To the grave, which yours will be ; 
 
 I wait not for the dying. 
 In early youth you laughed at me. 
 
 And, laughing, passed life's morning; 
 But, in thine age, I laugh at thee ; 
 
 Too late to give thee warning." 
 
 " Death ! thy shadowy form I see. 
 
 The steps of Time pursuing : 
 Like him thou comest rapidly : 
 
 What deed must thou be doing V 
 " Mortal ! my message is for thee : 
 
 Thy chain to earth is rended : 
 [ bear thee to eternity : 
 
 Prepare ! thy course is ended !' 
 
 Attentively the fainting boy perused 
 
 The warning lines ; then grew more terrified, 
 
466 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 For, from the grave, there seemed to rise a voice, 
 
 Repeating them, and telling him of time 
 
 Misspent, of death approaching rapidly, 
 
 And of the dark eternity that followed. 
 
 His fears increased, till on the ground he lay, 
 
 Almost bereft of feeling and of sense. 
 
 And there his mother found him : 
 
 From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child. 
 
 Frightened to feel his clammy hands, and hear 
 
 The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came. 
 
 'T was strange the influence which that fearful hour 
 Had o'er his future life ; for, from that night, 
 He was a thoughtful, an industrious boy. 
 And still the memory of those warning words 
 Bids him reflect, now that he is a man. 
 And writes these feeble lines that others may. 
 
 Anohtmocs 
 
 LESSON CCXVll. 
 
 THE THRICE CLOSED EYE. 
 
 The eye was closed, and calm the breast; 
 'T was sleep ; the weary was at rest. 
 While fancy on her rainbow wings. 
 Ranged through a world of new made things, 
 'Mid regions pure and visions bright. 
 Formed but to mock the waking sight. 
 For ah ! how light does slumber sit 
 On sorrow's brow ! how quickly flit 
 From her pale throne, when envious care 
 Comes robed in clouds, and frowning, there ! 
 
 Again ; 1 saw the falling lid, 
 
 And from his sight the world was hid ; 
 
 The lip was moved ; the knee was bent : 
 
 The heavy-laden spirit went. 
 
 Bearing her burden from the dust 
 
 Up to her only rock of trust ; 
 
 And, childlike, on her Father's breast 
 
 Cast oif the load, and found her rest ! 
 
 And this was prayer ; 'twas faith and love 
 
 Communing with a God above ! 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 457 
 
 At length that eye was locked j the key 
 
 Had opened heaven ; 't was Death ; 't was he 
 
 Had sweetly, qaelled the mortal strife," 
 
 And to the saint, the gates of life 
 
 Unfolded. On the sleeper's brow 
 
 Lay the smboth seal of quiet, now, 
 
 Which none could break. The soul that here 
 
 Dwelt with eternal things so near. 
 
 Had burst her bonds, to soar on high. 
 
 And left to earth the thrice-closed eye ! 
 
 Miss H. F. Godi.d. 
 
 LESSON CCXVIII. 
 
 LOOK ALOFT . 
 
 In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
 Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, 
 If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, 
 " Look aloft !" and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 
 
 If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow, 
 With a smile for each joy and a tear for ezich woe. 
 Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, 
 "Look aloft I" to the, friendship which never shall fade. 
 
 Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, 
 Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 
 Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, 
 " Look aloft !" to the sun that is never to set. 
 
 Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart. 
 The wife of thy bosom in sorrow depart, 
 " Look aloft I" from the darkness and dust of the tomb. 
 To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. 
 
 And oh ! when death comes in his terrors, to oast 
 His fears on the future, his pall on the past. 
 In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, 
 And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft!" and depart. 
 
 J. LAW11ENC8. 
 
458 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON CCXIX. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF HOPE. 
 
 I WAS musing on the strange inclination which every man 
 feels to deceive himself, and considering the advantages and 
 dangers proceeding from this gay prospect of futurity, when, 
 f-xlling asleep, I found myself suddenly placed in a garden, 
 of which ray siglit could descry no limits. Every scene about 
 me was gay and gladsome, light with sunshine; and fragrant 
 with perfumes; the ground was painted with all the variety 
 of spring, and all the choir of nature was singing in the 
 groves. 
 
 When I had recovered from the first raptures, with which 
 the confusion of pleasure had for a time entranced me, I began 
 to take a particular and deliberate view of this delightful re- 
 gion. I then perceived that I had yet higher gratifications to 
 expect, and that, at a small distance from me, there were 
 brighter flowers, clearer fountains, and more lofty groves, 
 where the birds, which I yet heard but faintly, were exerting 
 all their power of melody. The trees about me were beautiful 
 with verdure, and fragrant with blossoms ; but I was tempted 
 to leave them by the sight of ripe fruits, which seemed to hang 
 only to be plucked. I therefore walked hastily forward, but 
 found, as I proceeded, that the polors of the field faded at my 
 approach, the fruit fell before I reached it, the birds flew still 
 singing before me, and, though I pressed onward with great 
 celerity, I was still in sight of pleasures of which I could not 
 yet gain the possession, and which seemed to mock my dili- 
 gence, and to retire as I advanced. 
 
 Though I was confounded with so many alternations of joy 
 and grief, I yet persisted to go forward, in hopes that these fugi- 
 tive delights would, in time, be overtaken. At length I saw an 
 innumerable multitude of every age and of both sexes, who 
 seemed all to partake of some general felicity ; for every cheek 
 was flushed with confidence, and every eye sparkled with 
 eagerness; yet each appeared to have some particular and 
 secret pleasure, and very few were willing to communicate 
 tliP-ir intentions, or extend their concern beyond themselves. 
 Most of them seemed, by the rapidity of their motion, too 
 busy to gratify the curiosity of a stranger, and, therefore, 1 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 459 
 
 was content for a while to gaze upon them, without interrupt- 
 ing them with troublesome inquiries. 
 
 But seeing a young man, gay and thoughtless, I resolved to 
 accost him, and was informed that I was in the garden of Hope, 
 the daughter of Desire, and that all those, whom I saw thus 
 tumultuously bustling around me, were incited by the promises 
 of Hope, and were hastening to seize the gifts which she held 
 in her hand. I turned my sight upward, and saw a goddess 
 in the bloom of youth sitting on a throne. Around her lay all 
 the gifts of fortune, and all the blessings of life were spread 
 abroad to view. She had a perpetual gayety of aspect, and 
 every one imagined that her smile, which was impartial and 
 general, was directed to himself, and triumphed in his own 
 superiority to others, who had conceived the same confidence 
 from the same mistake. 
 
 I then mounted an eminence, from which I had a more ex- 
 tensive view of the whole place, and could with less perplexity 
 consider the different conduct of the crowds that filled it. 
 From this station I observed that the entrance into the garden 
 of Hope was by two gates, one of which was kept by Reason, 
 and the other by Fancy. Reason was surly and scrupulous, 
 and seldom turned the key without many interrogatories and 
 long hesitation. But Fancy was a kind and gentle portress. 
 She held her gate wide open, and welcomed all equally to the 
 district under her superintendence; so that the passage was 
 crowded by all those who either feared the examination of 
 Reason, or had been rejected by her. 
 
 From the gate of Reason there was a way to the throne of 
 Hope, by a craggy, slippery, and winding path, called the 
 Strait of Bifficully, which those, who entered with permis- 
 sion of the guard, endeavored to climb. But, though they 
 surveyed the way very carefully before they began to rise, 
 and marked out the several stages, of their progress, they com- 
 monly found unexpected obstacles, and were often obliged to 
 stop suddenly, where they imagined the way plain and 
 even. A thousand intricacies embarrassed them, a thousand 
 slips threw them back, and a thousand pitfalls impeded their 
 idvance. So formidable were the dangers, ftnd so frequent the 
 miscarriages, that many returned from the first attempt, and 
 many fainted in the midst of the way, and only a very smaD 
 
460 YOXING LADIES' READER. 
 
 number were led up to the summit of hope, by the hand of 
 Fortitude. Of these few, the greater part, when they had ob- 
 tained the gift which Hope had promised them, regretted the 
 labor which it cost, and felt disappointment even in their suc- 
 cess : the rest retired witli their prize, and were led by "Wis- 
 dom to the bowers of Content. 
 
 Turning then toward the gate of Fancy, I could find no 
 way to the seat of Hope ; but, though she sat full in view, and 
 held out her gifts with an air of invitation, which filled every 
 heart with rapture, the mountain was, on that side, inaccessibly 
 steep, but so channeled and shaded, mat none perceived the 
 impossibility of ascending it, but each imagined himself to 
 have discovered a way to which the rest were strangers. 
 Many expedients were indeed tried by this industrious tribe, 
 of whom some were making themselves wings, which others 
 were contriving to actuate by the perpetual motion. But, v^ith 
 all their labor, and all their artifices, they never rose above 
 the ground, or quickly fell back, nor ever approached the 
 throne of Hope, but continued still to gaze at a distance, and 
 laughed at the slow progress of those whom they saw toUing 
 in the Strait of Difficulty. 
 
 Part of the favorites of Fancy, when they had entered the 
 garden, without making, like the rest, an attempt to climb the 
 mountain, turned immediately to the Vale of Idleness, a calm 
 and undisturbed retirement, from whence they could always 
 have Hope in prospect, and to which they pleased themselves 
 with believing that she intended speedily to descend. These 
 were indeed scorned by all the rest; but they seemed very 
 little affected by contempt, advice, or reproof, but were re- 
 solved to expect at ease the favor of the goddess. Among 
 this gay race I was wandering, and found them ready to answer 
 all my questions, and willing to communicate their mirth ; but, 
 turning round, I saw two dreadful monsters entering the vale. 
 One of them I knew to be Age, and the other Want. Sport 
 and reveling were now at an end, and a universal shriek of 
 affright and distress burst out and awaked me. Dr. Johwsoit 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 461 
 
 LESSON CCXX. 
 
 THE GLOVE AND THE LION. 
 
 King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, 
 
 And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; 
 
 The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, 
 
 And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he 
 
 sighed : 
 And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, 
 Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. 
 
 Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; 
 
 They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with 
 
 their paws ; 
 With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another ; 
 Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; 
 The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air : 
 Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." 
 
 De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame. 
 With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed 
 
 the same ; 
 She thought, " the Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be, 
 He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me ; 
 King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; 
 I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will be mine." 
 
 She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him, and 
 
 smiled, 
 He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild : 
 The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the place. 
 Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. 
 " In faithj" cried Francis, " rightly done !" and he rose from where 
 
 he sat ; 
 " Not /ooe," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task like thi** " 
 
 LESSON CCXXI. 
 
 JOH'V GILPIN. 
 
 John Gir*iN was a citizen of credit and renown, 
 
 A train-band captain eke 'was he of famous LonSon town.' 
 
462 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse ^aid to her dear, "Though wedded we nave been, ' 
 /These twice'ten tedfons years, ^et we^no holiclay have seen:-' 
 To-morrow isibur wedding-day/ and we will then'repair 
 tJntoihe Bell a< Ed'monton til in k chaise 4ind pair :■'' 
 /My sisier and/my sister's child 'myself 4nd children three. 
 Will fill the chaise'; so you'iiiust ride'on horsA)ack aftei^we." ' 
 
 JRe soon replied, ** I do adinire of ■^vomankind ^ut one, 
 'And you/are she,' my deajtest dear,/therefore'it shall'be done. 
 I I art^a linen/draper bold, as all tfte worldraoth know/ 
 /And my'good friend/the calMidrer will lentf his horsffto go.'f 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That's well said ; and, for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear." 
 John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; o'erjoyed was he to find. 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not al- 
 lowed 
 
 To drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was prou"d ; 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in ; 
 
 Six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were* never folk so 
 glad ; 
 
 The stones did rattle underneath, as if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, 
 And up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; 
 For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, 
 When, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 
 'Twas long before the customers were suited to their mind. 
 When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, " The wine is left 
 
 behind !" 
 ' Good lack!" quoth he ; " yet bring it me, my leathern belt like- 
 wise. 
 In which I bear my trusty sword when I do exercise." 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, (careful soul !) had two stone bottles found. 
 To hold the liquor that he loved, and keep it safe and sound. 
 Each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, 
 A.nd hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 463 
 
 Then ovei all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, 
 
 His long, red cloak, well-brushed and neat, he manfully did throw 
 
 Now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed ; 
 But finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, 
 The snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. 
 So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, but John he cried in vain ; 
 That trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So, stooping down, as needs he must, who cannot sit upright, 
 
 He grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his 
 
 might. 
 His horse, who never in that sort had handled been before, 
 What thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; away went hat and wig; 
 He little dreamed, when he set out, of running such a rig. 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay. 
 Till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; 
 A bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung : 
 The dogs did DEirk, the children screamed, up flew the windows all- 
 And every soul cried out " Well done I" as loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin ; who but he? his fame soon spread around, 
 " He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 'tis for a thousand pound !" 
 And still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view. 
 How in a trice the turnpike men their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down, his reeking head full Jow, 
 The bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. 
 Down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen. 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, as they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced ; 
 For all might see the bottle-necks still dangling at his waist. 
 Thus all through merry Islington these jambols he did play. 
 Until he came unto the Wash of Edmonton so gay ; 
 And there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way. 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife froni the balcony sr'"-' 
 
 Her tender husband, wond'ring much to see now he di'' ride. 
 
464 YOUNG LADIES' READEB. 
 
 " Stop, Stop, John Gilpin ! Here's the house," they all at once did 
 
 cry; 
 "The dinner waits, and we are tired:" said Gilpin, "So am I!" 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there ; 
 For why 1 — his owner had a house full ten miles off, at Ware ; 
 So, like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong ; 
 So did he fly ; which brings me to the middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, 
 
 Till at his friend the calendrer's his horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calendrer, amazed to see his neighbor in such trim. 
 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him : 
 
 " What news % what news ? your tidings tell ; tell me you must 
 
 and shall ; 
 Say why bareheaded you a»'e come, or why you come at all !" 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; 
 
 And thus unto the calendrer fn merry guise he spoke : 
 
 "I came because your horse would come; and, if I well forebode, 
 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon th§ road." 
 
 The calendrer, right glad to hi>d his friend in merry pin, 
 Returned him not a single wor4, but to the house went in : 
 Whence straight he caine with hat and wig ; a wig that flowed 
 
 behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for Tcear, each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his tu;-n thus showed his ready wit ; 
 " My head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit. 
 But let me scrape the dirt away, that hangs upon your face ; 
 And stop and eat, for well you may be' in a hungry cise." 
 
 Said John, " It is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare. 
 If wite should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware." 
 So, turning to hi", horse, he said, " 1 am in haste to dine ; 
 'T was for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for 
 ini»»e." 
 
 Ah, luckless spec-h and bootless boast ! for which he paid full dear ; 
 
 For, while he spaJ^e, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snor*, as he had heard a lion roar, 
 
 And galloped oflT vrith all b's might, as he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 
 
 He lost them sooner than at first, for why 1 — they were too big. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 465 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her hushand posting down 
 Into the country far away, she pulled out half a crown ; 
 And thus unto the youth she said, that drove them to the Bell, 
 " This shall be yours when you bring back ray husband safe and 
 well." 
 
 The youtli did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein ; 
 But, not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, * 
 The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away went postboy at his heels. 
 
 The postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeiirg Gilpin fly, 
 
 With postboy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry : 
 
 "Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!" not one of them was 
 
 mute ; 
 And all and each that passed that way did, join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space ; 
 The tollmen thinking, as before, that Gilpin rode a race. 
 And so he did, and won it too, for he, got first to town ; 
 Nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing. Long live the King, and Gilpin, long live he ; 
 And when he next doth ride Abroad, may I be there to see ! 
 
 COWPEB. 
 
 LESSON CCXXII. 
 
 THE NEW year's NIGHT. 
 
 On new-year's night, an old man stood at his window, and 
 looked,, with a glance of fearful despair, up to the immovable, 
 unfading heaven, and down upon the still, pure, white earth, 
 on which no one was now so joyless and sleepless as he. His 
 grave stood near him ; it was covered only with the snows of 
 age, not with the verdure of youth ; and he brought with him 
 out of a whole, rich life, nothing but errors, sins, and diseases ; 
 
 wasted body ; a desolate soul ; a heart full of poison ; and 
 an old age full of repentance. The happy days of his early 
 youth passed before him, like a procession of specters, and 
 
 a 
 
466 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 brought back to him that lovely morning, whsn his father first 
 placed him on the cross-way of life, where the right hand led 
 by the sunny paths of virtue, into a large and quiet land, full 
 of light and harvests ; and the left plunged b) the subterranean 
 wallis of vice, into a black cave, full of distilling poison, of 
 hissing snakes, and of dark, sultry vapors. 
 
 Alas, the snakes were hanging upon his breast, and the 
 (frops of poison on his tongue ; and he now, at length, felt all 
 the horror of his situation. Distracted, with unspeakable 
 grief, and with face up-turned to heaven, he cried, " My father ! 
 give me back my youth ! O, place me once again upon life's 
 cross-way, that I may choose aright." But his father and his 
 youth were long since gone. He saw phantom-lights dancing 
 upon the marshes, and disappearing at the church-yard ; and he 
 said, " These are my foolish days !" He saw a star shoot 
 from heaven, and glittering in its fall, vanish upon the earth 
 " Behold an emblem of my career," said his bleeding heart, and 
 the serpent tooth of repentance digged deeper into his wounds. 
 
 His excited imagination showed him specters flying upon the 
 roof, and a skull, which had been left in the charnel-house, 
 gradually assumed his own features. In the midst of this con- 
 fusion of objects, the music of the new-year flowed down from 
 the steeple, like distant church-melodies. His heart began to 
 melt. He looked around the horizon, and over the wide earth, 
 and thought of the friends of his youth, who now, better and 
 happier than he, were the wise of the earth, prosperous men, 
 and the fathers of happy children ; and he said, " Like you, I 
 also might slumber, with tearless eyes, through the long nights, 
 had I chosen aright in the outset of my career. Ah, my father ! 
 had I hearkened to thy instructions, I top might have been 
 happy." 
 
 In this feverish remembrance of his 5'outhful days, the skull 
 bearing his features, seemed slowly to rise from the door of 
 the charnel-house. At length, by that superstition, which, in 
 the new-year's night, sees the shadow of the future, it be- 
 came a living youth. He could look no longer ; he covered 
 his eyes ; a, thousand burning tears streamed down, and fell 
 upon the snow. In accents scarcely audible, he sighed discon- 
 solately': " Oh, days of my youth, return, return !" And they 
 did return. It had only been a horrible dream. But, although 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 467 
 
 he was still a youth, his errors had been a reality. And he 
 thanked God, that he, still young, was able to pause in the 
 degrading course of vice, and return lo the sunny path which 
 leads to the land of harvests. Richtkb. 
 
 LESSON CCXXIII. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 In one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
 letter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening 
 almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of 
 the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster 
 Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the 
 mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed its 
 threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the region of an- 
 tiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 
 
 I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, 
 through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost sub- 
 terranean look, and pursued my walk to an arched door, open- 
 ing to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the mag- 
 nitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted 
 with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder 
 at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches 
 springing from them to such an amazing hight; and man 
 wandering about their bases, shrinks into insignificance in com- 
 parison with his own handwork. It seems as if the awful 
 nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes 
 the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are 
 surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past 
 times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth 
 with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the 
 vanity of human ambitiqp, to see how they are crowded to- 
 gether and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in 
 doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a Uttle portion of 
 earth to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; 
 and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices are devised to 
 catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from for* 
 
468 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 getfiilness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired 
 to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 
 
 I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end 
 of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the A.bbey. The monu- 
 ments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford 
 no striking theme for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison 
 have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have 
 busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
 standing the simplicity of , these memorials, I have always 
 observed that the visitors to the Abbey remain longest about 
 them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of the cold 
 curiosity or vague admiration, with which they gaze on the 
 splendid monuments of the great and heroic. They linger 
 about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for 
 there is something of companionship between the author and 
 the reader. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory ; 
 for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sound- 
 ing actions, but whole treasures of wisdOm, bright gems of 
 thought, and golden veins of language.: 
 
 I entered that part of the Abbey which contains the sepul- 
 cliers of the kings. I wandered among what were once 
 ehapels, biit which are now occupied by the tombs and monu- 
 ments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustri- 
 ous name, or the cognizance of some powerful house, re- 
 nowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky cham- 
 bers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; some 
 kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon 
 tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; warriors in ar- 
 mor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates, with crosiers and 
 miters ; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in 
 state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet 
 where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we 
 were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being 
 had been suddenly transmuted into stone» 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner, stands a monu- 
 ment which is one of the most renowned achievements of 
 modern art ; but which, to me, appears horrible, rather than 
 sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillr-.c. 
 The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open 
 its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The 
 
YOUNG LADIESs READER. 469 
 
 shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he lanches his 
 dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's 
 arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the 
 blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and s])irit. 
 We almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph, burst- 
 ing from the distorted jaws of the specter. But why should 
 v?e thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to 
 spread horrors around the tomb of those we love ? The grave 
 should be surrounded by every thing that might inspire ten- 
 derness and veneration for the dead, or that might win the 
 living to virtue. It is the place, not of distrust and dismay, 
 but of sorrow and meditation. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of one of the chapels present a 
 touching instance of the equality of the grave. In one is the 
 sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her 
 victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the 
 day, but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the 
 latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls 
 of Elizabeth's sepulcher continually echo with the sighs of 
 sympathy, heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melan- 
 choly reigns over the place where Mary lies buried. The light 
 struggles dimly through windows, darkened by dust. The 
 greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are 
 stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of 
 Mary is stretched upon the tomb, around which is an iron rail, 
 ing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem, the thistle. ] 
 was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by 
 the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and dis- 
 astrous story of poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the Abbey. 
 I could only hear, now and- then, the distant voice of the priest, 
 repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the 
 choir. These paused for a time, and all was hushed. : Sud- 
 denly, the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, 
 falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling as it 
 were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
 grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp 
 do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful 
 harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent 
 sepulcher vocal ! And now, they rise in triumphant acclama- 
 
470 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and 
 piling sound on sound. And now, they pause, and the soft 
 voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; 
 they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play 
 about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again, 
 the pealing organ heaves ils thrilling thunders, compressing air 
 into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long- 
 drawn cadences ! What solemn, sweeping concords ! It grows 
 more and more dense and powerful ; it fills the vast pile, and 
 seems to jar the very walls ; the ear is stunned ; the senses 
 are overwhelmed. And now, it is winding up in fuU jubilee ; 
 it is rising from earth to heaven ; tlie very soul seems rapt 
 away, and floating upward on this swelling note of harmony ! 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
 strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire. The shadows of 
 evening were gradually thickening around me ; the monuments 
 began to cast a deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock 
 gave token of the slowly waning day. I rose, and retraced 
 my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the 
 cloisters, the door closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled 
 the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some 
 arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contempla- 
 ting, but found they were already passing into indistinctness 
 and cojtifusion. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of 
 sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reite- 
 rated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of 
 oblivion? It is, indeed, the empire of Death ; his great and 
 shadowy palace ; where he sits in state, mocking at the relics 
 of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the 
 monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the im- 
 mortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his 
 pages. We are too much engrossed by the story of the 
 present to think of the character and anecdotes that gave inter- 
 est to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to ba 
 speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of 
 yesterday out of our recollection ; and wiU, in turn, be sup- 
 planted by his successor of to-morrow. 
 
 What then is to insure this pile, which now towers above 
 me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time 
 must come, when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 47 1 
 
 shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the 
 sound of mielody and praise, the wind shall whistle through 
 the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower; 
 when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy man- 
 sions of death ; and the ivy twine around the fallen columns ; 
 and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as 
 if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his 
 name perishes from record and from recollection ; his history 
 is a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 
 
 W. Ibyins. 
 
 LESSON CCXXIV. 
 
 TO THE ROSEMARY. 
 
 SwEET-scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
 
 On January's front severe, 
 And o'er the wintry desert drear 
 
 To waft'thy waste perfume ! 
 Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. 
 And I will bind thee round my brow ; 
 
 And, as I twine the mournful wreath, 
 I'll weave a melancholy song : 
 And sweet the strain shall be and long. 
 
 The melody of death. 
 
 Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 
 With the pale corse in lonely tomb. 
 And throw across the desert gloom 
 A sweet decaying smell. 
 
 Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
 
 Beneath the lowly alder-tree ; 
 
 And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
 
 And not a care shall dare intrude, 
 
 To break the marble solitude. 
 So peaceful and so deep. 
 
 And, hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. 
 Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
 And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
 Mysterious music dies. 
 
 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
 
472 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
 The cold turf-altar of the dead ; 
 My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
 Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
 A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shfd. 
 
 H. K. White. 
 
 LESSON GGXXV. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. 
 
 It is a beautiful belief. 
 
 That ever round our head 
 Are hovering, on noiseless wing. 
 
 The spirits of the dead. 
 
 It is a beautiful belief. 
 
 When finished our career, 
 That ;t will be our destiny 
 
 To watch o'er others here ; 
 
 To lend a moral to the flower. 
 
 Breathe wisdom on the wind, 
 To hold commune, at night's pure noon. 
 
 With the imprisoned mind ; 
 
 To bid the erring ceaSe to err. 
 
 The trembling be forgiven, 
 To bear away from ills of clay 
 
 The infant to its Heaven. 
 
 Ah, when delight was found in life. 
 
 And joy in every breath, 
 I cannot tell how terrible 
 
 The mystery of death. 
 
 But now, the past is bright to me. 
 
 And all the future clear, 
 For 't is my faith, that after death 
 
 We still shall linger here. j. h. PEiisiifs. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 473 
 
 LESSON CCXXVI. 
 
 LAMENT FOR MARY. 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep, for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be. 
 It never through my mind had passed 
 
 That time would e'er be o'er. 
 And I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more ! 
 
 And still upon that face I look. 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook, 
 
 That I must look in vain. 
 But .when I speak, thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid : 
 And now I feel as well I may. 
 
 Sweet Maiy ! thou art dead ! 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 
 
 All cold and all serene, 
 1 still might press thy silent heart. 
 
 And where thy smiles have been. 
 While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 
 
 Thou seemest still my oWn ; 
 But there I lay thee, in thy grave. 
 
 And I am all alone ! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art. 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 
 
 In thinking too of thee : 
 Yet tliere was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before. 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore ! Chablzs Woipi, 
 
 40 
 
474 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 LESSON ccxxvri, 
 
 Night is the time for rest : 
 
 How sweet, when labors close, 
 
 To gather roand an aching hreast 
 The curtain of repose ! 
 
 Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head 
 Upon our own delightful bed ! 
 
 Night is the time for dreams, 
 
 The gay romance of life ; 
 When truth that is, and truth that seems, 
 
 Blend in fantastic strife ; 
 Ah ! visions less beguiling far, 
 Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 
 
 Night is the time for toil ; 
 
 To plow the classic field, 
 Intent to find the buried spoil 
 
 Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
 Till all is ours that sages taught. 
 That poets sang, or heroes wrought. 
 
 Night is the time to weep ; 
 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 Those graves of memory, where sleep 
 
 The joys of other years ; 
 Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
 But perished young, like things of earth 
 
 Night is the time to watch ; 
 
 On ocean's dark expanse, 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 
 The full moon's earliest glance, 
 That brings unto the homesick mind 
 All we have loved and left behind. 
 
 Night is the time for care ; 
 
 Brooding on hours misspent. 
 To see the specter of despair 
 
 Come to our lonely tent ; 
 Like Brutus 'mid his slumbering host, 
 Startled by Caesar's stalwort ghost. 
 
YOUNG LADIES^ READER. 475 
 
 Night is the time to muse ; 
 
 Then from the eye the soul 
 Takes flight, and, with expanding views, 
 
 Beyond the starry pole, 
 Descries, athwart the abyss of night, 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 Night is the time to pray ; 
 
 Our Savior oft withdrew 
 To desert mountains far away : 
 
 So will his followers do ; 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
 And hold communion there with God. 
 
 Night is the time for death ; 
 
 When all around is peace. 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath, 
 
 From sin and suffering cease ; 
 Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
 To parting friends : — such death be mine ! 
 
 J. MOKTGOMEnr. 
 
 LESSON CCXXVIII. 
 
 SLEEP..— DEATH. ^ETERNITY. 
 Skep. 
 Sleep, gentle sleep ! 
 
 Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighfed thee, 
 That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
 And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
 Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
 Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. 
 And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber. 
 Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 
 Under the canopies of costly state. 
 And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody 7 
 O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile. 
 In loathsome beds ; and leav'st the kirigly couch, 
 A watch-case or a common 'larum bell ? 
 Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
 And in the visitation of the winds, 
 
476 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top,. 
 
 Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
 
 With deaf'ning clamors in the slippery clouds, 
 
 That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 
 
 Canst thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose 
 
 To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude ; 
 
 And, in the calmest and the stillest night, 
 
 With all appliances, and means to boot. 
 
 Deny it to a king I ' Shakbpeahb, 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revelers at rest : 
 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest. 
 
 Again to that accustomed couch must creep, 
 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep ; 
 
 And man, o'erlabored with his being's strife ; 
 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life. 
 
 There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile. 
 
 Hate's working brain, and lulled ambition's wile; 
 
 O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
 
 And quenched existence crouches in a grave : 
 
 What better name may slumber's bed become? 
 
 Night's sepulcher, the universal home, 
 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
 
 Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
 
 Glad, for a while, to heave unconscious breath. 
 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased. 
 
 That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
 Btboit. 
 
 Death. 
 Death is here, and death is there. 
 Death is busy every where. 
 All around, within, beneath. 
 Above, is death ; and we are death. 
 Death has set his mark and seal 
 On all we are, and all we feel. 
 First our pleasures die,- and then 
 Our hopes, and then our fears, and when 
 These are dead, the debt is due. 
 Dust claims dust, and we die too. Shillet 
 
 When by a good man's grave I muse alone, 
 
 Methinks an angel sits upon the stone ; 
 
 Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER, 477 
 
 Who sat and watched in raiment heavenly blight : 
 
 And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear. 
 
 Says, poinUng upward, that he is not here. 
 
 That he is risen. Rogkbs 
 
 Eternity. 
 What is eternity ? Can aught 
 Paint its duration to the thought ? 
 Tell every beam the sun emits, 
 When in sublimest noon he sits ; 
 Tell every light-winged mote that. strays 
 Within his ample round of rays ; 
 Tell all the leaves and all the buds. 
 That cj-own the gardens and the woods ; 
 Tell all the spires of grass the meads 
 Produce, when spring propitious leads 
 The new-born year ; tell all the drops 
 The night upon their bended tops 
 Sheds in soft silence, to display 
 Their beauties with the rising day ; 
 Tell alh the sand the ocean laves. 
 Tell all its changes, all its waves. 
 Or tell, with more laborious pains. 
 The drops its mighty mass contains. 
 Be this astonishing account 
 Augmented with the full amount 
 Of all the drops the clouds have shed, 
 Where'er their watery fleeces spread, 
 Through all time's long continued tour. 
 From Adam to the present hour; 
 Still short the sum : it cannot vie 
 With the more numerous years that lie 
 Imbosomed in eternity. Dn. Thomas Gibbons. 
 
 LESSON CCXXIX. 
 
 THE RESURRECTION. 
 
 Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I 
 preached unto you, which also ye have receiyed, and wherein 
 ye stand ; by which also ye axe saved, if ye keep in memory 
 what I preached unto you. unless ve have believed in vain. 
 
478 YOUNG LADIES' EEADER. 
 
 For I delivered unto you, first of all, that which I also received, 
 how that Christ died for our sins, according to the Scriptures ; 
 and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day, 
 according to the Scriptures ; and that he was seen of Cephas, 
 then of the twelve. After that he was seen of above five hun- 
 dred brethren at once ; of whom the greater part remaui unto 
 this present, but some are fallen asleep. After that, he was 
 seen of James ; then of all the apostles. And, last of all, he 
 was seen of me also, as of one born out of due time. 
 
 Now, if Christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how 
 say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead '' 
 But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not 
 risen. And if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, 
 and your faith is also vain. Yea, and we are found false wit- 
 nesses of God : because we have testified of God that he 
 raised up Christ ; whom he raised not up, if so be that the 
 dead rise not. For if the dead rise not, then is not Christ 
 raised. 
 
 And if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain, ye are yet in 
 your sins. Then they, also, which are fallen asleep in Christ, 
 are perished. If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we 
 are of all men most miserable. But now is Christ risen from 
 the dead, and become the first-fruits of them that slept. For 
 since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection 
 of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall 
 all be made alive. 
 
 But some man will say, how are the dead raised up ? and 
 with what body do they come ? Thou fool ! that which thou 
 sowest is not quickened, except it die. And that which thou 
 sowest, thou sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain, 
 it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain: but God 
 giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his 
 own body. So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in 
 corruption,- it is raised in incorruption : it is sown in dishonor, it 
 is raised in glory : it is sown in weakness, it is raised in pow- 
 er : it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body. 
 There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body. And 
 as we have borne the image of the earthly, we shall also hear 
 the image of the heavenly. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 479 
 
 Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit 
 the kingdom of God ; neither doth corruption inherit incorrup- 
 tion. Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, 
 but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of 
 an eye, at the last trump ; for the trumpet shall sound, and 
 the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. 
 For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal 
 must put on immortality. 
 
 So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and 
 this mortal shall have put on immortality, tlien shall be brought 
 to pass the saying that is written. Death is swallowed up in 
 victory. O death ! where is thy sting ? O grave ! whore is thy 
 victory ? The sting of death is sin ; and the strength of sin is 
 the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, 
 through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved breth- 
 ren, be ye steadfast, unraovable, always abounding in the work 
 of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in 
 vain in the Lord. Coiunthians. 
 
 LESSON CGXXX. 
 
 * 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthyto take 
 the book, and to open the seals thereof ; for thou wast slain, 
 and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kin 
 died, and tongue, and people, and nation; and hast made us 
 unto our God kings and priests ; and we shall reign on the 
 earth. 
 
 And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round 
 about the throne, and the beasts, and the elders : aand the 
 number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and 
 thousands of thousands : saying with a loud voice, Worthy is 
 the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wis- 
 dom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing. 
 
 And every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth, 
 and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are 
 in them, heard I saying. Blessing, and honor, and glory, and 
 
480 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the 
 
 Lamb forever and ever. 
 
 « .* * 
 
 After this I beheld, and lo, a great multitude, which no man 
 could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and 
 tongues, stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed 
 with white robes, and palms in their hands; and cried with a 
 loud voice, saying, Salvation to our God which sitteth upon 
 the throne, and unto the Lamb. 
 
 And all the angels stood round about the throne, and about 
 the elders, and the four beasts, and. fell before the throne on 
 their faces, and worshiped God, saying. Amen: Blessing, and 
 glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honor, and power, 
 and might, be unto our God forever and ever. Amen. 
 
 And one of the elders answered, saying unto me. What are 
 these which are arrayed in white robes ? and whence came 
 they ? And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said 
 unto me. These are they which came out of great tribulation, 
 and have washed their robes, and made them white in the 
 blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of 
 God, and serve him day and night in his temple : and he that 
 sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall 
 hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun 
 light on them, nor any heat. Bor the Lamb which is in the 
 midst of the throne, shall feed them and shall lead them unto 
 living fountains of water: and God shall wipe away all tears 
 from their eyes. Reveiatiojt 
 

 'in